No Country for Old Men

[Josh]

Soaked in blood, unflinching in its examination of evil, unrelenting in its steady march toward a horrifying conclusion, No Country for Old Men may well be the most harrowing film to appear at the movies all year.
So what's so great about it?

Well, on a purely artistic and technical level, it may be the most masterful and assured piece of American cinema I've seen in 2007; only Ratatouille immediately comes to mind as a serious contender. It's been heralded as a landmark film, and for good reason; it's the latest in a long series of astounding pieces of work from Joel and Ethan Coen, whose resume-- including such classics as Raising Arizona, Barton Fink, Fargo, and The Big Lebowski-- already places them in the top tier of American filmmakers, from this generation or any other. And No Country might be their best yet; it's certainly their most gripping, the one that sinks its teeth in the quickest and the hardest and proves impossible to shake off. It has you in its grip for its entire runtime, and even for days after it ends. Its cinematography is staggeringly beautiful, a symphony of dark colors that finds striking beauty in the gloom and the shadows, and the script-- adapted from a Cormac McCarthy novel, boasts complex characterization and some of the most vibrant, metaphorically rich language in recent memory.

The performances are mesmerizing, with Tommy Lee Jones and Josh Brolin exposing frayed nerves and rough edges without ever seeming like they're stumping for Oscars. But it's Javier Bardem-- more than redeeming himself from Love in the Time of Cholera-- who amazes as the sinister presence of evil who trudges almost silently through the film, an unflappable and unrelenting distillation of the dark heart of mankind.

To say that it's the best movie the Coens have made isn't entirely fair, actually, because it's also among their most essential works; though there's nothing here of the zaniness of Raising Arizona or The Hudsucker Proxy, there is the chilling morality and mortality that made Fargo such a masterwork; the sobering spiritual awareness and metaphorical, metaphysical richness that marked Barton Fink; and even some flashes of dark, absurd humor that offer just the slightest hints back to Lebowski. (Coen fans will surely delight in some backwards-glancing references to some of their classic films, including some knowing winks and some revisionist flashbacks to Arizona and Fargo.)

But it's so much more than just a dynamite piece of cinema; it's also a movie of remarkable theological and moral inquiry, an exploration of good and evil, fate and will, the very nature of mankind that seems to alternate between bending its knee and shaking its fist at the Divine. Some have called it a gague of America's current moral climate; really, it's a movie about all men, about the abyss of the Christless human heart. Indeed, its exploration of morality is a complex one, offering us one face of pure evil, one of gradually fading ideals and a quickly wearying heart, and one of initial indifference but budding conscience. Beyond that, it's open to a wide range of political or philosohical readings.

And its handling of fate versus will-- a life of order versus total nihilism-- is hypnotic. Much of the film involves a vicious evil who seems to float through the world unguarded and unchecked, but it might be worth noting that he enters the movie in shackles and leaves it bloody and limping-- reminding me of Martin Luther's famous notion of the Devil as merely a dog on a leash, given some room to move, but only within certain confines.

The final scene might be read by some as a bit of a cop-out, but I think it's note-perfect.

I'm anxious to see it again. And probably again. For now... I'm leaning toward an A+ rating.

[bloop]

After all of that, I'm surprised you wrote "leaning toward".   

[Josh]

Well, I generally don't give out a full-blown masterpiece rating until I've given the film a bit more time to digest. But I don't really have any specific quibbles in mind at the moment. I'll re-evaluate for sure after I see it again.

[Josh]

It's even better the second time, and I've been enjoying some heated conversation about some of the issues the film raises, and some facets of the film itself. I highly doubt there will be a better film released this year... though I'm still very excited and open-minded going into Atonement this weekend, and There Will Be Blood later this month.

[bethany]

Josh, I'm interested in hearing your thoughts on the ending. I very much enjoyed the film, but I'm curious as to why you think the Coens ended it how they did.

[Josh]

(Spoilers!)

Sure-- but what about the ending are you inquiring about? I find that when people talk about the ending of this film, sometimes they mean the actual ENDING ending-- i.e., Tommy Lee Jones talking about his dream-- and sometimes they mean the fact that Anton got away while Moss died.

[bethany]

I mean TLJ talking about his dream. It just seemed a rather strange way of ending...I liked it, but I'm not sure what to make of it.

[Josh]

It is strange, and though I like it too, I confess that, even after seeing the film four times, I'm still not entirely sure what to make of it all. But I think the scene reveals his weariness, and, in particular, his disillusionment with human institutions of justice. At the beginning of the film, he's obviously proud of his heritage as a law man, but, by the end, he feels "overmatched." I think the dream points us in that direction as well, but not hopelessly so-- the vision of his father, going on before him, seems to me like it suggests Something Better-- perhaps even, for lack of a less cliched term, a Better Place?-- where justice will be dealt.

Or is that a stretch?