Filmmaker Kelly Reichardt has provided a frank evaluation of American cinema’s habit of repeating its own myths, telling attendees at the Visions du Réel documentary festival in Nyon, Switzerland, that “the American story keeps repeating itself.” During a Tuesday masterclass as part of a wider tribute to the celebrated filmmaker, Reichardt discussed how her films intentionally reposition perspective on traditional narratives, particularly the Western genre. Rather than claiming to rewrite history, she characterised her approach as a deliberate repositioning of the cinematic lens—moving away from the male-dominated viewpoint that has long dominated the form to explore what happens when the mythology is examined from an alternative viewpoint. Her remarks came as the festival honoured her distinctive body of work, which continually examines power dynamics and hierarchies within American society.
Reconsidering the Western From a Fresh Lens
Reichardt’s reinterpretive approach finds its most pointed expression in “Meek’s Cutoff,” a film that tracks a group of settlers lost in the Oregon desert and serves as a direct commentary on American expansionist ideology. The director explicitly linked the film’s themes to the political moment of its creation, drawing parallels between the arrogance underlying westward expansion and the invasion of Iraq. “Meek was this guy with all this hubris – ‘Here we go!’ – venturing into some foreign land and distrusting the Indigenous people,” she explained, highlighting how the film captures the recurring pattern of American overextension and the dismissal of those already occupying the territories being conquered.
The film’s analysis of power extends beyond its narrative surface to challenge the foundational structures of American society itself. Reichardt described how “Meek’s Cutoff” explores an early form of capitalism, studying a period before currency was established yet when rigid hierarchies were already deeply rooted. This historical lens allows the director to expose how systems of exploitation—whether directed at Indigenous communities or the natural environment—have deep roots in American expansion. By reframing the Western genre away from glorifying masculine heroism and frontier mythology, Reichardt demonstrates the violence and recklessness woven throughout the nation’s founding narratives.
- Westward expansion driven by male arrogance and imperial ambition
- Hierarchies of power created before formal currency systems
- Mistreatment of Indigenous peoples and ecological damage
- Recurring pattern of American overreach and territorial conquest
Power Structures and Capitalist Impacts
Reichardt’s filmmaking persistently explores the structures of power that support American society, viewing her work as an examination of hierarchical systems rather than individual moral failings. “A lot of my films are really about hierarchies of power,” she stated during the masterclass, emphasising that her interest lies in revealing the structural dimensions of exploitation. This thematic preoccupation extends across her body of work, appearing in narratives that reveal how seemingly minor transgressions—a stolen commodity, a small crime—connect to vast networks of corporate greed and institutional violence that define the nation’s economic and social landscape.
“First Cow” demonstrates this strategy, with Reichardt describing how the film’s central narrative of milk theft operates as a reflection of larger economic frameworks. The seemingly inconsequential crime becomes a gateway to grasping the workings of capitalist wealth-building and the recklessness with which those systems regard both the ecological systems and marginalised communities. By examining these connections, Reichardt demonstrates how authority functions not through grand gestures but through the continuous reinforcement of power structures that favour certain groups whilst systematically disadvantaging others, particularly Native communities and the ecosystem itself.
From Early Trade to Modern Platforms
Reichardt’s analytical study of capitalist systems demonstrates how contemporary power structures possess deep historical roots stretching back centuries. In “First Cow,” she explores an early manifestation of capitalist logic operating in pre-currency America, a period when formal monetary systems did not yet exist yet rigid hierarchies were already deeply embedded. This historical framing allows Reichardt to demonstrate that exploitation and greed are not contemporary creations but core features of American colonial and commercial enterprise. By examining these systems historically, she reveals how contemporary capitalism represents a continuation rather than a departure from established precedents of dispossession and environmental destruction.
The director’s examination of initial economic systems serves a double aim: it historicises present-day economic harm whilst also exposing the long genealogy of Indigenous dispossession. By illustrating how systems of control worked before formal monetary systems, Reichardt demonstrates that structures of control came before and actively facilitated the development of modern capitalism. This viewpoint questions narratives of progress and development, indicating instead that American imperial expansion has consistently relied upon the oppression of Native populations and the exploitation of natural resources, patterns that have merely evolved rather than radically altered across centuries.
The Deliberate Tempo of Opposition
Reichardt’s approach to cinematic rhythm embodies far more than aesthetic preference; it operates as a deliberate act of pushback against the accelerated purchasing habits that shape contemporary media culture. By abandoning conventional pacing, she opens room for viewers to examine the granular details of power’s operation, the nuanced methods in which hierarchies establish themselves through routine and recurrence. Her films require patience and attention, qualities growing uncommon in an entertainment landscape built for rapid consumption and immediate gratification. This temporal strategy remains bound to her thematic preoccupations with structural inequality and environmental destruction, compelling viewers to sit with discomfort rather than escape into narrative catharsis.
When presented with portrayals of her work as “slow cinema,” Reichardt objected to the terminology, remembering a notably contentious radio debate with NPR’s Terry Gross about “Meek’s Cutoff.” Her objection to this label demonstrates a wider conceptual framework: that her films unfold at the speed necessary to genuinely examine their narrative focus rather than aligning with industrial standards of viewer satisfaction. The conscious development of plot functions as a artistic selection that reflects her subject interests, creating a cohesive creative statement where structure and substance strengthen each other. By advocating for this strategy, Reichardt challenges spectators and commercial cinema to reassess what cinema can accomplish when released from market demands to amuse rather than challenge.
Tackling Corporate Deception
Reichardt’s rejection of accelerated pacing serves as implicit criticism of how capitalism shapes not merely economic relations but temporal experience itself. Commercial cinema, shaped by studio interests and advertising logic, prepares viewers to expect fast editing, building suspense, and immediate narrative resolution. By rejecting these standards, Reichardt’s films expose how entertainment industry standards serve to naturalise consumption patterns that benefit corporate interests. Her measured rhythm becomes a form of formal resistance, arguing that genuine engagement with complex social and historical questions cannot be squeezed into formulaic structures created for maximum commercial appeal.
This temporal resistance goes further than mere stylistic choice into territory of genuine political intervention. When audiences sit through extended sequences of landscape, labour, or quiet conversation, they perceive temporality in alternative ways—not as something to be consumed and optimised but as material substance worthy of attention. Reichardt’s films thus educate audiences in different ways of seeing, encouraging them to observe power’s operations in moments that conventional cinema would consider narratively inert. By safeguarding these moments from commercial manipulation, she opens avenues for critical consciousness that swift cuts and emotionally coercive music would foreclose, demonstrating cinema’s capacity to serve as an instrument of ideological resistance rather than commercial reinforcement.
- Extended sequences reveal power’s everyday, routine operations within systems
- Slow pacing resists entertainment industry’s increase in consumption and attention
- Temporal resistance allows viewers to cultivate critical awareness and historical awareness
Fact, Narrative and the Documentary Instinct
Reichardt’s method of filmmaking blurs conventional boundaries between documentary and narrative fiction, a distinction she considers increasingly artificial. Her films function through documentary’s adherence to observational truth whilst employing fiction’s compositional potential, creating a blended approach that questions how stories are constructed and whose perspectives dominate historical narratives. This working practice reflects her view that cinema’s power extends beyond spectacular revelation but in sustained scrutiny of overlooked details and peripheral perspectives. By declining to overstate or theatricalise her material, Reichardt insists that authentic understanding arises from sustained attention rather than contrived affective moments, challenging viewers to acknowledge documentary value in what might initially seem ordinary or undramatic.
This dedication to truthfulness informs her examination of historical material, particularly in films addressing Western expansion and early American capitalism. Rather than promoting frontier mythology or heroic conquest narratives, Reichardt’s films investigate systems of power, abuse of resources, and environmental destruction through the experiences of those typically overlooked in conventional histories. Her documentary impulse thus becomes a form of ethical practice, demanding that cinema bear witness to suppressed stories and alternative perspectives. By maintaining formal restraint and refusing to impose predetermined meanings, she creates room for audiences to develop their own critical understanding of how American power structures have historically operated and continue to shape contemporary reality.