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DIRECTED BY: Joel Coen, Ethan Coen
FEATURING: Tim Blake Nelson, James Franco, Liam Neeson, Harry Melling, Tom Waits, Zoe Kazan, Tyne Daly, Brendan Gleeson, Saul Rubinek
PLOT: Six tales of the Old West, including a singing cowboy, an unlucky bank robber, an impresario and his hobbled talent, a tenacious gold prospector, a prospective bride, and a stagecoach full of tired travelers.
COMMENTS: The Coen Brothers have made a remarkable cinematic career out of a body of work that careens from grim realism to wild stylization, often making unexpected stops along that spectrum. Sometimes, their push in one direction has alienated fans of the other; if you like the harsh satire of Fargo, you probably won’t enjoy the heightened mannerisms of The Hudsucker Proxy, and the metaphysical mysteries of A Serious Man might feel impenetrable to lovers of the stoner wisdom of The Big Lebowski. When they turned their attention to Westerns, it seemed like the demands of the genre pushed them toward a more sober, realistic approach, as typified by the neo-noir charnel house of No Country for Old Men and the gritty pastoral (not to mention corrective) remake of True Grit. For the final film (to date) of their storied collaboration, Joel and Ethan returned to the Old West, but found a way to hit nearly every possible take on the genre along the way.
At first glance, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs appears to have all the elements to please fans of traditional Westerns: a showdown in an empty street, a wagon train weaving across the plains, a lone man doing battle with an entire tribe of Indian savages, panning for gold, stagecoaches, poker games, and a hangman’s noose. Far from playing to the crowd, however, these six vignettes are haunted by death and regret. There’s at least one fatality in each story, and the survivors come to a reckoning with the actions that have kept them alive. To the extent that any of these needed to be Westerns in the first place, it’s to highlight the harshness and swift cruelty of this place and time. There is a moral code, it’s unforgiving, and it is strictly enforced.
The opening chapter, which gives the film its name, is by far the most stylized of the set. Nelson does not merely play a cowboy but an archetype, wearing a suit of brilliant white, strumming a guitar and speaking directly to us of his philosophy. It’s cloyingly familiar, until he wields his pistol and reveals himself to be a whirlwind of brutality. What ensues is essentially one joke, but it’s a good one told very well: the fella in the white hat is extremely violent, morally repugnant, and dies quickly and without a trace of heroism. It’s a nose thumbed at Gene Autry and Tom Mix and every Hollywood fantasy of the West. In that regard, it perfectly sets the table for what is to come.
The next two stories demonstrate a dark humor that suggests sometimes you can’t win for losing. James Franco’s thief immediately finds himself in over his head in what should be a simple bank heist and consistently jumps from the frying pan to the fire. (He does get a magnificent gut-punch of a final line, though, suggesting hope springs eternal, even when people do not.) In the same vein, it’s blackly comedic when Harry Melling excels at oration, but falls short in drawing audiences or caring for himself. It’s also a handy allegory for the battle between art and commerce, as moneyman Liam Neeson jettisons the high-maintenance performer with cruel pragmatism in favor of a cheaper, more populist act.
The tone becomes increasingly serious with the succeeding stories, as the Coens show their willingness to lure you in with sugar, then club you over the head. Tom Waits’ prospector plays strictly by the rules, negotiating with the earth for the gold it holds and even making deals with birds for their eggs. But when someone attempts to horn in on his claim, he invokes the harsh punishment of frontier justice. Similarly, Zoe Kazan is a sweet introvert who only hopes that westward migration can bring her some small amount of happiness, but learns too late that a certain tolerance for fear and danger is essential for survival. By the time we reach the final segment, “The Mortal Remains,” it’s all over but the talking. In fact, this is the chattiest entry, even more so than the loquacious Buster Scruggs. That’s because they may be riding to Fort Morgan, but they’re really trying to outrace death—which we have learned always catches up to you in the end.
Scruggs looks absolutely spectacular. The Colorado, New Mexico, and Nebraska locations are as beautiful as the finest photography to be found in National Geographic or on pre-installed computer wallpaper. (The gorgeous setting of “All Gold Canyon,” radiating nature’s beauty even after the Prospector has dotted the landscape with holes in his search for ore, is by far the most sumptuous.) All the sets, costumes, and props reflect, if not historical reality, then at least the evolutionary peak of Hollywood’s take on Western history. And Carter Burwell’s score has a lushness and pathos on par with anything to emanate from the baton of Fritz Reiner or Alfred Newman. Had the film not landed with Netflix, it might have had a longer run in theaters, giving audiences a chance to appreciate its epic vistas and painterly compositions in a more suitable format.
Like many a Coen Brothers joint, the vibe isn’t so much weird as offbeat. It just doesn’t move the way you expect. If anything, it feels like the adaptation of a book of old Western tales that it purports to be. (In fact, only two of the stories have their origins in previously published work.) It jumps around, shifting location, tone, and mood, but unified by appreciation for a place and time where beauty and ugliness sat side-by-side. That, and the mindset of two brothers who shared, at least one last time, a vision of the world as wondrously random.
WHAT THE CRITICS SAY:
(This movie was nominated for review by Mike B. Suggest a weird movie of your own here.)