Chloé Zhao’s Nomadland feels less like a traditional narrative and more like an act of tender witnessing. This poetic hybrid of fiction and documentary blurs the line between performance and reality so completely that by the end, you’ll forget Fern (Frances McDormand) isn’t just another soul drifting through the American West. The film’s genius lies in its quiet rebellion it doesn’t dramatize poverty or romanticize rootlessness. It simply observes, with a compassion so deep it becomes spiritual.

McDormand’s performance is a miracle of restraint. Her Fern wears grief like a second skin, yet there’s no grand breakdown, no Oscar-clip monologue. Her pain reveals itself in the way she folds a sleeping bag, in the hesitation before accepting help. The real-life nomads who populate the film playing versions of themselves lend the story an almost sacred authenticity. Their stories aren’t exposition; they’re lived-in truths, whispered around campfires.

Joshua James Richards’ cinematography turns the Badlands into a cathedral of dust and light. Wide shots emphasize Fern’s smallness against the landscape, yet the camera never feels cold it’s as curious about her as we are. The sparse score (Ludovico Einaudi’s piano like wind over rocks) knows when to step aside and let the silence speak.

Some may criticize the film’s lack of traditional plot, but that misses the point. Nomadland isn’t about where Fern is going it’s about what she carries. When she finally faces her sister’s storage unit (a scene so devastating precisely because it’s underplayed), we understand this isn’t just a story about houselessness. It’s about the things we cling to when everything else has blown away.