In one memorable moment from Clint Bentley’s Train Dreams, a tree falls quietly in the middle of a vast landscape. The camera sticks around for just a beat longer than normal, inviting you to notice the kind of beauty that could easily go unseen. That’s one of the many ways to perfectly describe Train Dreams.
Bentley’s direction has you pause and embrace the quiet of the countryside. The falling tree is part of a larger cinematic style that lets quiet moments speak for themselves. Through long takes and subtle editing, Train Dreams creates a space where time dilation starts to matter. It shows the audience that ordinary moments are significant if we just take the time to notice.
This frame underlines one of Train Dreams’ major themes in that meaning and wonder aren’t just found in big, life-changing moments, but more importantly, also in the small, fleeting, and often overlooked ones. With this aesthetic, a deeper question is asked—who will remember these moments, and does it matter if no one does?
Co-written by Bentley and long-time collaborator Greg Kwedar—the Oscar-nominated duo behind Jockey (2021) and Sing Sing (2024)—and adapted from Denis Johnson’s novella, Train Dreams follows the life of Robert Grainier (Joel Edgerton), a man shaped as much by silence and absence as by action or event. Told as a cradle-to-grave narrative, the film unfolds as a meditation on the quiet meaning in everyday lives, the lingering sense of the past, and the deep, often unseen ways people stay connected to each other and to the land they live on.
In the film’s opening minutes, we are offered an account of Robert’s early life. He was adopted and raised in Idaho as an orphan, never learning what happened to his real parents. The struggle to let go of the past and feeling lost never seems to disappear. Many years later, an adult Robert is working as a railroad laborer in the summer of 1917, under unfortunate conditions. From these early moments, it becomes clear that Train Dreams doesn’t showcase the natural world as a quiet backdrop, but an impactful force that shapes everything around it.
Robert’s life is changed by the arrival of Gladys (Felicity Jones), with whom he shares a short, yet meaningful period of happiness. Together, they raise a daughter, Kate, but even when things seem relaxed, something feels off. Haunting images of wildfire appear in Robert’s dreams, and a feeling of inevitable tragedy hangs in the air. “The world doesn’t stop needing spruce,” a fellow worker comments after a fatal accident—a statement that summarizes the film’s deep commitment to the decision to move forward, even if the outcomes are devastating.
Around the campfire, the superstitious Arn (William H. Macy) engages Robert in existential reflections, and the protagonist speaks of “the newness of the experience.” This phrase quietly drives the film’s focus on putting the viewer in the raw, real moments of not only Robert’s life, but everyone around him.
Visually, Train Dreams is nothing short of astounding, as Adolpho Veloso’s cinematography ranks among the decade’s best, both in terms of composition and progression towards the narrative. Many sequences are shot during the magic hour, capturing moments of fleeting joy—visual mementos that return to Robert in memory and dream, often long after they have passed. There’s a purpose to all of it.
Bryce Dessner’s stunning score and Will Patton’s rich narration are also major highlights. Voice-overs tend to be looked at as an easy storytelling shortcut, but in Train Dreams, they’re used with intention. Patton’s narration is especially effective in dialogue with Edgerton’s career-best turn, which is a largely silent performance. There are many instances where the narration overtakes a sequence, as the camera lingers on Egerton’s tender face. It reminds us that some of the most effective performances are the quietest. Shouting from the top of your lungs isn’t automatically going to be looked at as the best acting.
Train Dreams may not be the most exciting film to come out, as it chooses to pose deep questions and lingering feelings, instead of giving us people flying around in costumes and fighting the big baddie. Yet, it’s a film that simply stuns across the board and reminds us that life, while imperfect, can be beautiful. Similar to its protagonist, it speaks little but says everything.
Review Courtesy of Bryan Sudfield
Feature Image Courtesy of TIFF and Netflix