‘Train Dreams’ Stands as a Powerful Plea Against Standing Idly By
By Roxana Hadadi, a Vulture TV critic who dives into films and pop culture as well. She's also serving as a juror for the prestigious Peabody Awards.
Photo: Netflix
Warning: This discussion includes spoilers for Train Dreams, now available to stream on Netflix.
Imagine living a quiet life, steering clear of trouble, only to realize that your silence in the face of injustice might be the real tragedy—doesn't that hit you right in the gut? That's the heart-pounding core of Train Dreams, a film that challenges us to question our own passivity in a world full of moral dilemmas. Directed with raw emotional depth, this adaptation pulls you in and leaves you pondering your choices long after the credits roll.
In Train Dreams, Joel Edgerton brings to life Robert Grainier, a reserved fellow who prefers to keep to himself. He shares a simple, secluded home in Bonners Ferry, Idaho, with his wife and young daughter. As a logger, he tackles his daily tasks with steady efficiency and minimal chatter, sharing a comfortable quiet with his fellow workers. Grainier avoids the bottle, stays out of financial troubles, and steers clear of any drama that doesn't directly touch his world. Essentially, he's the epitome of someone who sticks to his own lane and doesn't rock the boat.
But here's where it gets controversial: what happens when that careful detachment turns into a failure to act during a moment of crisis? When a band of vigilantes turns on one of Grainier's colleagues, his instinct to stay out of it reveals a deeper flaw. Drawing from Denis Johnson's poignant novella, the story explores this turning point, but director Clint Bentley tweaks it for the screen to amplify the regret. In the book, the victim is a Chinese worker wrongly accused of stealing from the Spokane International Railway's stores; Grainier even lends a hand in the attempted murder, later blaming a supposed curse from the escaped man for his woes. For beginners unfamiliar with early 20th-century prejudices, this reflects the ugly racism of the era, where immigrants were often scapegoated and dehumanized. In Bentley's version, though, Grainier simply freezes—he watches helplessly as his coworker is assaulted, a choice that haunts him forever. He doesn't intervene as the railroad crew drags the man away and hurls him over a steep gorge. This overwhelming guilt, coupled with his sorrow over not protecting the vulnerable, reshapes Grainier's entire existence. It ties into the film's bigger philosophical punch: on a grand scale, we're all just specks in the universe. Our time here is fleeting, and most of what we build or achieve will fade into obscurity. What endures, what truly marks our character, is how we interact with others during our brief stay. Through this lens, Train Dreams offers a profoundly touching lesson on powerlessness, resilience, and the small ways we can tip the scales of justice in our everyday actions. Think about it—like choosing to speak up in a meeting when a colleague is unfairly targeted; those tiny decisions add up.
Let's dive deeper into Johnson's source material for context. The novella kicks off with the brutal assault on the anonymous 'Chinaman,' who's been nabbed—or at least fingered—for pilfering from the railway company's supplies. The writing captures the era's derogatory language, calling him a 'little demon' with 'horny' feet who mutters in 'gibberish.' As three attackers haul the outsider by Grainier, he joins 'the party of executioners,' helping them cross a towering 60-foot bridge with the clear intent to fling him off. Miraculously, the worker breaks loose and vanishes into the woods, becoming a spectral figure in Grainier's mind—a constant, eerie presence that follows him everywhere. Grainier is stunned by the sudden brutality, swept up in it like 'a seed in a wind,' yet he secretly regrets they didn't finish the job before the man could supposedly curse them.
Throughout the rest of the story, Grainier pins his misfortunes—especially the devastating wildfire that claims his wife's life and leaves his daughter missing—squarely on this 'Chinaman's' vengeful spirit. He later feels a twinge of remorse for ignoring a dying stranger in the forest (a confessed pedophile who'd impregnated his 12-year-old niece and fled after his brother killed her in rage), but even that doesn't spark true self-examination about the Chinese laborer. Grainier's viewpoint remains self-centered: he's the victim here. Recalling a childhood memory of 'a hundred or more Chinese families' being violently expelled from town, he still views them through a lens of otherness, as 'strange people' whose families 'jabber like birds' while being herded into train cars at gunpoint. This highlights the novella's unflinching look at ingrained biases, which might feel shocking today but were sadly commonplace back then.
And this is the part most people miss: Bentley's adaptation, co-written with Greg Kwedar, transforms Grainier from a judgmental bystander into a man wrestling with doubt and introspection. They amplify the book's core theme—that we're all destined to be forgotten in the end—and leverage it to probe how we ought to navigate life amid that certainty. By reimagining the Chinese worker's fate and his lingering effect on Grainier, they shift the emotional palette from bitterness to a poignant mix of sadness and penitence. It's a subtle but powerful evolution, making the story more relatable for modern audiences grappling with their own regrets.
In the movie, Grainier witnesses a vigilante group enforcing the deportation of Chinese immigrants as a child, leaving him 'baffled by the casualness of the violence,' as narrated by Will Patton's steady voice. As an adult, he cherishes the tight-knit 'family' forged among laborers enduring perilous, long-haul jobs together—like the camaraderie built over months of laying tracks in harsh wilderness conditions. He forms a genuine bond with Fu Sheng (played by Alfred Hsing), sharing scenes of hammering railroad ties and cutting timber side by side. Yet, when three men burst in, accusing Fu Sheng of theft and yanking him away, Grainier slips back into that scared kid from his past. He clutches at Fu Sheng's leg for a moment, demands to know what his friend 'actually' did, and shouts 'Hey!' as they're dragging him toward the bridge. But he stops short of physical resistance or following onto the span to shield him. Bentley captures the other workers' averted gazes in tight shots, underscoring their deliberate indifference, and Grainier blends right in with that crowd. As Fu Sheng plummets into the ravine, Grainier remains rooted in place. Later, visions of Fu Sheng's ghost appear, gazing at him with wordless reproach, and Grainier is speechless. He struggles to rationalize his inaction even to himself—how could he face the man he saw as kin, the one he let perish without a fight?
Aging and retreating further from the world, Grainier comes to see how even our grandest labors—like the old Spokane International Railway and its wooden bridge, now supplanted by sturdy concrete and steel—can become relics of the past. For example, just as those structures were vital once but are now footnotes in history, our personal efforts might seem pointless in the long run. What persists are our human ties: the friendships we nurture, the loves we cherish, the harms we inflict, the trusts we shatter. This insight fuels Train Dreams' call for universal dignity and compassion. The film extends this to the environment too—the forests we harvest, the lands we exploit, the overlooked individuals erased by time; all merit our honor and care. (You'll notice this ethos threading through Bentley and Kwedar's earlier works like Jockey and Sing Sing, where themes of redemption and empathy shine through stories of overlooked communities.)
By reworking Grainier and Fu Sheng's connection to make us root for both, and stripping away Grainier's resentful edge, Bentley redirects the narrative toward the damaging toll of apathy and stagnation. In today's climate, where reports of masked federal agents detaining immigrants in the U.S. without due process raise alarms about unchecked power, Train Dreams sides firmly with those who rally for their communities. 'The world is intricately stitched together,' William H. Macy's character, Arn Peeples, warns Grainier and the young loggers, scolding their careless attitude toward the trees they're felling. It's a reminder that our interconnected reality means every action—or inaction—ripples outward, no matter how small we feel. But here's a counterpoint that might stir debate: is the film too gentle on Grainier, letting his regrets redeem him without real consequences? Or does it realistically show how ordinary people can change after facing their flaws?
What do you think—have you ever stayed silent when you should have spoken up, and did it change you? Share your stories or thoughts in the comments; I'd love to hear if Train Dreams sparked any personal reflections for you.
