True Grit (2010)

Much has been made of The Coen's tinkering with the ending to their newest film True Grit – an adaptation of a novel by Charles Portis which was turned to a hugely popular film adaption by Henry Hathaway (which in turn gave screen icon John Wayne is only Oscar…but you know all of this already) – and how that tinkering makes their western – a wholly un-ironic (or, rather, un-existential) affair that is, surprisingly for the brothers, their most straight-forward narrative…ever – not so much an honest remake, but, what's that word we like to use now? Ah, it's a "reimagining." Well, truth be told I have neither read the source material, nor have I seen the original John Wayne film; therefore, I could only approach this recent telling of the story as it appeared to me: a Coen Brothers movie. It seems to me, from conversations with those who have seen the original film and read the novel, that True Grit v. 2010 is as strict an adaptation of source material as the brothers' attempt to "adapt" Cormac McCarthy a few years ago (which is to say that the "strictness" of an adaptation is really irrelevant to the quality of a film). That is they have stayed true enough to the source material all the while sprinkling in wonderful bits of Coenisms. Therefore, I felt I didn't miss anything from the experience by not knowing anything about the source material or the famous film released some 40 years ago. True Grit is not, as so many have been asserting, a "minor" Coen Brothers movie. I resent that sentiment not because True Grit deserves to be called anything better (it certainly isn't a "masterpiece"), but because the Coen's – two of our best and most challenging filmmakers today – don't have a "minor" film in them (whether or not The Ladykillers or Intolerable Cruelty count as true Coen Brothers movies is up for debate).



True Grit – at its core – is a bildungsroman. Mattie Ross' (the wonderful Hailee Steinfeld) coming of age is what grabs our attention and keeps us interested throughout (not to mention the young actresses sure-handed way of handling the Coen vernacular). Sure, the introduction of Rooster Cogburn (Jeff Bridges) and LaBoeuf (Matt Damon) are quirky and memorable, but the film's heart lies with Matty and how she remembers her journey with these two oddball characters – characters that, as odd as they may be, turn into father figures for the recently fatherless Mattie. The film's plot is well known: Mattie seeks revenge for the murder of her father. Her search leads her to the recruitment of a gruff, world-weary U.S. Marshall named Rooster Cogburn. Along the journey, Mattie is joined (and re-joined) by Texas Ranger LeBoeuf who believes that his title of Texas Ranger is reason enough to believe that he is the best man for the job. That job is to capture one Tom Chaney (Josh Brolin) – the man responsible for murdering Mattie's father (which is told to us via voice over by an adult Mattie; it is shown in a beautiful opening shot that represents everything that is wonderful about the people, specifically Carter Burwell and Roger Deakins, the Coen's surround themselves with while making a movie) – who is hanging around with The Ned Pepper (Barry Pepper) Gang – a gang that Cogburn has a vested interest in. And there it is; that's your story. Simple and to the point, True Grit feels more like "early" Coen Brothers than "minor" Coen Brothers.

The film definitely exists in the second tier of Coen films sitting alongside such greats O Brother Where Art Thou, Barton Fink, The Big Lebowski, The Man Who Wasn't There, and The Hudsucker Proxy. Sure it's not as masterful as Fargo, No Country for Old Men, Miller's Crossing, or A Serious Man, but then again no one should expect it to be that (and how many of us would be willing to call any of the aforementioned "minor" films minor?). It is what it is: an expertly crafted (which is par for the course for the Coen Brothers) western that is the most genuine and un-ironic thing the brothers have produced. And that's what makes it so refreshing. It reminded me of why I stood in line for hours when I was younger to see a film like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade; in other words, True Grit is so brilliantly entertaining and such a great time at the movies that it reminded me of why I still consider going to the theater to see a movie. The crowd I saw True Grit with was all-in despite the film essentially being a western in the vein of Raising Arizona: heavy on eccentric characters spouting even more eccentric and, for lack of a better term, Coen-esque dialogue; they were hanging on every word and laughing at every idiosyncratic turn of the film's narrative. It's rare for an audience in my city to be so enraptured by a film billed as a revenge film that was instead light on action and heavy on character and plot development. The Coen's have made a fine film in the tradition of the great classic westerns (it reminded me of the Clint Eastwood-helmed westerns, most notably The Outlaw Josey
Wales) in how the story leisurely unfolds before its audience without a care for pacing (and that's a good thing).

But then a funny thing happens: the film switches tones in a final moment that is everything we come to expect aesthetically from the Coen Brothers. Rooster, in full-fledged father mode, carries a snake-bitten Mattie across the Wild West by starlight. It's a moment that shows off the well-known skills of DP Roger Deakins (which shows he can shoot the classic western as well as the artier western – as he did a few years back with The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford) and the lesser-known skills of musician Carter Burwell. It's a moment that is elegiac (as all westerns tend to be nowadays) and beautiful in scope; Deakins takes advantages of the wide-open vistas and paints as beautiful a picture as we come to expect from adept cinematographers who tackle the western. About Burwell: he is the star of the film as his music recalls the obvious allusions to Charles Laughton's Night of the Hunter, but it also reminded me of how his minimalist approach is able to evoke genuine emotion despite working with filmmakers we usually don't call "emotional" filmmakers (he also wrote the brilliant score for Spike Jonze's Being John Malkovich – which again makes the film even better by making the film more emotional than you would think considering the "quirkiness" of the film's story), for existentialism doesn't traditionally lend itself to overt emotional evocations. The music stayed with me long after the images of the film.

As I've already mentioned, True Grit is something of an anomaly: it is simultaneously a rip-roaring great time at the theater and a genuine genre film made by two filmmakers who are not known for their straight-forward approach to genre films. I say anomaly because the experience I had seeing True Grit in the theater was vastly different than the experience I had seeing No Country for Old Men in the theater. And that's where the interesting dilemma begins for me: in the pantheon of Coen films True Grit is definitely second tier, but when I compare it to other films of this year it stands out in the way all Coen films stand out. No one can make (aesthetic choices) a movie and tell a story (quirky narrative and a knack for quotability) like the Coens. True Grit reminded me a lot of Raising Arizona in dialogue (especially the way Damon utters the line: "I thought you were going to say that the sun was in your eye…that is to say you're eye.") and aesthetic (the final "race against time" scene reminded me of the energy of the great chase scene that begins in a super market and goes through people's houses) .  But I think the film is most akin to Coen's brilliant 1987 comedy in the way the story arc plays out. I had the same reaction emotionally to True Grit that I do whenever I watch Raising Arizona. Both are films that take you on a journey that contains action and laughs, but both films end on a quiet note of contemplation about how we spend the time we are afforded in life.

I'm sure subsequent viewings will make me admire True Grit even more, but the feeling I had after I left the theater was that – despite my great admiration for the film – I'll have an easier time of forgetting what it is I saw than I did after I watched No Country for Old Men and A Serious Man (and Burn After Reading, for that matter). But so what? The brothers Coen are allowed a pass considering the streak they've been on, and even though I dislike the assertion that True Grit is a "minor" film, it certainly has the feeling of a film I will revere now yet have trouble remembering three years from now. If True Grit tells us anything, it is that the Coen brothers just may be creatively tapped-out. I hope True Grit offers them the respite they deserve. The scary thing, though, is that True Grit comes off as a hell of a film, a place holder, to release during one's "off" period, and the ending of the film (an elegiac remembrance on the loss of time) is something that rings so Coen – not to mention it's an ending like their previous two films that makes you contemplate for days and rethink the entire film – that it makes me wonder what they have in their creative hopper. Whatever is next for them, True Grit stands as a great place holder that shouldn't be punished just because of the lofty expectations that come with the name "Coen" being attached to a film. It's a great entertainment.

A Birth in Grief and Ashes: Thoughts on The Road

"All of this like some ancient anointing. So be it. Evoke the forms. Where you've nothing else construct ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them." (74)

"He walked out into the gray light and stood and saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the interstate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like gorundfoxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it." (130)

"He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the word and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not." (131)

"A dead swamp. Dead trees standing out of the gray and relic hagmoss. The silky spills of ash against the curbing. He stood leaning on the concrete rail. Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular." (274)

[All quotes come from the Vintage International trade paperback edition of the novel.]


Cormac McCarthy's The Road is one of the great books of the past decade. It's the perfect example of a master author simultaneously appeasing the masses while supplying a richer, more complex subtext (the novel is not just about hope and survival as Oprah would have you believe). Because of the quality of writing here, and the mass appeal and success of the novel, it's no surprise that the novel was adapted into a film destined to be released on the festival circuit before raking in numerous Oscar nominations. However, when John Hillcoat (whose The Proposition also evoked McCarthy, reminding me of Blood Meridian) finished filming The Road I don't think he imagined the film's release being held back twice; ultimately, leading to the film's forgettable release in late 2009/early 2010 after the glut of Oscar hopefuls had already hit theaters. The film just kind of petered out, and its lukewarm reception caused it quickly to fade from people's memory as anything worthy of much thought, let alone deconstruction. The general consensus was that Viggo Mortensen gave (another) great performance, but the film's tone was so dour, and its aesthetic too dilapidated and gray, that the film was a slog to get through. However, what I think we have here is an adaptation that not only gets the aesthetic right, but adds some powerful and poignant context to McCarthy's intentionally skeletal character backgrounds. It all coalesces into a rare film experience: here's a film that is faithful to the novel (sometimes a tad too faithful) while showcasing the talents and vision of the filmmakers and actors. It may be the closest thing we'll ever get to a legitimate visual representation of the tone and themes found throughout McCarthy's oeuvre.

One of the hardest things to do when reviewing a film based on a novel you've read (especially one you adore so much) is the ability to distance yourself from the source material and criticize what's on screen. I had trouble doing this with 2007's Atonement, a film based on the novel by Ian McEwan – one of my favorite authors – about WWII, love, lies, and how all of those things affect the way we tell our life story. I didn't much care for director Joe Wright's vision of McEwan's source material, so I was left feeling a little sour after watching that film. His vision failed to excite me, it failed to make me think that the film was great at being its own interpretation of the novel – something that could stand on its own – while still making me think of all the things I loved about the novel; rather, it just made me wish I had re-read the novel than sat through the film version. Not so with John Hillcoat and his version of The Road, which is exactly how I envisioned it looking while I read through McCarthy's sparse and brusque paragraphs and lines of dialogue. I was half expecting this, though, because I loved Hillcoat's The Proposition so much, and was expecting a good looking film; however, what I wasn't expecting was to be so emotionally involved. The film's imagery beats you down to a point where you almost can't take it anymore, but Hillcoat understands this and cuts back and forth between life before nuclear holocaust – showing us images of The Man (Mortensen) and the Wife (Charlize Theron) – and after as The Man and The Boy (Kody Smit-McPhee) struggle to survive so that they can continue their somewhat meaningless journey to "carry the fire".

This added context to the characters makes the dark and gray mood of the film more bearable because Hillcoat isn't hitting us over the head with the bleak imagery (even though there's a lot of it), and what I was so surprised at was how much emotion I felt during the film as I was preparing for something that would look good, but be nothing more than fluff in the narrative department offering up Oprah-like philosophies on God, hope, and the good of mankind. Thankfully Hillcoat stays away from that and with intense focus stays the course in preserving the themes and mood of McCarthy's novel. The flashbacks are powerful and poignant and all the credit goes to Mortensen (doing arguably his best acting he's ever done, Eastern Promises being the argument) and Theron who give an added depth to the (purposefully) minimally sketched out characters of McCarthy's novel. Javier Aguirresarobe's cinematography is haunting, dark, and surprisingly beautiful to look at. Yes, there's a lot of desolation here to look at for nearly two hours, but I found myself being awed by the on-location cinematography and the Aguirresarobe was able to evoke such beauty out of such gray and minimalistic elements that stay true to the novel's tone. Once again Hillcoat has collaborated with musician Nick Cave to create a beautiful and haunting score that often accompanies Moretensen's somber narration. It's almost as if this were an existentially nihilistic version of Koyaanisqatsi – a tone poem with beautiful music juxtaposed with haunting imagery (that can also be seen as beautiful) of an out of balance life.

As previously mentioned the acting here is superb, headed by Mortensen's brilliant performance as he conveys a bevy of emotions without being given much to do (again, purposefully), and the acting he does in those flashback scenes are some of the best work of the man's career. There's real power there. The rest of the cast is serviceable in supporting the weight of Mortensen's role. Smit-McPhee is good at balancing The Boy's character, and seems at home acting with heavyweights like Mortensen and Robert Duvall (Ely) as to not make him a clichéd version of an annoying child actor given too large a role that seem lost amongst the professionals. The aforementioned Duvall gets all the right notes as weird old man named Ely who seems to embody the typical mythological characters found in journey films like this. And finally there's Theron who in very small role hits all of the notes right in showing the icy exterior of a woman who has seen nuclear holocaust and its effects on society, and has decided it's easier to give up than keep fighting. The final moments between The Wife and The Man are so well acted and so powerful that it's a shame the film didn't get a proper release to showcase the good work done here by Theron and Mortensen.

Hillcoat is wise to keep the film sparse on dialogue and let the visuals do the talking, and much in the same way McCarthy does, Hillcoat wisely keeps the dialogue as ambiguous as a major American release will allow by making the film accessible to the masses, but rich for those who wish to explicate deeper. There's still the obvious reference to "carrying the fire" – a major theme of the book, but not as hopeful as some interpret it as – and Hillcoat, again, wisely keeps the talk of this metaphorical fire to a minimum, ultimately letting ambiguity reign. While reading The Road I often thought to myself – with McCarthy's countless two-word sentences describing the moment ("The silence.") – that this would have been a perfect film for Ingmar Bergman to make were he still alive. Well, I suppose Bergman already has made this film with its themes of divine arbitrariness and ambiguity, a seemingly inactive God in moments where The Man searches for Him, the coldness of that lack of divine intervention as we hear the winds wail and see the bleak destruction laid out in abandoned farm houses or gray, charcoal like beaches. The themes McCarthy, and Hillcoat with the film adaptation, evoke are very much akin to what Bergman constantly explored in films like The Silence, The Virgin Spring, and Winter Light. Some, like Oprah, have chosen to see the "fire" as a metaphor for hope, that amidst all of the post-apocalyptic destruction there still is something worth searching and surviving for (indeed this is what the first quote I posted at the onset is hinting at with its "ancient anointing"); however, I think that McCarthy is saying that hope only exists for the boy because that's how he chooses to view the purpose of their journey on the road. Look deeper at the novel, and merely glance at the visuals of the film, and you'll see a story where God does not exist, where hopelessness hovers heavy just as much as the gray skies do, because any act of "carrying the fire" becomes arbitrary as we have turned ourselves into a society that, should a nuclear holocaust ever occur, we would be lost, we would have no way of knowing how to re-construct a civilization because of our reliance and willingness to be handcuffed and slaves to modern things that dull our natural instincts. This is the darker, postmodern side of McCarthy, and I think this reading is just as appropriate as the hopeful one, and Hillcoat masterfully captures this mood with the film's aesthetic.

Whew. That's heavy. And that's where a lot of the film's detractors state their case that the film is a chore to get through because what McCarthy can do with prose in softening the blow of such a downtrodden premise with an even more dour and ambiguous dénouement is something that is a lot harder to do in a theater for two hours surrounded by the onslaught of post-apocalyptic imagery, You can always put a novel down, and I understand the feelings of some reviewers who felt trapped watching the film – and probably felt the need to plant a tree or eat cotton candy after it just to get some semblance of joy back in their life – but you can't deny the mastery and the accomplishment that Hillcoat and his crew exhibit here in showing us McCarthy's vision. It's pretty amazing, actually.

At the beginning of this "review" I posted some of my favorite passages from the novel: these are the passages that make me think McCarthy is one of the five greatest American authors to ever write professionally (and to think that these come from a novel that I think is his third or fourth best). The mythological tone he invokes, the powerful and poignant themes one can elicit from his work, the major movements ranging from existentialism to nihilism to postmodernism one can find while explicating his work, are all found within the frames of Hillcoat's film (images below). Unlike the film version of Atonement, The Road didn't just make me want to go back and read the book, it made me envision it in a new way, it made me appreciate this particular auteur's vision of what McCarthy wrote, and it evoked inside of me all of the emotion I felt while reading McCarthy's novel. That's how you do a good adaptation, and the film version of The Road – despite its intensely dour and gray aesthetic – is one of the very best adaptations of a major novel I've seen.

The best way to describe the film may be through its visuals. I'll let them speak for themselves:

Quick Thoughts on John Hillcoat's The Proposition

It's been a while since I've posted anything on here...so I offer up these random thoughts I had while watching The Proposition today on HD OnDemand.  It appears that the film will be on through the end of the month and into May. Check it out if you haven't seen it yet...now back to more boring Education classes...

John Hillcoat’s down under western The Proposition shares a lot in common with the novels of Cormac McCarthy. Both artists are interested in the stark, uncompromising – almost primitive – way violence affects their characters (and their viewers/readers); both artists are interested in placing this violence in the realm of the western; and both of these artists succeed at taking a genre that is wholly American – traditionally easily digestible and altogether satisfying because of the tidiness the genre lends itself to – and turning it into something more existential and ambiguous. It’s no wonder Hillcoat went on to make McCarthy’s The Road in 2009, because watching The Proposition one cannot help but think of not just the brusque violence found in McCarthy’s Blood Meridian or The Crossing, but the mood of McCarthy is evident here, too. The Proposition is a film that deserves mention next to McCarthy’s novels as that kind of film that can evoke what the great American author so often accomplishes (especially with “The Border Trilogy”): a kind of assaying of violence in the west as seen through a mythological lens.

The Proposition’s violence is juxtaposed with the beautiful and vast Australian backdrop (almost too big for cinematographer Benoit Delhomme’s camera) and the punk-country western music by Nick Cave (who also wrote the screenplay) fits in perfectly with the kind of anarchistic and unpredictable nature of the violence and the kind of spirit the film emits. The cast is superb here as Guy Pierce and Danny Houston have never been better, and the always reliable vest Emily Watson and Ray Winstone really make the final moments of horror palpable. The film is beautiful to look at (except for when that beauty is interrupted, and sometime splattered, with the film’s austere violence); the music, especially that haunting opening song, is appropriate in evoking the appropriate mood of this alien western; the performances are all top notch; and most amazing is Hillcoat’s ability to take the western genre, make it violent and brutal, and turn it into an experience that is akin to reading a McCarthy novel. That is about the highest praise I think one can bestow on this film.

Mosey on Over to Decisions at Sundown...

Yup...that's the western blog I've mentioned in the past. It hasn't been updated by me in a long while, but thankfully the incredibly smart people I share blog duties with over there have picked up the slack. The most recent entry being Ed Howard -- of the deeply rich and resplendent movie blog Only the Cinema -- and his take on the classic Hawkes helmed El Dorado. Check it out. Also, check out Jon Lanthier's (the creator of Decisions at Sundown) essay on one of my very favorite films of the year, The Limits of Control. Ed's take on this fine Jarmusch film can be found at his site, here. I'll be chiming in with some western reviews soon enough...but first I need to take care of my daunting must-see list of 2009 films. Until then acquaint yourself with these fine pieces.

The Long Riders (Walter Hill)

How appropriate that fresh off a viewing of Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds I sat down to watch Walter Hill’s The Long Riders. Two totally different movies made by two totally different filmmakers actually have one thing in common: they take their liberties with history. However, Tarantino does it in a way that fleshes out fictional characters while providing factual situations as a backdrop – filling in the peripheries of his altered take on WWII with historical figures. Hill just says “damn the torpedoes” and chucks the whole James-Younger gang mythology into the trash. Tarantino’s film compounds on history – using it as a spring board (and tweaking it along the way) for a more interesting film; Hill’s film demystifies the legend of the James-Younger gang by simply making a film of nothing by bullet points, rushing along through every scene until the viewer is left wondering “that’s it?” when the credits role. The only interesting thing about The Long Riders is how badly it fails.

Read the full post with comments at Decisions at Sundown

Blog Pimpin': Decisions at Sundown (Created by Joseph 'Jon' Lanthier)

There's a new blog I'd like to promote, and not just because I'll be contributing to it every now and then. Two of the best bloggers in the 'sphere, Ed Howard of Only the Cinema and Joseph 'Jon' Lanthier of The Powerstrip, are also writing (no doubt better pieces than I could hope to produce) for the blog. What kind of blog you ask? Well, Jon created a blog called Decisions at Sundown (great Budd Boetticher/Randolph Scott movie by the way), a blog dedicated entirely to the Western. I realize that I haven't spent a lot of time talking about this particular genre here on the blog, but the Western is actually my second favorite genre behind Italian horror...so contributing to a blog about Westerns seems like a natural fit -- plus it will force me to become more adamant about watching Westerns, as I haven't made the effort of adding them to my rotation of DVD viewing in quite some time.

So anywho...mosey on over to Decisions at Sundown. Jon already has up a handful of great reviews on some of Anthony Mann's best work. Check it out.

Counting Down the Zeroes 2003: Open Range

You know the drill. Ibetolis of Film for the Soul is onto 2003, and I submitted this piece for his continuous look at the films of the noughties.

Kevin Costner's western is the best modern entry into the genre since Unforgiven; I actually think it’s better than Unforgiven. It’s a call back to the kind of western that Raoul Walsh would have made; a film that is conventional in plot, but unconventional in its execution of the plots action. The acting is superb, especially by the veteran Robert Duvall who owns this movie from beginning to end. What's even more interesting about Open Range is the detail that Costner puts into the film. Every nuance seems true, every seemingly simple artistic touch hits the right note, and there’s something warm and comforting about the pacing of the film and the antiquity in its aesthetic.

Costner is most interested in the theme of displacement and men in power positions telling those “beneath” them what to do with their live. There’s a great speech by Boss (Duvall) at the beginning of the film that sets the plot in motion. He and Charley (Costner) are free grazers who are looking at some men who roughed up their buddies and scared their herd away. They’re looking out at the great expanse when Boos says: “It’s a beautiful country. A man can get lost out here. Man can forget that people and things aren’t as simple as all of this.” It’s a great moment that foreshadows their decision to get into a war with the evil Baxter (Michael Gambon in a great villainous performance), the owner of a nearby that doesn’t take kindly to free grazers.

In another great speech by Boss he informs the townsfolk that he and Charley have no intention of hurting them, and as Boss stares right at the towns corrupt Marshal, he gives another great speech: “Losing cattle is one thing, but a man telling another man where to go in this country…well that just aint right.” And so begins Boss and Charley’s time in the town. They meet some friendly people: a feed store owner (played by the late great Michael Jeter, in a great supporting role), a nice woman that Charley has a fondness for named Sue (Annette Bening in a throw away role, but she’s good when she’s on screen), Sue’s brother Doc Barlow (Dean McDermott), and the corrupt Marshal played by James Russo. But all of these characters take a back seat to the relationship between Boss and Charley.

What makes this film better than your average Western is the amount of time and attention that is paid to the relationship between Boss and Charley. Boss is obviously a father figure to Charley, and it’s interesting to watch the way he handles him, almost reining him in at times, during certain situations. Charley is an ex-hired gun, a man who saw a lot of bad things and did even worse things during the Civil War. There’s a great moment when Charley tell Boss not to stand behind him, which leads to a nice quiet moment at night as the two look up at the stars and Boss just listens as Charley calmly tells him about his history as a professional killer.

The final shootout is an amazingly constructed and masterful piece of mise-en-scene. However, before the shootout there’s a great moment with Boss and Charley as they load their guns and prepare for the battle that’s about to occur. Now watch as Boss cedes authority to Charley as he begins to lay out for them what will most likely occur. Charley can pretty much see how things are going to go, where people will be, and how people will react; and Boss is almost scared of this version of Charley. The shootout that follows begins abruptly with a loud bang, getting the message across that these shootouts from the old west weren’t always drawn out exercises. What follows is moment after moment of meticulous execution of the town’s logistics as the camera sweeps in and out of corridors and buildings. The camera looks through all kinds of perspectives: high angle, low angle, dutch angles, through windows, down low shots obstructed by onlookers (as if we ourselves have been dropped into the action). It’s an amazing piece of filmmaking, and Costner’s control and restraint of the moment, his ability to change perspectives and show a lot of the action through long shots, proves what a great director he can be (forget for a moment The Postman and Waterworld).

The big shootout aside this is just a fabulous western that raises some interesting themes of displacement, and how “lesser” civilians are being discriminated against by those “higher authorities”. It’s also an interesting look at the ugliness of gun violence. Like Clint Eastwood’s masterful Unforgiven, Costner’s film also is interested in how loud, brusque, and altogether unpleasant gun violence is – especially in the old west. Costner shows the town as people who are not just bystanders watching the violence unfold, but as people who retreat to the hills to get away from what they know will tear their town up. There's a great scene where Charley and Boss are riding into town as most of the town is retreating up the hill to the church and Charley calmly states "they know a fights commin'".

I have read interviews where he talks about how Costner was not just interested in the loudness and abruptness of the violence caused by guns, but also how the towns where these shootouts occurred had to deal with this fact and try to live a normal life. He mentions in the same interview that he saw pictures where there were bodies everywhere; obviously someone had to remove those bodies, and he was interested in not making a John Wayne type western where the bodies just seemed to disappear, and then the town rejoices with piano and whiskey. Costner was more interested in showing how a town has to deal with the aftermath of a shootout, and what kind of closure does it really bring anyway?

Open Range is a great reminder just how powerful and affective the western can be while simultaneously being a great entertainment. There is great scene after great scene of classic western tropes, but above everything is Robert Duvall's performance as Boss. The way he tries to rehabilitate Charley into a functioning member of society is one of the most interesting things about the movie, and the conversations they have with each other and with Sue are sometimes more interesting than the action scenes. Watch Duvall deliver that speech in the tavern the first night they go into the town, or the concern he has for a dog floating down the street due to a flash flood, or the disdain in his voice when he tells Sue that Baxter’s men killed his dog. He is just so fun to watch in this role, and it's a shame he was never properly recognized for it. Yes, it's true the ending may go on a tad too long, but I didn't mind the stay too much because to say it plainly (which seems apt for this film): Open Range is a great, great movie...easily one of the best of 2003.

Extra Stills (I went a little crazy capturing images):