Sigur Ros “Heima”
Probably the most beautiful, sleep inducing commercial for visiting Iceland that its tourism department could have ever created. Even aided with the EXTREME caffeinated power of Mountain Dew, within the first five minutes I was out cold. The adrenaline I had after realizing that I might have been snoring during my short nap kept me awake for the rest of the film. In a matter of no time I was bouncing along the countryside with Jón, Georg, Kjartan, and good ol’ Orri as they trekked across their native land playing post-rock melodies for free in fifteen unique locations, such as a ghost fishing town, an art shrine, an environmental protest, and a small coffee shop. One of the more odd aspects of the film was how Icelanders of all ages, from toddlers to grandmothers, filled fields and community halls to see what was probably the most exciting thing to come ‘round in years…or ever. I don’t know about your grandma, but mine’s not getting out of her chair to see a bunch of skinny white guys play ambient alien music while singing in some made up language, and I’m sure as hell not bringing my imaginary baby into an abandoned herring oil tank to listen to a rock and roll band. His ears are so tiny and fragile! But I digress.
The cinematography is amazing and probably convinced every hep cat surrounding me in the theater that the shores of Iceland are a viable spring break destination. Grab a wool sweater and you’ll fit right in with every single person in the country. The music is also beautifully performed, but seemed as though re-recorded after the fact. I do feel that the film is a tad too boring to be seen in a theater, with the band playing their more quiet pieces throughout the greater chunk of the movie. The only time they really go crazy is during the final concert performance in Reykjavik, but by that time I was more concerned with my EXTREME Mountain Dew filled bladder than the EXTREME rocking onscreen.
No Country for Old Men
I walked into the movie theater last week asking myself, “Hm, I sure do wonder if there’s country for old men.” By the time I walked out I had my answer. No. There is no country for old men.
That’s it. The whole movie in a nutshell. Sorry I didn’t preface with a spoiler alert.
The tightly crafted script, written and directed by the Coen Brothers, adapted from the Cormac McCarthy novel of the same name, centers around the actions of three characters: a distressed sheriff (Tommy Lee Jones), a Texas everyman (a mustachioed Josh Brolin) and an oddly coiffed hit man (Javier Bardem) and how their lives intersect around a satchel full of drug money found by Brolin’s Llewelyn Moss. Questions of fate, humanity and morality hang over each characters’ shoulder as the plot twists and turns along the Texan/Mexican border. Bardem is absolutely excellent as Anton Chigurh, a hit man armed with a cattle gun, silenced shotgun, and destiny-filled quarter. The quiet terror he instills is totally animalistic, and in some instances, akin to seeing Jaws’ fin pop out of the water behind an obliviously doomed swimmer. The resulting violence is masterful achieved by the Brothers Coen. A growing pool of blood never seemed more disturbing…or wickedly hilarious.
The movie, though, spends a lot of time distracting the audience from its main idea. I don’t dare reveal any more details. No Country for Old Men well deserves an after-film discussion, where viewers can dissect and reassemble every piece to fully understand what they just saw.
Take my word or don’t. It’s your call, friendo.
