National Anthem review – maintains a bold sense of hopefulness

In recent years, the classic western has undergone a period of reinvention. No longer is it the silhouette of macho masculinity framed against the American Frontier’s wide open plains; instead, updated cowboy motifs are breathing new life into portraits of Americana. With its queer, trans and non-binary characters, National Anthem follows in the hoof prints of The Rider, The Power of the Dog and Jockey as a neo-western widening the breadth of the modern American Dream on screen.

This tender coming-of-age drama marks acclaimed photographer Luke Gilford’s feature debut, a continuation of his monograph National Anthem: America’s Queer Rodeo. Charlie Plummer plays Dylan, an introverted 21-year-old construction worker, somewhat reprising his role from Andrew Haigh’s Lean on Pete, who cycles through jobs in rural New Mexico to support his alcoholic mother (Robyn Lively) and little brother Cassidy (Joey DeLeon). Dylan’s life changes when he takes work at the House of Splendor ranch, home to a close-knit community of queer ranchers and rodeo performers.

Dylan is put to work moving hay bales and scrubbing down the horses but his duties are abandoned when he meets the angelic Sky (Eve Lindley) who appears like a vision in a flowing mint dress. Sky may be with ranch leader Pepe (Rene Rosado), but that doesn’t stop Dylan’s infatuation from heating up under the midday sun. Plummer deftly handles the transformation of this lone cowboy’s awkward masculinity blossoming into sensitivity as he finds belonging. As Dylan gets to grips with himself, the film gradually introduces tension; Pepe isn’t pleased about his closeness with Sky, and Dylan’s mother is horrified when Cassidy arrives home in a dress. Trauma around identity, however, is mostly kept off the table.

Gilford, with his photography background, and cinematographer Katelin Arizmendi bolster this portrait of shifting manhood with poetical visuals that merge from joy drenched by the tactile warmth of golden hour to a threesome illuminated by the blue haze of moonlight. National Anthem hits its stride when it’s not bravado but moments of revolution that take centre frame. When Dylan sees himself with blue eyeshadow or gets dressed in drag to lip sync at karaoke, the world around him melts away. This playful subversion of western iconography, a stand-off between who he is and who he could be, elevates Gilford’s visual tussle with masculinity.

Dylan’s intrepid romance with Sky wields much of National Anthem’s allure but the incandescent friendship with non-binary rancher Carrie (the phenomenal Mason Alexander Park) proves particularly sacred. One stormy evening, wrapped in blankets under lantern glow, Carrie tells Dylan: “You belong here. You think it’s supposed to be bigger and better than it is but it’s not. It’s me telling you, right now, you belong.” This tenderness against the roughness of the outback underscores National Anthem. Gilford’s tale of chosen family awash with bright blues and reds maintains a bold sense of hopefulness at a time when America’s LGBTQ+ population is bracing for the worst.