In the early twenty-tens, I was a fan of “Ultimate Survival Alaska,” an HBO television series which comprised thirty-seven taut, testosterone-propelled episodes. I still think about it now and then. “Ultimate Survival” is a classical Alaska wilderness adventure: it has a cast of men, it is outdoorsy, it is a competition, it proceeds by ticking off pre-set tasks, and it is addictive. This immersion led to my great fondness for Alaskan-adventure movies and I take a surprising interest in them.
“Heart of the Beast” (Paramount Pictures), showing now at the Montrose Playhouse, is the finest survive-in-Alaska movie to come along in a while. It depicts life lived in the moment. It avoids extensive backstory and explanation. It is dignified and tender and sorrowful. It is a guidebook for slow off-gridders. It teaches its audience without moralising or heckling. It is free of confidence men, violence, guns, product placement, and every kind of stereotype.
The Brad Pitt at the Playhouse this weekend is trudging through the far side of middle age. (In “F1,” which I reviewed in June 2025, he appears younger.) Becoming frailer because of injury and exhaustion, his character, James, lumbers on, a determined but older man. James is the pilot of a small amphibious plane, his dog its only passenger. They land on a lake “somewhere in Alaska.” We aren’t told the reason for the trip: it could be for a job or for a vacation. But we detect that he has lived off-grid many times before: his tent is slung and lit with an overhead camping light; his food is bundled into an old fleece and hoisted onto the branch of a tree. He casts a fishing line. “Get outta there you dodo,” he says to the dog after it scampers into the stream, “you’re gonna scare all the fish.” But the dog re-emerges, mouth stuffed with fish for two. “No—you did not!” James says, grilling the dinner on a campfire. “You’re first,” he says, dishing up, “you caught it.”
He opens a cooler stuffed with bottles of beer. He pops one and toasts the night sky. “Miss you, boys,” he says. Who are the boys and why are they missing? The dog’s dream flashbacks are a clue. “Come on, boy. Come on, we’re not there any more. Just a bad dream. It’s all just a dream. O.K., O.K., such a good boy.”
James’s prepping is impressive: after his plane crashes (onto a different lake) he first rescues himself and clambers to shore; then dives back in to the water, re-enters the cockpit, and recovers his equipment chests; then pulls from one of the two chests a dry-as-a-bone set of clothing. Mr Pitt swallows half a bottle of aspirin in one mouthful in the same way Daniel Craig gulps whisky in his Bond movies. In a much later scene he reduces, splints, bandages, and duct-tapes his own fractured forearm.
“Northern goshawk, check,” James says. “Only five hundred and four more to go.” (I was reminded of the expert birders at the Montrose Basin, which is one of the great wonders of the world.) “Fifty-eight miles,” he says, marking a map. “Seven miles today. We gotta be pulling at least twelve-to-fifteen per day.” There is no tech, not even a smartphone. In yellow-tinged fragments the filmmakers reveal the past: helicopters, gunfire, fire, and radio (“we have soldiers k.i.a.,” “eagle’s down,” “whole squad k.i.a.,” “two-tango-sierra,” “Breech! Breech!”) The dog is a “special-operations-forces canine” who has “seen war and ferocious hardship”—this explains his artificial leg and titanium teeth. (The appearance of the dog is one product of the ten special-effects companies credited at the end.)
“Storm’s coming, bud,” James says. The summits of the hills are cloud-hidden; the sky above is blue-black. As in its earlier flight, the plane seems to almost caress the ground. The effect is to balance the camera somewhere between the terrain and its visitors. The film is telling the story of both. When the plane crashes and James escapes and extracts his waterproof boxes from the fuselage, the cinematography is exceptional. Orienting the underwater camera along the vertical axis as it finds the plane emphasises the shallowness of the lake. At one moment the camera is at James’s feet and in the next above his head. He scoops quick breaths from tiny pockets of air within the submerged airplane. We hold our breath too. A shivery subsequent scene reminds us of the water’s frigidity.
Jared Michael Fry’s exquisite, cautious score, for classical choir and orchestra, dispenses with a hummable big theme. At first I felt that this reflected the lack of a baddie. But as I was writing I heard the geese over Montrose. I realised that the sound designers favour Alaskan sounds—stream, bird, fire, wind—over composer’s notes. A hefty tune would break this hierarchy. The choir adds to the sense of spirituality. In one gorgeous crescendo the choir pitches a series of chords as if filling a cavernous French cathedral.
Mr Pitt plays a man concerned with what is in front of him right now. But his eyes and the folds around them groan with James’s past. James is surprised by the arrival of another loner named Watkins. The two men drink by the campfire. Watkins summarises his sad life as a gold-miner: “It’s a goddamn dirty business,” he says. The camera closes on James’s flame-lit eyes. What did he see of the unimpressive “goddamn dirty business” of war?
At first Watkins doesn’t get so much as a handshake from James. “Oh, well,” he says, “not real big on the social niceties, I can tell. You are the first human-type person I’ve ever seen this far out. Most people don’t care for it——there’s nothing like the quiet of nature——the whole world to yourself. You know what I mean?” Watkins looks across. “I did pitch my tent pretty much right next to yours. Hope you don’t mind!”
Adam Poole
24th September 2026
If you are interested in viewing this screening, please book your tickets here
