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Cold discomfort: The uncanny bleakness of The Last Winter

What can art do when the world is ending?

The Last Winter is not a funny movie, but for the 2026 viewer there is a pretty amusing bit at the beginning. A young man played by Zach Gilford arrives to work on an oil drilling outpost in remote Alaska, where the second-in-command is played by — Connie Britton! Mrs. Coach and Matt Saracen, together again! Although technically together for the first time, as writer-director Larry Fessenden filmed The Last Winter in 2006, just before Britton and Gilford’s star-making turns in the TV adaptation of Friday Night Lights. Not that many people saw The Last Winter, which grossed a grand total of $97,522 at the box office. That’s not even a moral victory of the kind the FNL crew would be satisfied with — that’s a straight-up loss.

But before hitting the gridirons of Texas, Gilford and Britton are out in the wastelands of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge with a small crew of scientists and drillers led by a bluff, belligerent Ron Perlman. They’re investigating a well that was tapped 20 years ago and quickly capped for reasons unknown, but political maneuvering and a desire for “energy independence” has placed drilling in this area back on the table. Perlman is gung-ho but has to deal with the eggheads here to monitor climate conditions, particularly the investigative environmental journalist James Le Gros, and Le Gros is the bearer of the ironic news that the necessary ice road to the drill site can’t be constructed because of warming temperatures. The ground is heating up and the ice is melting and toxic, hallucinatory “sour gas” may be leaking out of the earth and into the humans walking the surface. And there may be something else as well.

First Gilford, and then others, see and hear strange things out in the tundra, and writer Fessenden and cinematographer G. Magni Ágústsson (filming in Alaska and Iceland) make this landscape of white wind-whipped permafrost and black, cawing birds a place of the supernatural. Which is not the same as unnatural. And Fessenden makes the conglomeration of trailers housing the drillers not unnatural as well — it is a habitation for people after all, and people are part of nature too. 

In a perceptive review for Reverse Shot Andrew Tracy compares Fessenden to Kiyoshi Kurosawa, and while the former does not have the latter’s technique (who does?) he is working in a similar register. Long takes (often using a fixed frame) make static objects, particularly that capped well, uncanny; seemingly innocuous scenes are full of potential malice. A friendly football game turns bloody by what is clearly an accident but the violence still seems inevitable. And this feeds the very Kurosawan horror that drives the film, the blurring of boundaries that we think are solid. The expanse of the outside world becomes a walk down seemingly endless corridors in that cozy and tiny trailer complex; Gilford strides naked into the frozen night. Time itself freezes and moves in skips and the movie itself distends in unexpected places — a bush plane’s attempt to bring assistance in the film’s back half will obviously not end well, but Fessenden elides no part of the catastrophe, wrecking a surprising amount of set in a low-budget film and letting his characters burn onscreen with no relief.

“Energy independence!” is Perlman’s rallying cry and he is perfectly cast as a dude who believes in his toughness, his capability, his independence over all. The irony is that he is directing this attitude in service of a giant oil corporation, but Fessenden is interested in more than irony here. How can you be independent from your environment? How can you extract without consequence? These are arguments Le Gros makes over and over, trying to slow or even halt the drilling plans, but Fessenden quietly makes it clear that for all of his righteous anger Le Gros is not separate from this either. He is not independent from the drilling outfit he willingly joined to expose, he cannot extract his data without providing cover for their work. He is part of this, was part of it from the start, and he can’t walk away now.

When Gilford walks outside in his birthday suit, he also carries a video camera to capture the things he has heard and seen since arriving at the camp, the things that maybe only a new person could fully clock. And before his body is found miles away, camera clutched in icy hands and eyes pecked out of his head, he does get blurry footage of something enormous, something that can pick up a man and carry him to who knows where. Fessenden’s previous film revolved around the idea of the Wendigo and that myth — in particular, the version described in the immortal Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark — was apparently still on his mind. Because as Perlman and Le Gros strike out across the tundra to find help, something is still hanging around camp, yanking people out of their shoes and driving them mad, Britton is the only person who can hold out for sanity and rescue. And something finds these two men, apparent opposites yet the same in misguided and blinkered persistence, and lays them out on the ice within sight of a small town’s salvation.

Fessenden can only hold off so long, the “something” here, the Wendigo, is apparently a giant ghost moose or caribou, rendered in CGI that is not terrible but is not something that makes the viewer believe in spooks. It prepares to attack Perlman and Le Gros fires a flare gun to draw attention from that town; instead directly at the beast. Which grabs Le Gros instead, gathering speed, and if Fessenden did not have the effects budget for a realistic monster he has the sensibility for an aching horror. He blurs the image of Le Gros being dragged to his doom to footage of a child happily stomping through snow, a memory of unencumbered winter that is not just lost with its recaller but gone with the wind, the warming blast of sulfuric gas flowing over the Arctic. The movie ends with Britton waking up in a hospital and finding that the only doctor in the facility has hanged himself; she steps outside to the sound of sirens and an eerie breeze and while the camera doesn’t show us what she’s looking at, we can see the melted puddles at her feet.

The icy doom and paranoia of The Last Winter recalls The Thing, but that movie’s despair comes from an exterior intrusion. Clearcut feels like an inspiration in its brutal regard for environmental intrusion, both exploitative and well-meaning, but that film has Graham Greene’s incredible performance at its core, a face on the spirit. The Last Winter has characters we care about but it has no heroes and no real villains, because everyone here was fucked from the start and that is what the movie is about, the final blurring of action and intent into doom set in motion long ago. 

Maybe you could make a satirical joke about that, about the futility of stopping what we have set in motion, and maybe you could bemoan the lack of action and the inability of art to change the path we’re on. Or maybe you could point out that The Last Winter came out 20 years ago and we’ve had plenty of winters since. The end is never when the doomsayers say it is, after all. 

In 2006, Zach Gilford and Connie Britton were still a year away from the show that would define them. In 2006, not many people knew what a streaming service was, that an unending supply of TV (the new season of The Fall And Rise Of Reggie Dinkins airs Nov. 2!) and movies could be extracted for your viewing pleasure at the time and place of your choosing. Entertainment independence! I watched The Last Winter on TUBI, a streamer with an algorithm that popped the movie into my view and aired ads every 10-15 minutes or so as I watched. These were evenly split between advertising AI apps that suck up insane amounts of energy, promoting gambling “prediction markets” that suck up insane amounts of energy, and selling gas-powered off-roading SUVs that, well, you know. We all know, don’t we? 

“Unlike his dissembling contemporaries, his films are defiantly about what they are about,” Tracy writes of Fessenden. And what The Last Winter is about isn’t tied to a particular time, but a particular way of existing and the end of that existence. If doomsday hasn’t come, it’s not because of anything we’ve done as we pursue independence from thought and labor and our very surroundings. Art won’t change that but a movie like The Last Winter can create a world and a mood that breaks through the distractions of our toys to show us something without sugarcoating or dissembling. Clear eyes, full hearts, we lose.