'Train Dreams' Meditates on Memory, Progress, and the Poetic Life of an Ordinary Man

Clint Bentley’s magnificent film, Train Dreams, functions as a profound drama of echoes, intertwining the dualities of life and death across generations. At its thematic core is the train itself, a symbol representing both the relentless march of progress and the destruction it necessarily leaves in its wake. The railroad tracks that rapidly expanded across the United States in the 20th century simultaneously shrank the world by connecting distant communities and irrevocably altered the landscape by requiring the destruction of ancient forests. Working from a novella by Denis Johnson, Bentley and co-writer Greg Kwedar (Sing Sing) craft an extraordinary portrait of an ordinary man, Robert Grainier, whose existence is defined by the shackles of guilt and trauma. This character study, spanning a life from birth to death, becomes a moving meditation on the inherent beauty of all beings and the deep, silent connections we share with the earth and those who have lived upon it before us.

Joel Edgerton delivers the finest work of his distinguished career as Robert Grainier, a stoic laborer on the trains. Robert’s job requires him to fell trees, pound tracks into the ground, and construct bridges, often keeping him away from home for months while he quietly observes the dramatic changes reshaping the American landscape. Much of Robert’s internal life is conveyed through the narration of the wonderful Will Patton, whose voice is simultaneously powerful and soothing. Patton speaks for the often-silent Robert, recounting formative on-the-job encounters, including a pivotal moment when a Chinese immigrant was murdered. For the remainder of his life, Robert questions whether his inaction during that moment of crisis contributed to the subsequent tragedies that would befall him.

These initial scenes unfold with the quality of memory—both tactile and dreamlike. The filmmaking makes the environment visceral; the audience can almost smell the fire warming the workers and feel the moisture in the air as Patton’s narration introduces the men Robert met on the tracks. These figures include a charlatan who was murdered and an explosives expert played by William H. Macy. Macy, in what amounts to a brief appearance, completely grounds his character, giving the explosives expert a decades-deep, three-dimensional lived-in quality in only a few short scenes. It is an incredibly brief yet essential performance, helping to anchor the film just when its poetic ambitions risk becoming shapeless.

During one of his breaks from the tracks, Robert encounters Gladys (Felicity Jones) and falls deeply in love. Their early scenes together evoke the transcendent beauty of Terrence Malick’s work, particularly Days of Heaven, positioning the two figures against a magic-hour backdrop as they envision a shared future within a world of overwhelming natural splendor. A particularly exquisite scene shows the young couple mapping out the foundations of the house they plan to build riverside using only rocks—a jewel-like moment of two people with their entire future ahead of them. They succeed in building the house and having a daughter before an unspeakable tragedy shatters Robert’s dreams.

Working alongside cinematographer Adolpho Veloso (who also shot Bentley’s stunning Jockey) and utilizing a captivating score by the great Bryce Dessner (of The National), Bentley imbues his film with the quality of a dream or a memory. Yet, the reason Train Dreams stands as one of the best films of the year is the director’s skillful ability to thread the needle between brutal reality and wistful poetry. This duality is immediately evident in one of the film’s first shots: a pair of worn boots nailed to a tree, beaten into the trunk by weather and time over what appear to be generations. It is the type of artifact one might encounter in the woods and pause to consider its history—How did they get here? Whose were they? What was his story? The image is simultaneously lyrical and mundane, transforming a worker’s product into a kind of mythical grace, reinforcing the film’s central theme: life is both ordinary and beautiful.

Bentley further distinguishes himself as a deft director of performers. Many filmmakers struggle to balance acting within a work that is so aggressively striving for poetry, often sacrificing genuine character for pretentious imagery. However, Bentley guides his ensemble to play the grounded reality of their roles rather than the artistry of the overall project. This approach is best exemplified by Edgerton’s subtle work. Playing a man who observes far more than he speaks presents a challenge, as actors often rely on dialogue to define character, but the audience comes to know Robert entirely through Edgerton’s eyes and body language. This portrayal is powerfully amplified by how Patton delicately conveys Robert’s inner monologue through some of the finest narration ever committed to film. Voiceover is frequently utilized as a crutch by writer-directors, but Bentley’s deployment of Patton’s work is transcendent, giving the impression of listening to a great storyteller. This circle reinforces the overarching theme: every life contains a great story, and all deserve an eloquent voice to tell it.

The film consistently maintains a story of balance: the world can be magnificent and soul-crushing, often at the same time. Humans carry their pain and their joy in equal measure, both forces defining who they are. In one amazing line spoken to Robert late in life by a character played by Kerry Condon, she observes: “The dead tree is as important as the living one.” The film suggests that all individuals are connected to the earth and to one another like train tracks across the heartland, moving humanity forward while leaving behind marks that take generations to fade away. The ultimate hope offered by the film is that if one is lucky, there will be someone to tell their story, or at least remember them within their own.