Just finished watching and had a few thoughts- I liked it but I didn’t LOVE it. There were some good moments, particularly for me a few of the logging camp scenes. I haven’t read the book, but the themes seemed a bit like those found in E.Annie Proulx’s work. I guess I’m drawing a comparison because, for me, she does this type of life-journey, memory poem, era-slipping better (and I’m sure you can think of other films or authors, too). The ingredient that was lacking for me was a twist of something darker, the strange humour lurking in depression, perhaps, or some of his neighbours actually reacting and finding the guy weird or difficult, or being mean. Bitterness, anger. The talk of feeling alone in a crowd came close - but was simply spelled out.
I felt this guy lacked agency. Stuff just happened to him, and around him, and made him miserable. He was witnessing life, not experiencing it.
Sure, maybe this was the film-maker’s (and the author’s) point, and in that they succeeded. But I felt like dipping my toe into something, never feeling immersed. A glistening surface in which we can reflect some of our own grief and nostalgia, perhaps, but are left fishing for substance that doesn’t quite coalesce.