The story cries out from the soil, the echoes of the past reverberating forth from the pristine whiteness of bone. Someone makes such a discovery in the earliest moments of Kelly Reichardt’s transfixing “First Cow”-and yes, a good dog is involved-but the nature of the discovery makes it impossible to deny that second lens.
Through another, they’re a piece of some unknown story, playing out in some other time. Through one lens, such things are garbage, destined for the nearest bin. Maybe the friend, if they’re of the canine variety, spots or sniffs something out of place and begins to worry at it, shaking off the leaves and soil and years that have built up around it since it was dropped or set down. The too-vivid red or orange of a plastic toy, abandoned.
The precipitate silvery brightness of a lost spoon. Walking along in the woods-perhaps alone, perhaps with a friend, human or canine-you spot a tiny flash of color that doesn’t belong.
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