‘Train Dreams’ Is Afraid Of Its Own Shadow

By now, you have probably heard about Train Dreams. Since premiering this past January at Sundance, Clint Bentley’s adaptation of the Denis Johnson novella has been lauded by critics, screened at various film festivals, and purchased by Netflix. You may have heard that it is a magisterial, gorgeous, and quietly profound exploration of one man’s life in a period of change, indebted both to classic Western films and the canon of Terrence Malick. It’s possible you’ve heard that you really ought to have caught it in a movie theater to appreciate the majesty of Train Dreams.

At least I know I heard all that before I finally caught a screening last month at the Netflix-operated Paris Theater. Alongside a spotty crowd and at least one man in a flat cap, I endured 102 minutes of synthetic wonderment. I’m not sure I have ever seen such a loyal adaptation so completely miss the point of its material; even Noah Baumbach’s abominable White Noise understood to save his marital hang-ups for the very end. Bentley’s film aims to enfold you within the profundity of common experience, only to crush you beneath a redwood-scale slab of kitsch.