BiblioAddict

Anthony Lane reviews No Country for Old Men in next week’s issue of The New Yorker:

…As a thriller, “No Country for Old Men” is tight, pointed, and immune to the temptations of speed. I found myself in the same predicament with the film as with the book—approaching both in a state of rare excitement, yet willing myself, all too soon, to be more engaged than I actually was. If I want wry lawmen and smart, calculating fugitives, I’ll get them from Elmore Leonard; and, if I want Leonard, I’ll take him neat, rather than slow-filtered, drop by drop, through a layer of Faulkner, then laced with the Book of Jeremiah. That is how the novel sounded to me, at any rate, and McCarthy’s bent for the apocalyptic—most naked in “The Road” (2006), a greater work by far—suffers a curious transformation in the hands of the Coens. It shrinks into a fatalistic fetishism: screws turned by knives, a cold bottle of milk still sweating from the fridge, dust tracks at the bottom of a ventilation shaft, and countless slowly spreading pools of blood.

Hmm…mayhap I should read some Elmore Leonard? I’ve never been one for westerns, but maybe I should start. Then I’d know if Lane is making an unfair comparison or not. His review of No Country for Old Men isn’t exactly glowing, but then Lane rarely gives a “this-was-excellent-hands-down review”.

That’s not why I love Lane’s movie reviews, though. I love them (so much so that I bought and immensely enjoyed NOBODY’S PERFECT a few years back) because the man manages to get a chuckle out of me every time:

There is no denying that Javier Bardem cuts a singular figure. For one thing, he currently has the biggest, noblest, and most sculpted head of anyone in movies (previous titleholders include John Huston), and I can never quite suppress the thought, watching him onscreen, that he must have flown straight to the set from Easter Island.

Oh, Anthony. You bad, bad man.