When the credits rolled on Chloé Zhao’s ‘Nomadland,’ I didn’t move. I sat in the quiet, absorbing the vast, silent landscapes I had just been immersed in. The film is a quiet masterpiece, but its stillness is deceptive. Beneath the surface of Fern’s (Frances McDormand) journey through the American West lies a profound and unsettling examination of the modern psyche, one shaped by loss, economic precarity, and a desperate search for meaning in a world that has discarded so many. It felt less like watching a character and more like witnessing a reflection of a collective, unspoken societal grief.
🥉 The Psychology of Being ‘Houseless’
The film’s central theme isn’t homelessness, as Fern herself clarifies, but “houselessness.” This distinction is crucial. To be homeless implies a lack, a state of being without. To be houseless, as Fern frames it, is a statement of fact about her living situation, not her identity. This reframing is a powerful psychological coping mechanism. It’s a way to reclaim agency in a situation where she has very little. After losing her husband and her entire town of Empire, Nevada—a place that literally vanished from the map after the gypsum plant closed—Fern isn’t just grieving a person; she’s grieving a life, an identity, a purpose. Her van, which she painstakingly personalizes and names ‘Vanguard,’ becomes a mobile sanctuary, a vessel for her memories and a shield against the instability of the outside world.
This is where the film so accurately captures a modern struggle. We are conditioned to equate stability with a physical house and a steady job. ‘Nomadland’ questions this foundation, suggesting that for many, it has crumbled into dust. The nomads Fern meets are not trailblazing adventurers seeking thrills; they are often older Americans cast aside by the 2008 recession, left to navigate a gig economy in their twilight years. Their resilience is born of necessity. The film portrays a delicate balance between fierce independence and a deep-seated need for community. I watched Fern repeatedly, gently, push away opportunities for conventional comfort, whether it was a room in a friend’s house or a more permanent connection with fellow nomad Dave. Her solitude is a protective shell, yet the moments of genuine connection—sharing a meal, listening to stories around a campfire, learning survival tips—are what sustain her and the others. They have formed a new kind of society on the fringes of the old one, held together by shared experience and unspoken understanding.
🥉 An Unsettled Landscape
Ultimately, ‘Nomadland’ left me with a sense of profound melancholy, but not despair. It’s a reflection of a society grappling with its own identity. The promise of the American Dream—work hard, buy a house, retire comfortably—feels like a distant myth in the film’s world, and increasingly, in our own. Fern’s journey is not about finding a new home to settle in, but about learning to be at home within herself, wherever she is. She isn’t looking for a destination; she is learning to live on the road itself. It’s a difficult, often lonely existence, but it’s also one of quiet dignity. The film doesn’t offer easy answers, because there are none. Instead, it holds up a mirror, forcing us to confront the unsettling reality of our modern world and the quiet strength of those who navigate its fractured landscapes, searching not for a place, but for a sense of peace.