‘Wildcat’ Review: Ethan Hawke Channels Flannery O’Connor’s Singular Voice in this Moving, Meandering Passion Project | Telluride

“I want to do this for a good feeling and for a bad one,” Flannery O’Connor declares in her short book The Prayer Journal. In this section of the book, O’Connor details her feelings about writing a novel, her desire to make something great, and what it means to be an artist wrestling with such complex feelings as pride and self-satisfaction. It’s a rich text with challenging themes and questions that artists of all mediums can sink their teeth into. It makes sense then that Ethan and Maya Hawke found so much beauty and power in the spiritual musings in O’Connor’s Prayer Journal and decided to turn this woman’s life and undersung works into a feature film. Wildcat, the latest film from Ethan Hawke, continues the director’s exploration into the lives and minds of artists (Blaze, The Last Movie Stars) and finds the father-daughter duo teaming up to beautifully emulate the experience of reading a collection of Flannery O’Connor’s short stories.

Wildcat is far from a traditional biopic and is filled to the brim with creative flourishes as Hawke and co-writer Shelby Gaines weave the imagined worlds of O’Connor’s short stories with the actual events of the author’s life. The film opens in 1950s New York with a scene relatable to artists who have put their necks on the line for creative approval. Flannery O’Connor (Maya Hawke, also a producer on the film) meets with an editor (Alessandro Nivola) to review her work. She knows her writing is not everyone’s cup of tea, but she doesn’t wish to conform to the industry’s processes (sharing an outline) or demands. This scene is the viewer’s first taste of how bold O’Connor was as a young writer, unwilling to bend to the ways of other writers to make more money or gain popularity. Hawke uses scenes like this to highlight O’Connor’s values and principles as a writer and allude to why her work was so ahead of its time. With its thorny characters and rich, grimy complexities of American life, O’Connor’s writing is beloved yet somewhat esoteric to today’s audiences. Throughout the film, it’s clear that Hawke wants audiences to discover O’Connor’s work not just for its value in American literature but also to draw parallels to artists today. 

The film spends significant time with O’Connor during her stint at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in 1945 and later in Andalusia Farm, Georgia, with her mother, Regina (Laura Linney). As O’Connor types, she visualizes the worlds of her stories, and the film takes the viewer there to turn writing into a tactical, imagined experience. It soon becomes clear that her writings are inspired by and in conversation with the author’s real-life experiences. The period details in these sections of O’Connor’s life and the Southern Gothic elements of her imagined stories are beautifully brought to life by cinematographer Steve Cosens and production designer Sarah Young. In Iowa, O’Connor’s promise and potential as a young writer shine through as she reads what will become part of The Prayer Journal to the other students in the workshop. In this portion, the audience again learns of O’Connor’s unwillingness to tidy up her work to make others feel comfortable, stating, “The truth doesn’t change based on your ability to stomach it.” This scene displays the striking difference in attitudes between O’Connor and her contemporaries while lightly alluding to the current controversy around allegations of racism in O’Connor’s writings. When she returns to Georgia, she’s asked why she doesn’t write about nice people because “we need another good book like “Gone With the Wind.” O’Connor doesn’t want to be the next Margaret Mitchell, though, and the film shows the lack of similarities between the two Southern authors. Instead of creating something popular, O’Connor writes about faith and religion, violence, and grotesque characters. Themes of death and isolation also creep into her work when she’s diagnosed with lupus, the same disease that killed her father. O’Connor would spend the next fourteen years of her life writing in Georgia and battling the disease (she passed away at the age of 39).  

Instead of finding additional actors to play the characters in O’Connor’s stories, Hawke and Linney cleverly take on multiple roles, displaying the author’s personal connections to her stories’ characters and the ways in which her daily observations are depicted in her work. It’s a strong creative choice that further displays the intersection between imagination and reality. Hawke shines as O’Connor, capturing her wisdom, spirit, and darker musings. It’s a testament to her skills as an actress and her understanding of the author’s material that each character is uniquely crafted while maintaining and exploring small traces of O’Connor’s own traits. Laura Linney’s take on Regina, a single mother and farm owner in Georgia, and her character’s many iterations in O’Connor’s short stories are incredibly sharp. Linney adds color to O’Connor’s stories, exposing why her relationship with her mother was challenging yet crucial to her existence as a woman and a writer.     

For readers unfamiliar with O’Connor’s work, the film functions as a practical primer but can, unfortunately, feel a bit convoluted. Hawke’s inventive storytelling sometimes works better in theory than practice, as the narrative becomes overwhelmed by the many threads it tries to incorporate. Hawke and Gaines not only incorporate multiple time periods from O’Connor’s life, but they also share iterations of “Good Country People,” “Everything That Rises Must Converge,” and “The Life You Save May Be Your Own.”  Jumping in and out of a writer’s real and imagined worlds is crucial to understanding their experience crafting their art, but it also halts forward momentum in the narrative, causing the film to drag in places. O’Connor’s stories (and the scenes that bring them to life) are so vivid and beautifully connect to the themes illustrated in the author’s life. Yet, including the stories as individual vignettes doesn’t provide the space and breathing room they deserve. Fans of American literature may have an easier time connecting with this material but may still be left wanting more focus placed on the complexities of an individual story, as opposed to the meandering approach this film takes in trying to convey the brilliance of an entire body of work.  

When O’Connor first arrives back to her home state of Georgia, she’s told, “I don’t know why you won’t write something that a lot of people like.” This statement speaks to O’Connor’s interest in going against the grain and telling the truth in her stories, but it also speaks to art’s place in the modern era. Today, many writers and filmmakers are pressured to follow the money and make something that will appeal to the masses instead of following their own creative vision. While Wildcat is not a perfect illustration of O’Connor’s life, it is a fascinating gem of a film that breaks down the conventions of the biopic genre. Hawke understands that the best way to understand an artist is through their work. This film not only accomplishes that, but it also succeeds in introducing viewers to the complexities of Flannery O’Connor’s work. 

Grade: B

This review is from the 2023 Telluride Film Festival. There is no U.S. distribution for Wildcat at this time.