“He heard her size before he saw it. Not just the crack of the thick underbrush that the sow moved aside like short grass, but the growl itself, a sound deep like thunder or a falling tree, a bass that could emanate only through connection with some great mass. The growl crescendoed as she stepped into the clearing, black eyes staring at Glass, head low to the ground as she processed the foreign scent, a scent now mingling with that of her cubs. She faced him head-on, her body coiled and taut like the heavy spring on a buckboard. Glass marveled at the animal’s utter muscularity, the thick stumps of her forelegs folding into massive shoulders, and above all the silvery hump that identified her as a grizzly…”
- Michael Punke, The Revenant
The tale of Hugh Glass’s unfortunate meeting with a grizzly bear is one of the great legends of the Old West. In 1823, the story goes, Glass was a trapper with the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. While out alone, he was attacked by a grizzly, mauled so badly that he was expected to die. Because he was slowing down the rest of the trappers, two men were designated to stay with Glass until he expired, and then catch up with the rest of the company.
Instead of staying with Glass, the two men left. And instead of dying, Glass lived.
Crawling, stumbling, walking, riding, and floating, Glass somehow traversed hundreds of miles of unmapped, unforgiving frontier, battling the elements, avoiding unfriendly Indian tribes, and surviving by any means necessary, driven all the while by an insatiable appetite for revenge.
While the broad contours of Glass’s story – that he survived both a bear attack and subsequent abandonment – are generally accepted as true, there is little by way of hard evidence. Though Glass was apparently literate, he did not leave his own account. Most of what we know – or think we know – comes from hearsay, campfire stories passed from one man to the next, the saga growing in the telling, as embellishments and adornments were added and refined.
As Michael Punke clearly recognized, the tenuous factual nature of Glass’s remarkable journey makes it a perfect candidate for novelization. In The Revenant, Punke is able to use the dramatic license of fiction to add meat to the bones of an otherwise skeletal story.
Since its publication in 2002, the reputation of The Revenant has grown, undoubtedly helped by the award-winning movie adaptation of the same name. While certainly a solid read, this is a book that I respected more than I loved.
The Revenant straddles two very different genres, but does so a bit uncomfortably, with the result that it seems to be pulling in opposite directions.
On the one hand, this is very credible historical fiction. Punke has clearly marinated himself in trapper lore, and his evocation of a mountain man’s life feels acutely accurate. The weapons, the equipment, and the clothing are all lovingly detailed. Entire scenes are constructed around a man sewing up a wound, butchering an animal for meat, or constructing a deadfall. The Revenant is at its best when it fully indulges its process-oriented nature. There is something extremely satisfying in Punke simply describing how things were done far from civilization, at the extremities of human endurance.
Punke also has a real knack for physical descriptions of the land. At times, The Revenant is transportive, setting you in a frigid river, a trackless forest, or in the shadow of a gleaming mountain. By sharply etching the geography, Punke gives tactility to Glass’s remarkable journey.
The problem – at least for me – is that The Revenant also wants to be a revenge thriller. This is a very different kind of beast, with its own unique imperatives. A good thriller thrives on indelible characters, intense motivations, the occasional twist and turn, and a powerful ending where all the driving forces collide at once.
The Revenant does not supply these things.
The main deficit is in the characters, all of whom are shallow archetypes. The Revenant revolves around Glass and the two men who abandoned him: Jim Bridger and John Fitzgerald. None leave much of an impression.
Glass is competence personified, but does not have much by way of personality. The only thing that can be said about him is that he seems like an overall decent type, likely to do the “right” thing in any given situation. Unfortunately, this inherent decency makes him a poor choice to shoulder a revenge arc. I never bought his anger, his drive, his bloodthirstiness. Punke gives Glass a lengthy backstory involving pirates and lost love, yet this did nothing to give Glass additional dimensions. Instead, it felt perfunctory. Being told a person is complicated and being shown a person is complicated are two different things. Punke gives us the facts of Glass without any of the feeling.
The same goes for Bridger, who in 1823 was a young, hapless greenhorn, and not yet a famous trapper, hunter, and scout. (There is a minor controversy about whether Bridger was actually one of the two men to abandon Glass, but it is not beyond the realm of possibility). Bridger feels bad for leaving Glass and we are meant to feel that pain. In point of fact, Punke keeps telling us to feel that pain. I – for one – did not. The reason is that Bridger is less a person than plot point. He has no existence apart from the plot-derived necessity of us worrying about whether Glass will kill him.
John Fitzgerald is the heel of the piece. As a villain, however, he is unconvincing. More cowardly than evil, and more pragmatic than wicked, he does not provide a worthy goal for Glass’s retributive quest. (A shortcoming that the movie unsubtly – but effectively – remedied by making Fitzgerald into an outright murderer).
Without characters to truly root for – or hiss at – the vengeance angle becomes quite flat. This flatness is compounded by Punke’s decision to stay extremely close to the historical record, flimsy as it is. Such faithfulness is fine, yet it leaves precious little room for surprises. To be clear: historical fiction does not need – and typically does not have – a last-act bombshell revelation, since real life occurrences do not get a spoiler tag. In The Revenant, though, Punke works overtime trying to squeeze tension out of a situation that simply doesn’t have it. His insistence on attempting to produce a pulpy quest for reprisal while wearing the straight jacket of historical fidelity gives The Revenant a bit of an identity crisis. It might have been better for Punke to choose one or the other, to either throw away the primary sources and make this a blood-spattered chase, or to downplay the revenge stuff in favor of a more mediative journey of a man alone in the wilds.
To be honest, without the film version of The Revenant I never would have read this. Now, having read it, the film will be the only thing to keep me from entirely forgetting it. The Revenant is well-written, well-constructed, and has an admirably authentic aesthetic. At the same time, it lacks both heart and soul, with all its qualities on the surface, and not much underneath.