Paul Schrader’s Oh, Canada presents a deeply personal and reflective narrative, but its ambition ultimately overshadows its coherence, leading to a mixed and at times frustrating viewing experience. Starring Richard Gere as Leonard Fife, a dying documentary filmmaker, the film uses a fragmented structure to explore themes of memory, legacy, and the futility of capturing truth on screen. However, the film’s execution struggles to deliver on its intriguing premise.

The story revolves around Fife recounting his tumultuous past to two former students documenting his life. The plot alternates between the present—where Fife confronts mortality—and flashbacks to his youth, depicted by Jacob Elordi, where he evades the Vietnam draft by escaping to Canada. While this setup allows Schrader to delve into questions of moral ambiguity and personal reinvention, the fragmented narrative leaves many viewers disconnected. The overlapping timelines and occasional contradictions in Fife’s recollections seem intended to evoke the slippery nature of memory but instead create confusion and dilute emotional impact.

Critically, the film’s thematic ambitions—centering on filmmaking as a vehicle for truth and reconciliation—feel overly familiar and self-referential. Schrader, often celebrated for his incisive character studies, struggles to ground Oh, Canada in the intimate focus that defines his best works like First Reformed or Affliction. Instead, the sprawling narrative, with its numerous characters and subplots, lacks a clear center. Scenes oscillate between moments of profound introspection and tedious repetition, particularly in the present-day segments, where Fife’s wife (Uma Thurman) voices repetitive objections to the filming process.

The performances, while commendable in parts, are uneven. Gere brings gravitas to Fife’s weary resignation, but his portrayal lacks the emotional nuance needed to anchor the story. Elordi as the younger Fife delivers a serviceable performance but struggles to convey the moral complexity of his character’s decisions. Thurman, unfortunately, is underutilized, with her character reduced to a one-note voice of dissent. This imbalance in characterization undermines the film’s potential for deeper interpersonal dynamics.

Stylistically, Schrader experiments with varying aspect ratios, black-and-white sequences, and a recurring folk-inspired soundtrack to differentiate timelines. While some of these choices add texture, others come across as contrived or disjointed. The visual dichotomy between past and present occasionally enhances the narrative but often feels gimmicky, detracting from the emotional weight of Fife’s journey. Similarly, the voiceovers from Fife and his estranged son feel redundant, further muddying the storytelling.

Despite these shortcomings, Oh, Canada has moments of poignancy. Schrader’s unflinching exploration of regret and the inescapability of past mistakes resonates in certain scenes. The film’s interrogation of personal and national identities—using Canada as a metaphorical extension of American escapism—provides occasional flashes of thematic depth. However, these moments are few and far between, overshadowed by a lack of narrative focus and uneven pacing.

Ultimately, Oh, Canada exemplifies a bold but flawed attempt at existential storytelling. Schrader’s introspective approach, while admirable, results in a film that feels more like a personal catharsis than a fully realized cinematic experience. While it may intrigue fans of Schrader’s work, its lack of cohesion and emotional resonance makes it a challenging watch for general audiences. A more contained narrative might have allowed Schrader to better explore the themes of identity and legacy that Oh, Canada only partially captures.