The Sis­ters Brothers

Some­thing is rot­ten in the state of Ore­gon, though it’s dif­fi­cult to tell if the putre­fac­tion of human flesh or var­i­ous pud­dles of vom­it left across the vir­gin land­scape are the main cul­prit. In Jacques Audiard’s The Sis­ters Broth­ers – which marks a depar­ture from his for­ma­tive seri­ous­ness in Dheep­an and A Prophet – the vis­cer­al impo­si­tion of aggres­sive civil­i­sa­tion on the pas­toral idyll takes cen­tre stage. As the land burns up, so do men – and Audi­ard, med­i­ta­tive as ever – has much to tell us about the nature of per­son­al trauma.

It’s 1851, with the Cal­i­for­nia Gold Rush in full swing, and two boun­ty hunt­ing sib­lings are on the trail of an elu­sive tar­get. Based on Patrick DeWitt’s 2011 nov­el of the same name, the tit­u­lar Sis­ters broth­ers are Eli and Char­lie, played by the inim­itable duo of John C Reil­ly and Joaquin Phoenix, whose easy chem­istry sees them bick­er and brawl their way across the plains in pur­suit of detec­tive John Mor­ris (Jake Gyl­len­haal) and chemist Her­man Ker­mit Warm (Riz Ahmed). Although the stage is set for a gun­sling­ing romp through the Old West, there’s much more at stake for Eli and Char­lie than col­lect­ing a pay­cheque from their mys­te­ri­ous employ­er, The Com­modore (Rut­ger Hauer).

Through half-con­ver­sa­tions and one mem­o­rable dream, we learn that Eli and Char­lie are run­ning from their own demons, and their pur­suit of Warm and Mor­ris is an obses­sion born out of a desire for escape. Their fra­ter­nal rela­tion­ship comes under repeat­ed strain due to Charlie’s destruc­tive, unpre­dictable nature and Eli’s desire to get out of the out­law game for good. Mean­while a blos­som­ing
friend­ship between Mor­ris and Warm sees them dis­cuss the pos­si­bil­i­ty of an Amer­i­can social­ist state, and try­ing to find mean­ing at a time where gold and greed rule the hearts of most men.

It’s this warmth and ten­der­ness which sur­pris­es most of all, and the broth­ers and their would-be boun­ties are at their best when learn­ing to live peace­ful­ly with one anoth­er. Puke-stained and stuck in their ways, the ghosts of the past prove hard to out­run and out­gun for Eli and Char­lie, but Reil­ly and Phoenix, two actors at the top of their game, exude a rogu­ish charm even when cov­ered in vom­it or mer­ci­less­ly exe­cut­ing a rac­coon-hat­ted out­law. It’s a shame we don’t get more of Gyl­len­haal and Ahmed, equal­ly charm­ing as their adver­saries, but per­haps it would under­mine the film’s title to have any­one else take cen­tre stage.

Cred­it must also go to Audiard’s longterm cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er Juli­ette Welfling, who makes the Old West feel so breath­tak­ing­ly alive behind her lens – with the dirty, bloody Sis­ters broth­ers an unwit­ting scab on the plush land­scape, look­ing to heal them­selves into a less ugly scar.

This deep yearn­ing for sta­bil­i­ty and bet­ter­ment with­in all the men which sits at odds with the world in which they live. The cast is a for­mi­da­ble saloon of tal­ent, but it’s the warmth and com­ic pathos of The Sis­ters Broth­ers that real­ly dis­arms, and it’s Audiard’s gift for show­ing how pain shapes a per­son – first glimpsed, albeit mawk­ish­ly, in Rust and Bone – that ele­vates the film from enter­tain­ing yarn into a bit­ter­sweet tale of broth­er­ly love.