‘Shepherd’ Delivers a New Director To Watch — If Not, Yet, To Listen To

The kaleidoscopic nature of the film is adroitly handled, but for a movie with few cast members and a spare amount of dialogue, it is incredibly loud.

Tom Hughes as Eric Black in ‘Shepherd.’ Saban Films

What a person won’t do for art — that is, if he or she is truly driven. 

Russell Owen, writer and director of the new supernatural movie “Shepherd,” made his professional mark by helming commercials for the likes of American Express and L’Oreal. 

In 2018, he was roped into directing “Inmate Zero” — but only after the producers weren’t able to sign their first choice. Mr. Owen cut a deal: He would direct their zombie apocalypse movie gratis if “Shepherd” was the next venture on the company’s docket. The parties shook hands. The upshot, in Mr. Owen’s estimation, is his first “true” film.

“Shepherd” is a slow burn, a horror film in which images and incidents are meted out with deliberation. The film unfolds in chapters marked by days and titles — such as, “January 6th; A Lonely Place” — but the mise en scene is less linear than impressionistic. The story, in its fullest sense, accumulates through bits and pieces, snatches of memory. Audiences weaned on mainstream entertainment are likely to find themselves a bit fidgety. Evocation, not jump scares, is Mr. Owen’s metier.

Eric Black (Tom Hughes) is a recent widower. Hoping to waylay his grief, Black answers a classified ad in a local newspaper. “Wanted, Shepherd,” it reads, “remote west coast island seeks sole resident” to tend 600-plus sheep. 

The timeframe of “Shepherd” is ambiguous. If the traditional newspaper isn’t yet something of an anachronism — Mr. Owen and his director of photography, Richard Stoddard, film the pages in a way that emphasizes their smudginess — there’s a rotary phone to contend with. The latter is so prominent during the course of the film that it could count as a cast member.

Black gets the job, packs his bags, and takes along his dog, the redoubtable Baxter. On the way to the ferry, he stops off at an isolated farmhouse to bid farewell to his mother (Greta Scacchi), with whom he has a fractious relationship. She has some choice words regarding her dead daughter-in-law, making that faraway island look pretty good.

Or maybe not. Black and Baxter are ferried to a misty Scottish isle by Fisher (Kate Dickie), a raggedy seawoman given to cryptic epigrams. The landscape is forbidding; the accommodations, decrepit. The lone house on the island has fallen into disrepair, as has the nearby lighthouse. Fisher promises to provide supplies on a regular basis, all the while being careful about where she treads. There are, apparently, boundaries on the island that shouldn’t be crossed.

Black gets down to business, tending sheep and making the best of the situation. Given his isolation, Black has time — too much time, perhaps — to ruminate on his mother, his wife, and the child that never was. 

Baxter is occupied as well, though not altogether content with his new surroundings. In the tradition of cinematic canines like Asta, Lassie, and Benji, Baxter proves more perceptive than his human counterpart. Alas, Baxters’s fate is considerably less bucolic than that of his forebears.

Mr. Owen is a talent to watch. The kaleidoscopic nature of the film — the manner in which events unfold, overlap, double back, and correspond — is adroitly handled. The attention he lavishes upon landscape divulges a temperament attuned to the metaphoric importance of place. He is, admittedly, too fond of overhead shots courtesy of cinema drones: Just because you have the latest toys doesn’t mean you have to play with them all the time.

That, and he needs to rethink the role of music in establishing or accentuating plot points. The soundtrack provided by Callum Donaldson is overweening, all but intolerable. Is there any scene Mr. Donaldson doesn’t slather in melodrama? For a movie with few cast members and a spare amount of dialogue, “Shepherd” is incredibly loud. 

Next time around, Mr. Owen might want to tell his composer to rein it in. This time, though, he’s brought us a film of disquieting poetry and inordinate promise.


The New York Sun

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