Film Review: “Into the Wild”

Based upon a book not read by the Grumpy Vegan, the film version of “Into the Wild” is a 147-minute marathon about a young American, Christopher McCandles, born into an affluent, white middle class family and recently graduated, who decides to give it all up and give it all away for the real life of living in Alaska.

Along the way from here to there, he encounters the hippy couple, who could’ve been the big sister and brother he always wanted; the teenage struggling singer/songwriter, who could’ve been the girlfriend he always wanted; and the old man whose family died tragically, who could’ve been the father he always wanted. But no. He gives them all up as well, littering the highway with broken hearts.

Scenes of successful wild living (e.g., hunting, foraging, camping in an abandoned school bus) become unsuccessful episodes of same. After an hour we begin to count the minutes to how long it will take for him to die (147 minutes total). Having survived the winter and coming to a realisation of sorts, he decides to leave but forgets that nature always bats last. The small river he crossed sometime ago is now a raging torrent flooded with melting snow. It’s back to the bus. And, we sigh thankfully, knowing that it’s the beginning of the end. One thing (and another) leads to the death scene with the inevitable (and, it might as well be said, required) messianic climax.

And his realization? Happiness is best shared. Wasn’t that in a fortune cookie I once read? “Into the Wild” evaporates into thin air.

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