There are as many dogs as humans listed in the cast of David Ayer's Heart of the Beast, although they (the dogs, that is) all play the same canine, a military-trained combat dog named Odin. The only human actor who appears on-screen for any significant length of time is Brad Pitt, who plays a retired special forces veteran who fought alongside Odin in the Middle East, with both bearing the physical and psychological scars of their ordeal. We get haunting, burned-out flashbacks of their traumatic wartime experiences, which regularly punctuate the story of their attempting to navigate the brutal Alaskan wilderness after their twin-engine Cessna crashes deep in the mountains. Pitt's character, James Belmont, is taciturn with other people (that is, with an old hiker played by J.K. Simmons with whom he briefly crosses paths), but he comes alive with Odin, who he clearly loves and deeply appreciates.

The bond between man and dog has been a persistent theme in literature and poetry and music and movies going back to the Egyptian tale of Abuwtiyuw and The Epic of Gilgamesh, just as the wilderness has long been art's favorite literal evocation of both beauty and death. And while Heart of the Beast doesn't do anything particularly new in either of these arenas (James and Odin are modern-day incarnations of Odysseus and Argos), it nails the essence of why we keep coming back to them over and over again—the mystery of nature dovetailing with the immediacy of survival threaded with the nobility of hardened man and a loyal dog. Pitt wears his older years like a badge of honor, his toughened skin and nearly shaved head acting as hallmarks of a hard life that is now one of both enforced and chosen solitude (we learn through the flashbacks that he and Odin are the only survivors of their unit, but his sojourn into the Alaskan wilderness is clearly borne of his desire to escape the world he was fighting to protect). James just wants to be alone with Odin, to read and watch birds, but that isolation turns deadly once his plane crashes and, over several grueling days, finds himself increasingly stripped of the resources that allowed him to survive (no GPS devices here, but he has a high-end tent, sleeping bag, food reserves, waterproof bags, medical supplies, etc.). As he and Odin lose the means of protection from the elements, they are physically battered by slippery slopes, rushing rapids, and a pack of vicious wolves that stalk them in the night. Like Rambo and every other hardbody hero of silver screen, Pitt's body is constantly tested through violence, and part of the film's hypnotic pull is watching him manage his various injuries. And always alongside him is Odin, whose combat training ensures his perseverance and commitment to the mission even as he struggles, like his master, with PTSD-addled dreams.

Director David Ayer, who previously worked with Pitt on the World War II combat film Fury (2018), doesn't rush things, instead allowing us to slide comfortably into James and Odin's wilderness sojourn and get caught up in the beauty of their isolation before piling on the harrowing complications. The film has a tough, naturalistic edge that is unfortunately undercut by reliance on obvious digital effects, notably a confrontation with a scarred old grizzly bear and later the pack of wolves (unfortunately, Bart the Bear, the real-life 10-foot grizzly with whom Pitt's Tristan wrestled to a good death in 1994's Legends of the Fall, passed away a quarter-century ago). The same can't be said for the landscape, which is genuine and stunning. Using New Zealand as a stand-in for Alaska, Ayer lets the immensity of the wilderness do some of the heavy lifting, and you can see why he lingers on shots of James's Cessna drifting over mountains and glaciers—it puts us in our place.

Pitt gives a fine performance in one of those one-man shows; he holds the screen and our attention and sympathies as well as Tom Hanks did in Castaway (2000), although Hanks had to befriend a blood-smeared volleyball, whereas Pitt gets to interact with a German Shepherd of immense expressivity (I know, I know, dogs can't act, but the Kuleshov effect on display is remarkable). As the title suggests, Heart of the Beast ultimately aims to move you emotionally as much as it clenches you with suspense and violence, and to their credit, Ayer and first-time screenwriter Cameron Alexander play it straight. This is an old-fashioned yarn—Natty Bumpo and Jack London kind of stuff—and its throwback, appeal is part of what makes it work so well. There is no room for cynicism in this all-the-feels pulp adventure.

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