Emile Hirsch, in a star-making turn, plays (impending spoiler) doomed, would-be Thoreau and latter-day Romantic, McCandless. Despite a bevy of stellar supporting turns, Into the Wild ultimately rests on the shoulders of its young star, and Hirsch turns in a performance of Gosling-proportions (that’s good). He’s affable when he needs to be and his idealistic moments never feel contrived or didactic. Unless one has a volleyball to talk to - and Hirsch does not - solo sylvan living can make for duller-than-Gore viewing. However, his charisma, easy rapport with fruit (specifically an apple) and, later, his pathos, keep monastic moments compelling.

Hirsch has made a career out of playing real-life characters (Jay Adams in Lords of Dogtown and Johnny Truelove, aka Jesse James Hollywood, in Alpha Dog), but don’t mistake him for an every-man of the Anton Yelchin-ilk. Here he brandishes a Penn-ian range that sees him go from spirited idealist to weary wanderer. With an assist from a big belt and a growing hairdo, he moves from robust and tanned to emaciated and sallow (picture a super-skinny Jack Black), and the effect is gripping.

Though McCandless is given the utmost respect, his tragic impetuousness and youthfulness thankfully temper what could have been a sycophantic tribute film. Whether impulsively throwing himself down river in a kayak, ill-prepared and poorly equipped, or awkwardly conversing with the uber-cute girl (Kristen Stewart), he’s far from infallible. The I-hate-my-parents theme can ware, but it’s tempered by the based-on-a-true-story tag and lightened by the aforementioned supporting cast, including the oft-compelling Catherine Keener as a hippie surrogate mother and Vince Vaughn playing a restrained version of his typical charmer.

Whereas McCandless’s wanderings illustrate his blurred dogma, it’s his interactions with those he encounters that allow him to articulate his mission statement. That ethos boils down to a youthfully ill-defined need to flee a corrupt society and flawed parents. It’s an imperfect iconoclasm that amplifies standard adolescent malaise and shaken faith while adding a dash of conviction and a seemingly viable alternative. Incidentally, like waiting to swim for at least forty-five minutes after a meal, one should never wander after reading pastoral poetry. –S.T.