Last year, reclusive author Cormac McCarthy, whose seminal
novels seemed decades behind him, released The Road, which was
hailed as an instant classic and was definitely the gloomiest
apocalypse novel ever picked for Oprah’s Book Club. But just a year
prior to the publication of The Road, McCarthy’s No Country
for Old Men was largely ignored by readers and dismissed by
critics. Although maybe not as “important” as some of McCarthy’s other
novels, No Country was a throbbing, violent thriller that begged
for the big screen in ways that few books do. Joel and Ethan Coen
evidently thought so, too, and have adapted it into an unforgettably
stylish paean to risk, violence, and resourcefulness.
No Country’s conflict is as lean and primal as they come: one
badass chasing another through the desert. Shotguns, pit bulls,
tracking devices, switched hotel rooms, torched cars, and a pneumatic
pump used to punch holes through skulls all come into play, but at its
rawest, this story is man vs. man against the unforgiving landscape of
Southwest Texas.
Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin) is the hunted: At the beginning of the
movie, he wanders onto the fresh aftermath of a massacre, and relieves
the bloody scene of a suitcase containing $2 million, fully aware that
someone will soon come looking for the cash. That man is the chillingly
fierce Anton Chigurh (played with terrifying calm by Javier Bardem), a
methodical assassin who rarely raises his voice above a whisper.
Llewelyn leaves town at daybreak with the money, with Chigurh in hot
pursuit. Joining the chase in a distant third place is the
hard-scrabbled, weary, and wary sheriff (Tommy Lee Jones).
Since neither Llewelyn nor Chigurh are the chatty type—they
spend most of the film either silently stalking or hiding—the
Coens are forced to rely on nonverbal modes of cinematic storytelling.
Few contemporary directors are as well suited to the task: Through
meticulous editing, sound design, and cinematography, they pace and
manipulate the narrative tension to masterly effect. When that
tension’s relieved, it’s through the two channels that the Coens know
best: violence and humor. They’ve teased out the wry, deadpan pathos
from McCarthy’s novel, and use it mostly to decompress the audience
only so they can begin the process again.
There are a few quibbles, though: The film’s minor
characters—receptionists, shopkeepers, Llewelyn’s
mother-in-law—are cartoonish caricatures of oddball hicks who
feel out of place. But the worse news is the film’s final 15 minutes,
which remain faithful to the book, but meander on screen and will
undoubtedly piss off many moviegoers.
But it must be forgiven, as the film is otherwise perfect. (And I
predict that the already-controversial finale will not only be accepted
in the future, but watered down and imitated.) Despite a few recent
missteps, the Coen brothers rank among the truly great American
directors—innovating stylistic trends, building upon cinematic
history, and entertaining and thrilling audiences with an ultra-cool
bombast built on tremendous craftsmanship. Not only is No Country
for Old Men easily one of the best films of the year, but it’s also
one of the best of the Coens’ rich career.