Ridley Scott Is Back, Flying By the Light of ‘The Dog Stars’

It’s the end of the world as we know it, and Ridley Scott feels fine. Or at least contemplative, as the seasoned director embraces humanity over hopelessness among a virus-ravaged, post-apocalyptic landscape set to the jangly-guitar strains of emo-folk wailers like Hozier and Caamp. Based on the Covid-prescient 2012 book by Peter Heller, The Dog Stars is Scott’s frontier movie, his Omega Man western that’s a not-so-mad Mad Max, privileging quiet moments and melancholic reflection.

Plus a dollop or two of menace: the gritty auteur of historical fictions like Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven knows how to entertain, serving up a few white-knuckle scenes of barbarians at the gates. (There’s also a loopy eleventh-hour plot twist where the film goes sideways — think stewardess outfits, martini glasses and a golf putter — meaning that less forgiving viewers might knock off a star in this review’s rating.)

The Dog Stars ★★★★ (4/5 stars)
Directed by: Ridley Scott
Written by: Mark L. Smith
Starring: Jacob Elordi, Josh Brolin, Margaret Qualley, Guy Pearce, Benedict Wong, Allison Janney
Running time:  118 mins

There’s no rage virus here, just a massively lethal flu bug that wiped out most of the world’s population. And, a decade later, only a fortunate few are walking the depopulated earth without any sense of madness. These remaining “roaches” — people who either evaded or were immune to the virus — live in tense survivalist solitude with any other people they’re lucky enough to find and trust.

Former mechanic and Cessna pilot Hig (Jacob Elordi) is one such last-man-standing soul, along with faithful German shepherd Jasper, with whom he sleeps under the stars (ergo the film’s maladroit title). His unlikely human ally is grumpy former military commando Bangley (Josh Brolin), who scowls with relish and refills his rifle casings in an impressively stocked homestead armory.

The three vigilantly guard their turf, a former local airport in Erie, Colorado, littered with busted aircraft and nestled in a remote enclave. Bangley oversees the large compound from a watch tower, while Hig flies his battered, salvaged-parts Cessna in perimeter circles to spot any potential interlopers. When they’re not sinking bullets into clusters of spied interlopers, they’re drinking Bulleit bourbon to wash down their homemade stew, playing poker with huge stacks of worthless cash, and re-reading books by David Foster Wallace and Caroline Blackwood. You know, the good life.

Haunted by the death of his pregnant wife Melissa (Sai Bennett), who fell ill to the virus almost a decade before, Hig makes lonely visits to their modest, long-empty home in Denver whenever he flies into the abandoned, overgrown city to stock up on medical supplies from one of the “surge hospitals” (in this case, a bivouac set up at the Denver City Hall) and secure gallons of gasoline from desolate refilling stations.

Hig vacillates between thoughts of suicide and salvation: he could either ram his single-prop plane into the side of a Telluride mountain and end it all, or fly all the way to the imagined paradise of Grand Junction, which sometimes gives off staticky radio signals that show promising signs of civilization.

When he’s not indulging those two fantasies, he’s making the occasional trip to a mountainous Shangri-La, a literal Hidden Valley Ranch where a small enclave of Mennonites — among them Benedict Wong in overalls and a straw hat — give him provisions while raising their cattle, crops, and children.

The gung-ho Bangley, on the other hand, is living his best life. A special-ops vet who adores his assault weapons and night-vision goggles, the cynical misanthrope relishes his wake-up-defend-survive routine and scolds Hig’s attempts at outreach. “Why are you offering help to others?” he chides, even while eating fresh produce from the folks he derogatorily mislabels as Mormons.

One painfully violent night makes Hig split from Bangley, taking his chances on whatever might await him in Grand Junction or Telluride, even as he’s haunted by his before-times memories of Melissa. “Don’t get goofy thinking about the past,” says Bangley, handing Hig a bagful of grenades in what we can only assume is his typical farewell gesture. And off goes Hig, to face down virus-addled “unknowns” looking for trouble in his hunt to find lonely pockets of people looking for connection.

The Dog Stars doesn’t dwell on Hig and Bangley’s uneasy friendship, but their rapport does set the tone for all of Hig’s encounters — with the Mennonites, and, later, with father-and-daughter ranchers Pops (Guy Pearce) and Cima (Margaret Qualley). Suspicion reigns, even as longing fuels connection. What makes Scott’s elegiac film feel both expansive and intimate is this tension between doomsday-prepper madness and simple-pleasure reflections on coffee and cigarettes. There’s a hangout vibe that the director indulges, proffering gentle introspection over a propulsive narrative.

Even as it showcases a super-feral tribe of blanched skinhead maniacs covered in squiggly runes that presumably came from a Keith Haring tattoo parlor, and even throws in a roving band of horse-riding lunatics straight of out Road Warrior-central casting, The Dog Stars always makes time to slow its roll, collect its breath, and aim for greater themes that transcend the visceral thrills of hyperventilating mayhem. The film makes time to appreciate mourning as part of growing: the sense that acknowledging pain and showing vulnerability are the seeds to a fragile but tangible community.