John Cale called; he wants his haircut back. We watched No Country for Old Men last night, having downloaded it a few weeks ago but not having bothered to watch it yet, mainly out of aversion to its reputed high violence content. But the idea of it being an “important film” and “worthy of your consideration” won out, and we watched it.
Every time I watch a movie nowadays, I feel as though it should be the last time. I wouldn’t miss these damn things. Anyway. It feels churlish to pick on the thing; it’s lovely to look at, visually beautiful, cleverly assembled, and so on and so on. In other words, it’s an absolutely technical accomplishment, and gets full marks for ticking every box and doing everything correctly. But so fucking what?
And the story… stop the press: America is a violent place. You don’t say. This is a message we don’t hear often enough, is it? And of course the best way to perform an autopsy on the sick violent American soul is to advance the art of realistic depiction of violence on film. Yes, the chokings, shootings, beatings, the looks on terror on the faces of people about to be murdered, they’re all there. Oooh, chilling stuff. And so what does it all accomplish? It manages to disapprove of violence while providing it in glorious detail.
This is disingenuousness raised to the level of high art. Only without the art.
I can’t help wondering how Joel and Ethan could drag themselves through the months of production, pre- and post- and the in-between, carrying this dead dog on their shoulders like a battle standard. Adults. Grown men. Talking to us all as though they’re idiots, as though we’re idiots. And anyway, why not? After all, there was an Academy Award or three at the end of this dumbheaded tunnel. Oh Jesus, culture is done. Stick it with a fork.
