If you've spent the day reflecting on how scary killers are (like I have), No Country for Old Men might not be the best film to see that night.
Regardless, it was PHENOMENAL. And Javier Bardem? Veeeery convincing as a psychopath. Everything about him: the cattle gun, the red-rimmed eyes, the claggy face, the voice that sounded as if he'd just scraped it off the bottom of his cowboy boot, the hair.
The goddamn hair.
I spent two hours with a tingling spine, willing myself to watch scenes that were KILLING ME, because I didn't want to miss how the Coen brothers would direct them. More than story, it was mood and detail.
Surely it helped to exit the cinema to surroundings as different from West Texas as could be: dark, damp, narrow London streets full of black cabs and club music and drunk people getting pushed out of pub doors.
Which doesn't mean I didn't still square my shoulders and walk to the tube quicker than usual.
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Oh, and that hair has aspirations of becoming the new thing, like the ironic comb-over.
God, that movie scared the crap out of me.
remember when we were both reading American Psycho in New York and Brett Easton Ellis made us fear for our lives every time we left home?
okay this is unrelated but remember then, after we got over our fear of well-dressed psychos, going to a capoeira class and how humiliating that was?
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