Directed by Daniel Minahan | Written by Bryce Kass, adapting the book by Shannon Pufahl | 117 min | ▲▲1/2
This is a deeply romantic drama, one that prefers mystique to grit. Its performers are all fetching, and an elegance in the cinematography makes sure to show them at their most appealing. It also leans in to its literary conventions that don’t really work onscreen, and keeps its audience at arms length from the passions of its characters. It wants to be a cinematic Edward Hopper painting, or at least a companion to Todd Haynes’ iconic Carol, but never quite gets there.
On Swift Horses tells a bifurcated story — Muriel (Daisy Edgar-Jones) and Lee (Will Poulter) are a young couple in Kansas looking to start afresh in a San Diego suburb. Julius (Jacob Elordi) is Lee’s itinerant brother, a bit of a gambler. Julius inspires some secret part of Muriel with his lifestyle, sending her to the track to bet on the ponies, which it turns out she’s pretty good at — she picks up tips from the regulars while working at a diner.
Meanwhile, Julius is making a life for himself as a gigolo in Las Vegas, but before long he’s got a job at a casino and getting friendly with Henry (Diego Calva, Babylon). Back in California, Muriel’s restlessness has her venturing to a hotel where the gays feel safe, and getting to know a local lady, Sandra (Sasha Calle).
Poulter, with his sensitivity and unconventional looks has the toughest job in this company. He’s got the be the boring, cuckolded one while Julius and Muriel conduct an emotional affair over letter writing, provided too often in voice-over here — this is one of those things that works in books but rarely does in movies. Further, the flipping between Julius and his life of carnal indolence and Muriel’s suburban restiveness does a disservice to both storylines. Too often this film feels like it’s waiting to launch.
While we loiter in this picture’s first and second acts, the imagery sustains. Director of Photography Luc Montpellier (Women Talking) has a knack for light in bedrooms, bringing the best out of white, pressed shirts, and actors wreathed in smoke from their post-coital cigarettes. The Mark Orton score hypnotizes.
It’s just too bad for most of the movie it’s just pretty pictures — only in the homestretch do we finally feel for these people and that may be too little too late, while it really demands a lot of disbelief suspension. The final 10 minutes glide into a full-on fantasy with wildly unlikely meet-ups and convenient, roaming mares.
