The Call of the Wild

Or: The Good Undog

It seems odd in retrospect that my main thought about going to see an adaptation of Jack London’s beloved adventure in the northland, the ur story of Dog Meets Wild, is not how can we countenance a CGI dog, or, how will Harrison Ford do acting with a CGI dog, but will there be Socialism? The answer, Yes. Buck, the giant St. Bernard Collie Mix, must find strength in himself, and brave the perils of the Alaskan wilderness but ultimately shows his audience the power and efficiency of the cooperative effort and destroys capitalist dogs of both canine and human (Dan Stevens) variety.

With an extra illustration that guns are bad. One hopes Jack London would be, moderately, proud.

As for the questions of veracity, the computer generated pooch is not the biggest problem, standing on the adorable foothills of the uncanny valley. He starts off cartoonish essentially ruling the roost of Santa Clara, running where he pleases and performing tasks like unlatching gates and catapulting his master’s children from their beds. But, dognapped, and shipped north to the Yukon to pull the sleds of the highest bidder (his exuberance brought low by the “Law of the Club and Fang,” he begins to behave merely like very expressive and intuitive dog might. A brief, and oddly hilarious, duet with a harmonica introduces him to John Thornton (Ford) a recluse come to the Klondike not in search of gold but solace. After several misadventures with humans both kind but oblivious and foolish yet destructive, Buck (as Thornton’s companion, surrogate child, and AA sponsor) and his chum take off to the edge of the map to discover an untapped world of ice, wonder, and wolves.

 The film takes liberties, of course, with its material, but is thrillingly less problematic with its source, taking care to staff the prospecting towns of Alaska with hopefuls from across the earth, women aplenty, and relegating the First Nations (in the form of Michael Horse) to reasonable authority figures rather than bloodthirsty killers. We get a particularly touching update in Buck’s first masters, the oblivious but good hearted mail runners Afro-Canadian francophone Perrault (Omar Sy) and his partner Francoise (Cara Gee). While neither actor is entirely on their well-regarded best game (he tends to chew here, she to chill) they provide a fine two-legged counterpoint to the politics of a sled-dog pack changed by the glories of Socialism! (and wolf-think.)

But the film settles as it goes along, introducing Buck and us both to the great and terrible beauty of the Northland, bright edge of the world, where legends live and everything wants to kill you. The digital touchups of natural splendor bothered me more than its simulation of flesh and fur (why attempt to improve on perfection?) but by the time Buck and his team are vaulting in a kaleidoscopic race through the countryside, or Thornton and Buck travel down the heart of blue waters, I put my reservations aside and gloried. All westerns are, to a certain degree, fantasies and this one chose to place its narrative upon the tranquil rallies and proud mountains, fragile but indefatigable, and the creatures that roam on their slopes, rather on the stranger that slips across it and calls himself master.

And by the end of the film I found myself moving beyond acceptance (and tongue in cheek checking off of my Jack London Hearts Socialism chart) and was deeply moved. A sprinkle of bitter wind might have teared my eye when Buck thrusts his great head under his masters arm in a moment of vulnerability (a more doggish gesture in a learning wolf you are not likely to find). In addition to coming into his ancestral power, the cartoon dog has become a real character, finding the wide corner of the world were he belongs. Who could ask for more? It is a gift not even Socialism can provide.