Tag Archives: Gil Birmingham

Frontier Fractured: Taylor Sheridan’s Neo-Western Reckoning

Posted on by Arleigh

“The characters are fiction, but the landscape and the lives the characters are navigating are real.” — Taylor Sheridan

Taylor Sheridan’s American Frontier Trilogy—Sicario (2015), Hell or High Water (2016), and Wind River (2017)—stands as a landmark in modern neo-Western cinema, a tightly crafted exploration of America’s frayed edges penned by the screenwriter who would later dominate television with Yellowstone. These films, while not narratively linked, form a thematic triptych that dissects the moral decay of the contemporary frontier, where law buckles under the weight of systemic injustice, economic despair, and cultural erasure. This retrospective examines Sheridan’s screenplays as a cohesive vision of a nation haunted by its own myths of manifest destiny, blending pulse-pounding tension with unflinching social critique.

Defining the Trilogy’s Core

Sheridan’s “American Frontier” trilogy emerged from his own observations of overlooked American landscapes, as he described in interviews around Wind River‘s release. Sicario, directed by Denis Villeneuve, plunges into the U.S.-Mexico border war on drugs, following idealistic FBI agent Kate Macer (Emily Blunt) as she’s drawn into a shadowy CIA operation led by the enigmatic Matt Graver (Josh Brolin) and the ruthless Alejandro (Benicio del Toro). The film boasts breakneck pacing and claustrophobic tension, transforming a procedural thriller into a meditation on moral compromise, where the line between hunter and hunted dissolves in Juarez’s blood-soaked streets.

Hell or High Water, helmed by David Mackenzie, shifts to West Texas, chronicling brothers Toby (Chris Pine) and Tanner Howard (Ben Foster) as they rob branches of the Texas Midlands Bank—the same institution foreclosing on their mother’s ranch. It delivers a lean, character-driven drama, with an ear for authentic dialogue that captures rural Texan fatalism: lines like “You’re free now” underscore a cycle of poverty where crime becomes an act of reclamation. Ranger Marcus Hamilton (Jeff Bridges), pursuing them, embodies the law’s weary inefficiency.

Wind River, which Sheridan also directed, unfolds on Wyoming’s Wind River Indian Reservation, where U.S. Fish and Wildlife officer Cory Lambert (Jeremy Renner) aids rookie FBI agent Jane Banner (Elizabeth Olsen) in investigating a young Native woman’s death in the snow. It lands as a gut-punch of grief and rage, spotlighting the epidemic of missing and murdered Indigenous women (MMIW), with Cory’s personal loss fueling a vigilante justice that indicts federal neglect.

What unites them? Remote, unforgiving terrains—the border deserts, dusty plains, frozen reservations—mirror the characters’ isolation. Protagonists skirt legality not from villainy but necessity, exposing institutions (CIA, banks, FBI) as complicit oppressors. The “United States legal system” emerges as the trilogy’s true antagonist, wreaking havoc on the marginalized.

Thematic Pillars: Justice Beyond the Badge

At the trilogy’s heart lies a profound distrust of official justice, a motif each film escalates. In Sicario, Kate’s arc is one of disillusionment; she clings to warrants amid Graver’s extralegal raids, only to realize the “war” thrives on endless escalation. Sheridan’s script masterfully builds dread through escalating set-pieces—like the night-vision tunnel assault—while Alejandro’s backstory reveals the human cost of cartel savagery, blurring good and evil. It’s a film where victory feels pyrrhic, the frontier’s violence spilling northward unchecked.

Hell or High Water flips the script to economic predation. The Howards aren’t greedy outlaws but desperate everymen funding their family’s future against predatory lending. Sheridan’s sardonic humor amid despair shines in banter between Marcus and his partner Alberto (Gil Birmingham), laced with casual racism that humanizes their bond. The film’s climax, a bank standoff turned shootout, affirms the brothers’ twisted righteousness, critiquing how banks “won the West” anew through debt. It’s Sheridan’s most optimistic entry, suggesting personal agency can pierce systemic greed.

Wind River delivers the rawest indictment, weaving personal trauma into institutional failure. Cory tracks predators—animal and human—across a landscape where Native lives vanish without trace; statistics cited in the film (96% of reservation rapes unreported) hit like bullets. Its poetic minimalism—from snow-dusted crime scenes to Cory’s haunting promise to a grieving father: “I wish I could take that pain away”—underscores how the reservation embodies America’s forgotten frontier. Here, justice is vengeance, meted quietly in the mountains.

Across the trilogy, Sheridan updates Western archetypes: the principled lawman (Kate, Marcus, Jane) yields to the lone avenger (Alejandro, Toby, Cory). This serves as a modernization of classic Western struggles, swapping cattle barons for cartels and banks.

Stylistic Mastery and Sheridan’s Voice

Sheridan’s prose is economical yet evocative, favoring sparse dialogue that reveals worlds. His authentic regionalism comes through in Texan drawls in Hell or High Water, Arapaho stoicism in Wind River, and border Spanglish in Sicario. Directors amplify this: Villeneuve’s Sicario is visceral, with Roger Deakins’ cinematography turning borders into hellscapes; Mackenzie’s Hell or High Water feels expansive yet intimate, Giles Nuttgens capturing Texas’s soul-crushing vastness; Sheridan’s Wind River is austere, Nick Cave’s score amplifying isolation.

Performances elevate the scripts. Del Toro’s coiled fury in Sicario earned Oscar nods; Bridges’ folksy gravitas anchors Hell or High Water; Renner and Olsen ground Wind River‘s procedural in raw emotion. Yet Sheridan’s writing shines brightest in quiet beats: Kate’s post-raid breakdown, Toby’s motel confession, Cory’s frozen vigil.

The films were critically acclaimed for their sharp writing and thematic depth, earning Sheridan Oscar nominations for Hell or High Water and Wind River, while resonating widely with general audiences through gripping narratives and relatable human struggles that packed theaters and sparked enduring discussions. This neo-Western revival took audiences to unseen locales, from Juarez slums to Wind River snows.

Cultural Impact and Legacy

Released amid the turbulent 2010s—marked by escalating border crises, the lingering financial fallout from the 2008 recession, and rising awareness of the #MMIW epidemic—the trilogy presciently tapped into deep-seated national anxieties, reshaping conversations around justice, identity, and power in America. Sicario arrived as tensions over immigration and the drug war boiled over, humanizing the futility of America’s “war on drugs” just before the 2016 presidential debates on border walls and cartel violence. Its portrayal of shadowy U.S. operations crossing ethical lines sparked debates on real-world CIA tactics and the moral cost of security, influencing discourse in policy circles and popular media alike. The film’s raw depiction of Juarez’s carnage forced viewers to confront overlooked atrocities, bridging Hollywood thrillers with journalistic urgency and priming audiences for later works like Narcos.

Hell or High Water struck a populist chord amid post-recession rage, echoing Occupy Wall Street’s anti-bank fervor and the foreclosure crisis that ravaged rural America. By framing bank robbers as sympathetic everymen fighting predatory lending, Sheridan tapped into widespread resentment toward financial institutions, a sentiment that fueled political movements from Tea Party economics to progressive wealth taxes. The film’s Texas setting amplified its authenticity, resonating in heartland theaters and inspiring think pieces on economic despair as a driver of crime. Its legacy endures in modern “eat the rich” narratives, from The Gentlemen to economic thrillers, while proving indie sensibilities could deliver blockbuster emotional punches.

Wind River ignited a cultural firestorm by centering the MMIW crisis, a long-ignored epidemic where Native women face violence at rates exponentially higher than the national average. The film’s stark statistics and harrowing story propelled #MMIW into mainstream consciousness, directly contributing to legislative momentum like Savanna’s Act (passed in 2020), which improved federal responses to cases on tribal lands. Sheridan consulted with Native communities for accuracy, amplifying Indigenous voices through actors like Gil Birmingham and Julia Jones, though it faced critiques for “white savior” elements. Nonetheless, it opened doors for Native-led stories in films like Reservation Dogs and heightened Hollywood’s focus on underrepresented frontiers.

Collectively, the trilogy’s impact reverberates profoundly. Lionsgate’s 2022 Blu-ray collection formalized its status as a cinematic canon, while Sheridan’s scripts birthed his TV empire—Yellowstone, 1883, Lioness—exporting frontier grit to streaming billions. Yet the films surpass his serialized work in laser-focused purity, influencing a neo-Western renaissance seen in No Country for Old Men echoes, The Power of the Dog, and series like Longmire. In policy realms, Sicario informed border security debates under both Biden and now-President Trump’s 2025 reelection; Hell or High Water prefigured rural economic populism in Trump-era politics; Wind River bolstered tribal advocacy amid ongoing land rights battles.

By 2026, amid Sheridan’s Yellowstone spinoffs dominating Paramount+ and renewed border rhetoric in a second Trump administration, the trilogy feels more vital than ever. It birthed a cinematic language for America’s internal fractures—geographic, economic, racial—challenging viewers to question who truly governs the forgotten edges. Academic panels dissect its archetypes; fan communities on Reddit and Letterboxd binge it as essential viewing. Flaws persist—Sicario 2‘s dilution without Sheridan, Wind River‘s debated optics—but its triumph lies in tension and truth, proving standalone stories can outlast franchises. Sheridan’s evolution from struggling actor to scribe magnate underscores a rare feat: films that entertain viscerally while indicting society, ensuring the frontier’s ghosts haunt us still.

Individual Breakdowns

Sicario: Border Inferno

Villeneuve’s adaptation turns Sheridan’s outrage at Juarez carnage—ignored by U.S. media—into a descent narrative. Kate’s naivety crumbles amid moral voids; Alejandro’s vendetta personalizes cartel horrors. Its operatic violence peaks in the stadium raid, where justice devolves to assassination. At 121 minutes, it’s taut prophecy.

Hell or High Water: Desperate Heist

Sheridan’s personal favorite channels his Texas roots, pitting family against finance. Pine’s everyman resolve contrasts Foster’s volatility; Bridges steals scenes with wry wisdom. The thrilling cat-and-mouse culminates in redemption through sacrifice, a neo-Bonnie and Clyde for foreclosure America. 102 minutes of populist fire.

Wind River: Frozen Requiem

Sheridan’s directorial bow personalizes loss—his script grew from real MMIW stats. Renner’s haunted tracker partners uneasily with Olsen’s fish-out-of-water fed; subplots flesh reservation despair. Its heartbreaking intimacy ends not in triumph but resolve amid endless winter. 107 minutes of unflinching truth.

Why It Endures

Sheridan’s trilogy isn’t mere genre exercise; it’s elegy for eroded American dreams. By bucking plot contrivances for lived-in despair, it forces reckoning with borders, banks, and buried bodies. These thrillers bleed social conscience—unadulterated, unflagging. In a franchise-saturated era, these standalone gems reclaim cinema’s frontier spirit.

Review: Wind River (dir. by Taylor Sheridan)

Posted on by Arleigh

“Luck don’t live out here.” — Cory Lambert

Wind River is a gripping crime thriller set against the stark, frozen backdrop of Wyoming’s Wind River Indian Reservation, where U.S. Fish and Wildlife tracker Cory Lambert teams up with rookie FBI agent Jane Banner to investigate the brutal death of a young Native American woman named Natalie Hanson. Wind River marks the third film in Taylor Sheridan’s American Frontier trilogy that he wrote—following Sicario and Hell or High Water—and it’s the first where Sheridan steps into the director’s chair himself, bringing his sharp eye for gritty realism to the helm. Clocking in at just under two hours, it delivers a mostly positive experience through strong performances, atmospheric visuals, and a script that builds suspense without unnecessary flash, though it occasionally leans on familiar tropes.

Right from the opening moments, Wind River immerses you in a world of isolation and harsh beauty. Snow-covered plains stretch endlessly under a pale sky, and the crunch of boots on ice sets an immediate tone of vulnerability. Cory, played with quiet intensity by Jeremy Renner, discovers Natalie’s frozen body while tracking a mountain lion that’s been preying on livestock. She’s barefoot, half-naked, and miles from any help—details that hit hard and underscore the film’s core mystery: what happened to her, and why does it feel like no one cares? Renner nails the role of a man haunted by his own past loss—his teenage daughter died under mysterious circumstances a few years back—making Cory a grounded everyman rather than a superheroic cowboy. His subtle grief adds layers to every scene, turning routine investigation beats into something personal and raw.

Enter Elizabeth Olsen as Jane Banner, the FBI agent flown in from Vegas who’s clearly out of her depth in sub-zero temperatures and jurisdictional limbo. Olsen brings a mix of determination and wide-eyed realism to the part, avoiding the cliché of the big-city hotshot who learns frontier wisdom overnight. She’s tough but human—hypothermic after a chase, throwing up from the cold, yet pushing through because Natalie deserves justice. The dynamic between Cory and Jane is one of the film’s highlights: no forced romance, just mutual respect born from necessity. Sheridan smartly lets their partnership evolve organically, with Cory’s local knowledge filling Jane’s gaps in protocol and reservation politics. It’s refreshing to see two leads click without sparks flying, focusing instead on shared purpose amid tragedy.

The script shines in its efficient storytelling. Sheridan wastes no time on exposition dumps; instead, he weaves backstory through quiet conversations and flashbacks that pack emotional punch. We learn about the epidemic of missing Indigenous women—thousands vanish yearly, often ignored by media and law enforcement—via stark statistics flashed on screen and through the eyes of Natalie’s family. Gil Birmingham delivers a heartbreaking performance as her father, Martin, a stoic oil rig worker whose rage simmers beneath a veneer of resignation. His scenes with Cory, especially a late-night talk by a bonfire, cut deep, exploring themes of fatherly failure and systemic neglect without preaching. Birmingham’s restrained power elevates what could have been a stock grieving parent into a standout supporting role.

Visually, Wind River is a stunner, thanks to cinematographer Ben Richardson. Those vast, snowy expanses aren’t just pretty—they mirror the characters’ emotional desolation and amplify the stakes. An early tracking sequence, with Cory following Natalie’s footprints in the snow, builds dread masterfully, the silence broken only by wind and labored breaths. The film shifts tones seamlessly: slow-burn investigation gives way to visceral action in the third act, including a raid on an oil site trailer that’s tense, realistic, and over in a flash—no prolonged shootouts or slow-mo heroics. Sound design plays a big role too; the howling wind and muffled gunshots make every moment feel immediate and unforgiving.

Sheridan’s direction keeps things taut without rushing the build-up. This is a slow-burner that earns its pace, letting tension simmer through everyday details like jurisdictional squabbles with underfunded tribal police or Cory teaching Jane to dress for the cold. Nick Cave and Warren Ellis’s score is another winner—sparse, haunting electronics that evoke loneliness rather than bombast. It underscores key scenes without overpowering them, much like the film itself avoids Hollywood excess.

That said, Wind River has its stumbles. Pacing dips in the middle, with some dialogue-heavy stretches that spell out themes a tad too explicitly—like chats about reservation poverty or ignored crimes. It can feel heavy-handed, pulling you out of the immersion. A few characters, like the bumbling FBI contingent or security guards, border on caricature, though the leads stay nuanced. The violence, while sparse and purposeful, includes a harrowing assault scene that’s tough to watch; it’s crucial to the story but might overwhelm sensitive viewers. And while the film tackles real issues facing Native communities, some critics note it centers white protagonists in a Native story, though Sheridan consulted tribal members and cast authentically.

Still, these are minor gripes in a film that largely succeeds on its own terms, especially as the capstone to Sheridan’s trilogy exploring America’s frayed edges. The ending delivers catharsis without easy answers, leaving you with a chill that lingers. Cory gets a measure of redemption, Jane gains hard-won insight, and the reservation’s harsh realities feel unflinchingly real. It’s the kind of movie that sticks because it respects your intelligence—connecting dots about corruption, indifference, and human cost without hand-holding.

What elevates Wind River above standard thrillers is its humanity. Every character, even antagonists, feels fleshed out rather than villainous stock. The oil workers aren’t cartoon evil; they’re desperate men making brutal choices in a forgotten corner of America. Sheridan, drawing from his own ranching background, captures blue-collar grit authentically—no glamour, just survival. Renner’s Cory hunts for a living, bottles his pain, and bonds with his ex-wife’s new family in tender asides that ground the procedural. Olsen’s Jane evolves from outsider to advocate, her arc subtle but satisfying.

The film’s relevance hasn’t faded since its 2017 release. With ongoing conversations around Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women (MMIW), it spotlights a crisis stats show claims over 5,000 cases annually, many unsolved due to jurisdictional messes. Wind River doesn’t solve it but demands attention, blending genre thrills with advocacy seamlessly.

In a crowded field of crime dramas, Wind River stands out for its chill factor, both literal and figurative. It’s not reinventing the wheel, but Sheridan proves he’s a triple threat: writer, director, voice for the voiceless. Renner and Olsen lead a tight ensemble, and the Wyoming wilderness becomes a character itself. If you dig thoughtful thrillers like Hell or High Water or Sicario, this one’s essential. It’s mostly positive vibes from me—intense, moving, and worth cranking up the thermostat for.

Sheridan’s ear for dialogue keeps things natural—terse exchanges crackle with subtext, like Cory’s line to Martin about enduring loss as a father that hits like a gut punch with simple words carrying profound weight. The film trusts silence too; long shots of characters staring into the void say more than monologues ever could, while technically it’s polished with editing that snaps during action and breathes during reflection. Even smaller roles shine—Kelsey Asbille as Natalie brings fire in limited screen time, and James Jordan plays an irredeemable private security contractor so well. Balanced against its preachiness, Wind River earns its emotional heft, dragging occasionally sure, but the payoff of an explosive finale and quiet closure makes it worthwhile, with power in inevitability and quiet fury as Sheridan avoids exploitative rape-revenge clichés to focus on aftermath and accountability.

Wind River delivers assured direction in Sheridan’s feature debut, memorable performances, and a compelling story that resonates. It refreshes the thriller genre with its blend of tension and substance.

Review: Hell of High Water (dir. by David MacKenzie)

Posted on by Arleigh

“I’ve been poor my whole life… like a disease passing from generation to generation. But not my boys, not anymore.” == Toby Howard

Hell or High Water is a gritty neo-Western that captures the desperation of rural America with sharp dialogue and tense heists. Directed by David Mackenzie and written by Taylor Sheridan, it stars Chris Pine and Ben Foster as brothers robbing banks across West Texas to save their family ranch. As the second film in Sheridan’s American Frontier Trilogy, it dives deep into economic despair on the fraying edges of modern America, carving out a raw, personal tale of survival amid systemic rot.

The story kicks off with Toby Howard (Pine), a quiet divorced dad scraping by at a casino, teaming up with his wild older brother Tanner (Foster), fresh out of prison and itching for chaos, for a string of quick bank jobs. They’re targeting branches of the Texas Midlands Bank, the same predatory outfit that’s been bleeding their late mother’s ranch dry with reverse mortgages that ballooned after her death. Toby’s motive is pure and heartbreaking: he wants to pay off the debt and hand the property—now sitting on untapped oil reserves—to his estranged kids, breaking a multi-generational cycle of poverty that’s crushed their family under debt, divorce, and dead-end jobs. It’s not about greed; it’s survival, wrapped in a fierce code of brotherly loyalty that feels timeless, echoing the blood oaths of classic Westerns like The Searchers or Unforgiven. Sheridan builds this setup methodically, letting the brothers’ quiet desperation simmer before the first robbery, making their partnership feel inevitable and doomed from the start. You get these early glimpses of their bond—Toby’s measured calm clashing with Tanner’s explosive energy—over shared meals or late-night drives, hinting at the fractures that prison and hardship have carved into their lives.

What stands out right away is how the film paints West Texas as its own brutal character—dusty highways stretching into infinity, faded diners serving coffee and Whataburger breakfast tacos, ghost towns where the only new construction is more banks or payday loan shacks preying on the broke. Giles Nuttgens’ cinematography turns the landscape into a vast, unforgiving canvas, with wide shots of endless plains, shimmering heat haze, and abandoned oil pumps that mirror the characters’ isolation and the weight of their choices. The visuals aren’t flashy; they’re oppressive, framing lone figures against horizons that swallow them whole, emphasizing how small these men feel against the indifferent sprawl. Nick Cave and Warren Ellis’ score adds a haunting twang—sparse piano notes, eerie strings, and subtle guitar plucks that build tension without ever overpowering the dialogue or action. It’s masterfully subtle, letting the silence between robberies speak volumes about the boredom, hopelessness, and fleeting camaraderie of these small, overlooked lives in flyover country. Even the sound design nails it: the rumble of getaway trucks, the click of slot machines in casinos, the distant wail of sirens—all weaving a sonic tapestry of gritty realism.

Chris Pine shines as Toby, completely shedding his action-hero polish for a layered everyman performance full of bottled-up resolve and quiet pain. You see the weight of his failures—a loveless marriage shattered, kids he barely knows living hours away—in every furrowed glance, every deliberate pause before he pulls a mask down. He’s the planner, the reluctant criminal whose moral compass wavers just enough to justify the heists in his mind, but you sense the toll it’s taking, like a man grinding his teeth through every moral compromise. Ben Foster, though, steals every scene he’s in as Tanner, the hothead ex-con with a wolfish grin that barely masks his pent-up rage and damage. His unhinged energy explodes during the heists—like firing warning shots at terrified tellers or flipping off pursuing cops mid-chase—but it’s always undercut by real pathos; years in prison have broken something fundamental in him, turning brotherly love into a volatile lifeline. Their dynamic is the beating heart of the film—casual banter over stolen cars, casino poker games, or roadside Whataburger runs feels achingly genuine, a brief respite from the doom that’s closing in. Moments like Tanner teasing Toby about his ex-wife or the brothers sharing a rare laugh humanize them, making their inevitable collision with fate hit that much harder.

Then there’s the pursuit side of the equation: Texas Rangers Marcus Hamilton (Jeff Bridges) and his partner Alberto Parker (Gil Birmingham), who provide the perfect counterpoint to the brothers’ frenzy. Bridges chews the scenery with gleeful abandon as the grizzled vet nearing retirement, obsessed with cracking one last big case before hanging it up. His folksy drawl delivers casual racist jabs at his Native American partner—not out of outright malice, but as a form of twisted, old-school affection that reveals Marcus’s own deep-seated insecurities about aging and obsolescence. It’s uncomfortable, authentic, and played with such charm that it lands as character revelation rather than cheap shock. Birmingham matches him beat for beat with deadpan comebacks that land like quiet thunder, turning their stakeouts into a buddy-cop routine laced with sharp cultural commentary. Chats about diner waitresses’ curves, Comanche history, or the ethics of bank robbery add unexpected levity and depth, transforming the cat-and-mouse chase into something richer, almost philosophical, amid the choking West Texas dust. Bridges’ Marcus isn’t just hunting criminals; he’s confronting his own mortality, piecing together the brothers’ pattern like a puzzle that might define his legacy.

Taylor Sheridan’s script nails modern American malaise without ever slipping into preachiness or melodrama. Poverty isn’t some abstract talking point; it’s visceral—Toby’s trailer-park existence with its peeling paint and flickering lights, the single mom’s quiet despair over her mortgage payments, the rusted oil rigs promising riches that never trickle down to anyone local. The banks emerge as the true villains, plastering billboards with false salvation (“Texas Midlands: Your Friend in Need”) while gobbling up ranches through fine-print loopholes and aggressive collections. Sheridan weaves in these details organically—no info-dumps, just overheard conversations at diners or glimpses of foreclosure signs dotting the highway—that build a world where desperation breeds crime. Violence erupts organically from this pressure cooker—robbers improvise with stolen cars and sawn-off shotguns, rangers swap hunches over lukewarm diner coffee—not in overblown Hollywood set pieces, but in raw, consequential bursts that leave real scars. A botched heist introduces innocent blood on their hands, forcing you to grapple with whether Toby’s noble ends can ever justify Tanner’s reckless means, a moral tightrope Sheridan walks with unflinching precision. It’s this nuance that elevates the film: no one’s purely good or evil, just products of their environment, clawing for a scrap of dignity.

The film’s slow burn pays off in spades. Early jobs are clinical and methodical: masks on, small bills only from the tellers’ drawers, in-and-out in under two minutes to avoid dye packs or alarms, always hitting small branches mid-morning when staff is light. Tension simmers in the mundane details—laundering dirty cash at Native casinos amid blinking lights and cigarette smoke, dodging security cams with cheap disguises, or holing up in cheap motels with peeling wallpaper—building inexorably to a final showdown that’s as brutal as it is poetic. No heroes ride off into the sunset unscathed; justice twists unpredictably like the West Texas wind, leaving you questioning who’s really won in this rigged game. It’s balanced too—no glorifying crime without consequences. Toby’s noble intent constantly clashes with Tanner’s powder-keg recklessness, while Marcus’s dogged pursuit peels back layers of his own regrets about a life spent chasing ghosts. Everyone’s deeply flawed, chasing some form of redemption in a system that’s stacked against the little guy from the jump, and Sheridan lets those contradictions breathe without forcing resolutions.

Pacing does drag a tad in the middle, with those ranger stakeouts testing patience at times, but it masterfully mirrors the tedious grind of real low-level crime—the waiting, the watching, the endless coffee refills—making the climaxes land with twice the force. Character depth is rock-solid across the board, though side players like the waitress (Katy Mixon) or the casino manager get a bit short shrift in the script’s tight focus. Still, the core quartet carries the weight effortlessly, with Bridges delivering a masterclass in weathered charm—part crusty mentor, part comic relief, all heart. Even smaller beats, like a teller’s trembling hands or a deputy’s split-second choice, add texture without stealing focus.

Hell or High Water revives the Western genre for the 21st century—less six-guns and saloons, more economic gunslinging and ATM skimmers. At its core, it’s about family ties that bind even as they strangle, personal failures that haunt like ghosts on the plains, and faceless corporations devouring the heartland one foreclosure at a time. Toby’s final call to his ex-wife, hinting at a freer future for his boys on the now-clear-titled ranch, lands with bittersweet punch, his voice cracking just enough to sell the lie he tells himself. Marcus, surveying the bloodied aftermath from a ridge, mutters about Comanches losing their land centuries ago—a stark reminder that history’s cycles of loss and revenge remain unbroken, no matter who holds the deed. No tidy Hollywood bows, just hard-earned truth staring you down from the screen.

In a landscape clogged with summer blockbusters, this indie gem—backed by bold financiers—proves that small-scale stories pack the biggest emotional wallop. Watch it for the immersive vibes and regional flavor, from the twangy accents to the sun-bleached pickups; stay for the soul-stirring performances and themes that linger long after the credits. If you dug the Coens’ No Country for Old Men, this slots right in—tense as a taut wire, thoughtful without pontificating, unflinching in its gaze at America’s underbelly. Hell yeah, it’s absolutely worth your time.

Playing Catch-Up With The Films of 2017: Transformers: The Last Knight (dir by Michael Bay)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

So, I’m just going to be honest here.

I did watch Transformers: The Last Knight.  I didn’t see it at the theaters, of course.  To date, I’ve only seen one Transformers movie on the big screen.  It was the fourth one and not only did I get motion sick but when I left the theater, I discovered that I was having trouble hearing.  Even though I watched Transformers: The Last Knight on a small screen, I still made sure to take some Dramamine beforehand.  That may have been a mistake because this movie somehow drags things out for 2 hours and 30 minutes.  That’s a lot of time to spend trying to stay awake while watching something that doesn’t even try to make sense.

So, yes, I did watch Transformers: The Last Knight but I’m not really sure what I watched.  I know that there was a lot of camera movement.  There was a lot of stuff blowing up.  Robots would fly into space.  Robots would return to Earth.  Robots turned into cars.  All of the robots spoke in these gravelly voices and half the time, I couldn’t really understand what they were saying.  Mark Wahlberg was around and he spent the entire movie with this kind of confused look on his face.  His Boston accent really came out whenever he had to deliver his dialogue.  One thing I’ve noticed about Wahlberg is that the less he cares about a movie, the more likely he is to go full Boston.  To be honest, if I just closed my eyes and listened to Wahlberg’s accent and tuned out all of the explosions and robot talk, I probably would have thought I was watching Manchester By The Sea.

Anthony Hopkins was also in the movie, playing a character who might as well have just been named “Esteemed British Person.”  It’s always fun to see Hopkins in a bad movie, just because he knows that his deserved reputation for being a great actor isn’t going to suffer no matter how much crap he appears in.  He always goes through these movies with a slightly bemused smirk on his face.  It’s almost as if he’s looking out at the audience and saying, “Laugh all you want.  I’ll still kick anyone’s ass when it comes to Shakespeare…”  Anyway, Hopkins is mostly around so that he can reveal that the Transformers have been on Earth since time began.  Why, they even saved King Arthur!

The plot has to do with a powerful staff that can be used to bring life back to the Transformers’s home planet.  The problem is that using the staff will also destroy all life on Earth or something like that.  So, of course, the good Transformers are trying to save Earth and the bad Transformers are like, “Fuck Earth, let’s blow stuff up.”  Or something like that.  The main good Transformer — Optimus Prime, I guess — gets brainwashed into becoming an evil Transformer.  Of course, since Anthony Hopkins is in the movie, the majority of the film takes place in England and that can only mean a trip to Stonehenge!

And…

Look, I’ve exhausted myself.  I’m not going to say that Transformers: The Last Knight is a terrible movie because, obviously, someone out there loves this stuff.  I mean, they’ve made five of these movies so someone has to be looking forward to them.  They’re not for me, though.

Some day, I hope Micheal Bay directs a Fifty Shades of Grey movie.  I look forward to watching Christian and Ana discuss consent while the world explodes behind them.

Film Review: Hell or High Water (dir by David Mackenzie)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

The Texas-set film Hell or High Water features four excellent lead performances.  There’s Chris Pine and Ben Foster, playing brothers and robbing banks.  And then there’s Jeff Bridges and Gil Birmingham, as the two Texas Rangers who are attempting to hunt the brothers down.

But for me, my favorite character was the waitress who, during the latter half of the film, serves lunch to the two Texas Rangers.  When Bridges asks her how she’s doing, she replies, “Hot and not in the good way.”  When the two Rangers start to order their food, she stops them and tells them that everyone who comes in the diner orders the same thing except for one “asshole from New York” who tried to order a trout.  “We ain’t got no goddamn trout!”  It’s a short scene but it’s one of my favorites because, if you’ve ever spent any time in West Texas, you know that this scene is probably the most realistic in the entire film.

My second favorite character was a banker teller played by the great Dale Dickey.  When the Rangers ask her if the men who robbed her bank were black, she replies, “Their skin or their souls?”  You just have to hear the way that she delivers it.  In theory, that should be an awkward line but Dale Dickey makes it sound totally natural.

In fact, everything about Hell or High Water seems totally natural.  For a film about bank robbers, it’s actually a deceptively low-key film, one that is as memorable for its quiet moments as its shoot outs.  When the violence does come, it’s all the more jarring because the movie has spent so much time focusing on the tranquil stillness of the West Texas landscape.

(That said, I should point out that the film was actually shot in New Mexico.  But, quite frankly, New Mexico is pretty much just West Texas with more Democrats.)

Hell or High Water is a film that’s all about the little details.  The film opens with a bank robbery and, as the camera gracefully circles the bank, we catch a glimpse of graffiti announcing that the artist did 4 tours in Iraq and that “bailouts (are) for banks, not for me.”  At its heart, Hell or High Water is about the many people who have been left out of this so-called “economic recovery,” in which we’re all supposed to have such faith despite having seen little evidence of its existence.  While the rich get richer, the struggle of the people in Hell or High Water is ignored by everyone but them. And so, the people do what they can to survive.  For some, that means robbing banks.  For others — like a wonderfully snarky group of witnesses in a diner — that means refusing to admit that they saw anything happen.  If you want to see a realistic portrait of economic uncertainty and populist revoltuon, don’t waste your time with the cutesy bullshit and bourgeois Marxism of The Big Short.  Watch Hell or High Water.

Of course, not everyone is willing to turn a blind eye to the bank robbing brothers.  Hell or High Water is not just about economic anxiety.  It’s also about the unique struggle of being a bank robber in a part of the country where literally everyone has a gun.  (During one robbery, Pine asks an old customer if he has a gun on him.  “Damn right I got a gun on me!” the old man snaps back.)  As opposed to so many other films, Hell or High Water gets West Texas right.

(It’s probably not a coincidence that we’re told the brothers robbed a bank in Archer City, the home of legendary Texas writer, Larry McMurtry.)

As for the film’s cast, Jeff Bridges and Ben Foster get the two “showiest” roles.  Jeff Bridges plays a Texas Ranger who is only a few days away from retirement and who enjoys needling his partner.  (One of the main delights of the film is the comedic interaction between Bridges and Gil Birmingham.)  Ben Foster is the more reckless of the two brothers, an ex-con who declares that everyone is his enemy but, at the same time, shows himself to be willing to do anything to protect his brother.  Both Bridges and Foster give excellent performances and Foster, in particular, reminds us that he’s one of the most exciting actors working today.

And yet, for me, the true anchor of the film is Chris Pine.  Chris Pine, of course, is best known for starring in the last three Star Trek films.  And while he was always an adequate lead in those films and he gave a wonderfully self-aware performance in Into The Woods, none of his past films prepared me for just how good a job he does in Hell or High Water.  Pine gives a quiet and rather subtle performance and, when we first see him, we automatically assume that he’s been dragged into the criminal life by his more flamboyant brother.  But as the film progresses, we start to realize that there’s more to both the character and to Chris Pine as an actor.  By the end of the film, we’re forced to reconsider everything that we previously assumed about everyone.

Speaking of end of the film — let’s just say that Hell or High Water has one of the best final scenes of 2016.  Like the film itself, it’s deceptively low-key but it leaves you reeling.

It took me a while to see Hell or High Water but I’m glad I did.  Come Hell or high water, you should see it too.