Review of “The Dead Don’t Hurt”: Enchants with retro-western attitude

Some actors seem to be made for Westerns, even if they rarely appear in them. Viggo Mortensen, a stalwart leading man with weathered good looks and appealing reserve, is certainly one of those films. But now that he’s written and directed a Western, The Dead Don’t Hurt, Mortensen’s second film behind and in front of the camera, he’s generously shown us that the brilliant Vicky Krieps belongs in that category too. The highly watchable pairing of these magnetic actors is what elevates this lyrically crafted frontier love story above the usual attempts to recreate the genre’s appeal.

The gently blossoming relationship between a strong-willed woman of French-Canadian descent and a taciturn, independent Danish immigrant is the beating heart of this film, from their first meeting in San Francisco to their settlement in a ramshackle shack on the outskirts of a one-bar town called Elk Flats, Nevada. But this is a Western, so the specter of death and violence is never far away. Mortensen even opens with two grim scenes that might be the end in other films—one a private loss, the other a public shootout. They set off the film’s temporally loose narrative tapestry, in which flashbacks (which have their own flashbacks) feel as if the past playing out is the true present of this story, as it might feel for someone in mourning.

Urban flower seller Vivienne (Krieps), who can take care of herself and reminisces about her childhood idolizing Joan of Arc, is attracted to gruff, good-natured carpenter Olsen (Mortensen), who promises adventure, passion, and mutual respect for each other’s fierce independence. Mortensen’s sensitive approach to their courtship lets us sense early on that this is no stuffy repetition of the cliché of her civilizing him and him domesticating her. Watching them interact and tidy up their home, they seem more like adults, not so much in love as in love. Clear-eyed about themselves and the realities of their adopted home, they are ready to forge something together, confident that they will be there for each other in a time of increasing turmoil.

Civil War is looming, but some of the unrest is local, too. There’s an atmosphere of menace in town, fed by a corrupt alliance between the mayor and a wealthy businessman – played by operetta reliabilities Danny Huston and Garret Dillahunt – as well as the gleefully sadistic presence of the latter’s spoiled, insolent son (a dismissive Solly McLeod). We fully expect this danger to touch the lives of the central couple when Olsen, a war veteran, feels compelled to fight for the Union, leaving Vivienne behind to start working in the saloon’s bar. It’s not long before her fortitude is put to the severest test, and eventually Olsen’s too, when he returns years later.

There is great tension in a scene from “The Dead Don’t Hurt,” a love story set during the Civil War.

(Marcel Zyskind)

There’s little the radiant Krieps (“Phantom Thread”) can’t do with a headstrong, ahead-of-her-time character, and especially in historical stories, she retains a prickly, modern sensibility — both the rose and its thorns. The enduringly authentic Mortensen, meanwhile, understands that his mostly reactive role is more a supporting role than a leading one. At times, in his scenes with Krieps, you’d swear that his amorous expressions are as much about a director’s gratitude as a lonely craftsman’s happiness. (Mortensen, for whom this project is clearly a personal affair, also wrote the bleak cello and violin score, which is mostly satisfying if at times reminiscent of a Ken Burns history lesson waiting for an old-fashioned narration.)

Reassuringly picturesque, The Dead Don’t Hurt meets the requirement that any self-respecting Western needs a moody, haunting look to capture the glow of a campfire or the scorching light of day. This task is handled with aplomb by cinematographer Marcel Zyskind, who is blessed with scenic locations in Durango, Mexico and Canada. But a big help too are the actors, whose faces, in any light, are their own lush landscapes of happiness, strength, care and pain.