Jane Campion’s The Power of the Dog is a film that lingers like smoke in an empty room, like the echo of a cruel laugh. It’s a Western that refuses the genre’s myths, instead dissecting its toxic masculinity with surgical precision. Benedict Cumberbatch’s Phil Burbank is one of the most fascinating, repulsive, and heartbreaking characters in recent cinema a man whose cruelty is armor, whose tenderness is a secret even to himself.

The film’s brilliance lies in its quiet tension. Campion’s direction is unhurried but never aimless; every shot, every silence, every offhand gesture carries weight. The vast, sun-scorched landscapes (shot with haunting beauty by Ari Wegner) mirror the emotional isolation of its characters. This is a world where love is weakness, where dominance is survival and where the most dangerous thing a man can do is reveal who he truly is.

Cumberbatch delivers a career-best performance, embodying Phil with a coiled rage and vulnerability that makes him impossible to look away from. Kirsten Dunst’s Rose is devastating in her unraveling, a woman crushed under the weight of masculine expectation. Jesse Plemons, as Phil’s softer brother George, is the perfect foil his decency a quiet rebellion. And Kodi Smit-McPhee, as the enigmatic Peter, holds the film’s final, shocking revelation in his delicate hands.

Yet, The Power of the Dog is not for everyone. Its pacing is deliberate, its climax subtle. Some may find it too slow, its emotional payoff too restrained. But for those willing to sit with its discomfort, it’s a masterclass in psychological storytelling a film that exposes the rot beneath the myth of the American cowboy.