It's called Drainage!

2007 was, as they say, a bloody years in movies. Indeed, the three best of the year were drenched in blood, squirting and oozing and rotting. One even had the word “blood” in the title; another had it drenched across the billing on the promotional prints. And everyone has been quick to point out that, perhaps, the bloody outlook into which Hollywood tapped this year reflects the bleak worldview settling into a country beset by war and hardships. Whatever the case, these were some bad-ass movies.

The third best of the year was “Sweeny Todd.” After the whole idea of this movie settles in, which I think happens about the time Helena Bonham Carter belts out ‘The Worse Pies in London,” this movie flies along. With a wink and a nudge, Depp slices open throats with a merciless intensity, and we squirm, then let out a sound something like “ooouuughr,” then crack up. But we also begin to feel this feeling down in our guts, watching as the characters lose control and let their primal lusts—for revenge, for sex, for, I guess, happiness—overtake them. Is there a greater metaphor for the excess of violence than the unknowing cannibalism of nineteenth century Londoners singing in harmony? I can’t wait to get this on DVD.

The second best picture of the year used music to a devastating effect as well, although in a much different way. As Daniel Day-Lewis digs and grimaces in the great 21st century epic, the score slides through chromaticisms in a way that is, at the very least, unnerving. There Will Be Blood’s greatest achievements were the scenes in which, under the music, the action and movement took over: the incredible opening, for example, or the explosion at the oil rig. The third act here was challenging and, possibly, ineffective, but perhaps that is what we needed to understand the logical outcome of these character’s motivations: that there is simply no room for both a preacher and a capitalist in an American bowling ally. Or maybe it was just so that Daniel could belt out one of the many great lines in Anderson’s script. “I drink your milkshake!” Ok, a little much, but, frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

And then, well, what can I say about the soon-to-be Best Picture of the year, this wonderful addition to perhaps the most impressive oeuvre in American filmmaking? What can be said about a movie that, for all intents and purposes, was perfect? Well, I guess just that.

If Sweeney and Blood were about the surfeit of violence in our culture, about the decadence and the accompanying decay, then I think No Country for Old Men was about the emptiness of it all, the barren landscape of our new morality, of the desperate but futile search for justice, about the inevitability of death and bad haircuts. I think Tommy Lee Jones’ Sheriff Ed Tom Bell—invented last year for his masterful directorial debut, Three Burials for Melquiades Estrada, though resurrected perfectly here—was one of the most fully realized characters in cinematic history. Try as he might, Ed Tom, sheriff since he was 23, could never quite catch up with those Mexican dope-runners, the unhinged assassins, or even the two-bit hick corners-cutter who, with every bullet, make a mockery of his life and values.

Roger Deakons shot this desolate Texas landscape with such grace it doesn’t seem fair; Cormac McCarthy’s hilarious and troubling dialogue makes a smooth transition, to say the least; and Joel and Ethan stage so many heart-stopping chase scenes from start to finish. But the movie’s ending was where we got our nuts grabbed and our heads exploded, when all the best hopes for an easy life and a happy ending lay laced with bullets, deserving not even to be recounted. As much as we hoped he wouldn’t, there was no doubt that Llewellyn Moss would lose, something the filmmakers don’t let us forget or refute.

I believe that No Country is the kind of film that comes along once in a lifetime, a movie that, in fifty, a hundred years, will rank amongst the best ever made, perhaps the single best movie made in my lifetime. But even more so, I believe with this film, and with those that are sure to come, the Coen brothers have cemented their place not only as master auters, but also as great Americans. They will be remembered along with Franklin and Hawthorne, Hemingway and Edison, as names that represent monumental achievements, but even more importantly, as names that represent the very idea of America, that represent the potential for accomplishment itself. In other words, I drink their milkshake. I drink it all up.


Now, I recognize that no discussion of 2007 movies will suffice without a mention of Juno. So stay tuned...