Andrea Arnold’s immersive documentary Cow seeks to bridge the yawning disconnect between modern humans and the source of our food. Yet the British filmmaker, known for such features as American Honey and Fish Tank, doesn’t offer an explicit agenda in her debut documentary. There are no shots of horrific factory farm conditions, animal abuse or even any talking heads elaborating on the evils of modern agriculture and its impact on the planet. Instead, this largely wordless documentary simply provides a poignant cow’s-eye view into the stark daily life on a dairy farm.
At Park Farm in Kent, England, we meet dairy cow Luma as she’s in the throes of birthing a calf. Farmers pull her offspring from her body with straps and the new mother licks her wobbly calf clean in the few brief moments she’ll get to enjoy with her young. Soon after, the calf is separated from her and Luma is left anxious, bereft and bellowing in grief, refusing to eat as she rests her head on a cow in the feeding chute next to her. Life on a dairy farm means her motherhood is as purposely stunted as her calf’s soon-to-be cauterized horns. We follow Luma, and at times cut away to her growing calf, as the cows on this farm are shuffled from one pen to another, to be fed, milked, bred and birthed. With Arnold keeping her camera at about the height of a cow’s head, we witness how invasive a cow’s life is, with farmers and vets poking and prodding Luma, mating her with a bull again and confirming she’s pregnant with an arm up the backside.
Arnold takes particular care to use close-ups of Luma and her calf—especially focusing on their faces and soulful eyes—to generate the emotional momentum of a film with few surprises or drama. Few dairy cows die of old age, after all, so we know where the story is likely to end. But Arnold doesn’t only depict the more brutal aspects of the bovine life. We do see calves frolic with each other, and Luma and her fellow cattle graze in open pastures from time to time, one particularly striking scene involving Luma sitting under the cover of night and seemingly gazing up at the starlit sky. In moments like these, Magda Kowalcyzk’s cinematography shines in juxtaposing a domesticated breed with natural beauty. But Arnold stops short of anthropomorphism, instead simply offering a window into the harsh realities of life as livestock.
With the few words spoken throughout the film largely incidental background conversation, other sound adds depth and dimension to the film. There’s a contrast in Park Farm’s PA system piping in soothing music by indie singer-songwriters over the lowing of cattle, clopping of hooves, clang of metal gates and whir of various farm machinery. The end credits, which follow an abrupt close to the film, even cheekily feature the Garbage song “Milk.” The lack of narrative allows the film to settle into the natural cadence of farm life, the camera lingering on various scenes not to compel an emotional response so much as leave the viewer to ascribe their own meaning. Though it’s not preachy, Cow compellingly portrays the mundane existence of livestock in all its bleakness, and while it may not change a viewer’s dietary choices, it shines a light on the human penchant for exploiting other organisms to feed our hunger.
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