It would be oblivious to deny that Watkins in part shares her visions of sweltering badlands with writers like Joan Didion or Denis Johnson.
It ably captures the provocative open forums that Dawkins and Krauss conduct, but its uneven nature occasionally dulls the effect of these intellectually stimulating conversations.
The film doesn’t temper enough of Cormac McCarthy’s excesses, but Ridley Scott and his ensemble find enough meat in the scenario to make for diverting, bloody pleasure.
The older 3:10 to Yuma harkens back to a time when westerns were westerns, with their own assumed moral systems and thematic boilerplate.
Milo Burke’s America isn’t in the throes of environmental or theocratic chaos, just a long, slow slide into mediocrity.
If the film starts off as a test of Halsey’s will to live, it certainly doesn’t end up that way.
The Coens’ narrations often hint at, but rarely confirm, the existence of deliberate, supernatural forces.