bangley

Hig (Jacob Elordi) may be the most perfect guy alive, not that he’s got much competition. In Ridley Scott’s simple-minded sociological study “The Dog Stars,” an influenza epidemic wiped out the majority of our squabblesome species sometime during the last decade. The LCD screens outside the Denver Nuggets basketball arena continue to flicker, although weeds and wolves have overrun the fast-food joints in a bit of postapocalyptic product placement.

A former mechanic and construction worker, Hig lives 25 miles north of the city on what appears to be a combination high school football field/rural airport. Periodically, the soft-spoken and generous man flies his Cessna into town to scavenge soda pop for a dozen or so cherubic Mennonite children on a nearby homestead. Those wholesome visits seem to cheer him up a little, what with the kids’ minder (Benedict Wong) striding around in a straw hat and overalls like something out of Norman Rockwell, and the youngsters thanking Hig with crayoned portraits of his doting German shepard, Jasper. Still, he’s bummed out about his dead wife (Sai Bennett), who, like most dead movie wives, appears in flashbacks as beatific, mute and adoring.

The script by Mark L. Smith (“The Revenant”) wants us to fret that Hig may succumb to suicide but whiffs that idea by trying to get it across in a scene where Hig shuts off the Cessna’s engine mid-flight with Jasper happily riding shotgun. Even if we were willing to accept that Hig might deliberately crash his plane, we can’t buy for a second that he’d hurt his sweet pup. Nevertheless, the film’s dystopian beats are so familiar, you’ve probably guessed by now that you shouldn’t get too attached to the dog.

Hig has bunkered down with a grouchy companion, Bangley (Josh Brolin), who thrives in this harsh world. To Bangley, the four essentials of life are “power, food, water and weapons.” Their armory is formidable; their cash supply, a source of comic relief. At night, Hig and Bangley play poker with stacks of $5,000 bills that they throw around as casually as nickels. Patrolling their two-man compound, Bangley insists on killing all outsiders before they might cause any trouble. Adding insult to headshot, he calls his casualties “cockroaches.”

Soon, Hig will meet a freckled widow named Cima (Margaret Qualley) and her suspicious father, Pops (Guy Pearce). The young pair make eyes at each other. Yet these survivors are so hard-wired to be fearful of their neighbors that Hig and Cima’s rusty, tentative flirtation takes place under the gaze of her daddy’s gun, a heck of a chaperone. The most they get up to is heavy spooning.

This is an uncomplicated yarn about a man prying open his heart and nudging other hard nuts to do the same. There’s little tension or drive, just shaggy scenes about paranoia, trust and hope. The characters seem to endure only to get to their next traumatic memory reveal.

At once plain-spoken and vague, the story lacks a firm grip on facts like the distance between places and how long this mess has been going on. It snatches at our attention with no more finesse than a losing fighter fumbling for a weapon. Hig’s Cessna works fine until it’s narratively convenient that it doesn’t. Then when needed, it works again. Meanwhile, Brolin’s Bangley oscillates in personality from miserable bastard to laugh factory.

At 88, Scott remains the cinema’s uneasy philosopher, continually fretting about the technological and societal tools we’ve developed to destroy ourselves. He’s made one genuinely optimistic film, 2015’s “The Martian,” which also happens to be his biggest box office success. Other than that, he’s never seemed confident that the future will turn out all right, although he’s kept on working out his worries onscreen, forever hunting for flakes of hope in the rubble. (If you take Scott’s IMDb as gospel, he’s got seven upcoming features in various stages of preproduction, more than George Lucas has ever made.)

“The Dog Stars” is based on Peter Heller’s 2012 novel of the same name, which, in those naive, pre-COVID times, was received as a rosier take on Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” Scott’s version of“The Dog Stars” borrows its title, premise and a handful of proper names. Otherwise, it’s loud where the book was quiet and subtle where the book got sweaty. A barrage of newly concocted action sequences in the second half makes the pacing so off-balance that the film feels like a heron trying to fly with one blinged-out wing.

I’m only half-complaining — those giddy, bloody scenes are the best parts of the movie. But we in the audience could have used some of that pizzazz at the beginning, too, before we spent nearly an hour settling into the idea that we’ve seen all of this before.

The attackers to come are a bizarre grab bag of baddies. One gang wears football pads as armor and comes galloping in on horses, whooping like the Apaches in a John Ford movie. Another horde, the Reapers, runs around shirtless to show off their thick black tattoos. The Reapers look awesome through cinematographer Erik Messerschmidt’s night-vision binoculars that make their skin glow an alien shade of green. Neither group comes across like human beings. The film handles them more like zombies or rabid raccoons, and since these extras are the only characters of color, I won’t fault anyone who finds their treatment morally queasy.

Late in the film, we also meet a third group headed by Allison Janney doing a cap-tip to Nurse Ratched as the soundtrack cues the mind-numbing waltz from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Otherwise, Harry Gregson-Williams’ meddlesome score tells us everything that’s about to happen 30 seconds before it does. Besides Janney and Qualley’s plucky Cima (what in the made-up name is that?), few grown women seem to be left alive for reasons probably better left unsaid. (A goon in the book wears a necklace made of dried labia. Scott sagely omits that detail.)

Elordi nearly shoulders the running time but plays his Hig a bit too humbly. I’ve rarely seen Elordi wearing his lanky, handsome screen presence comfortably; something about the actor usually seems to be apologizing for his own existence. His recessive Hig needs more charisma so we can care about him as a character, not just an idealized hero. But you like him anyway. How can you not when Hig is giving his dog a good scratch?

Having lived through a seismic pandemic himself, it makes sense that Scott would be drawn to the original novel’s blend of patience and poetry. Yet, it’s odd how little of it he’s kept. To hold my own interest, I imagined myself as a hunter-explorer trying to figure out why Scott had bothered to adapt it at all, and turned up a line where Brolin’s Bangley looks back on his old life and admits that he couldn’t understand what he had until it was gone. A lovely moment, although I don’t believe it’s in the book either.

That’s the theme of this rote exercise. But I preferred a minor beat a few minutes later when a character puts down their gun and picks up a guitar. Bad as this world feels, there’s still pleasure in making art. Which is why Scott keeps at it, too — and while I don’t think much of this one, I’m awful glad he does.