Being a big Coen Brothers fan, I saw No Country for Old Men last weekend. We headed over to the Phoenix, a great little two-screen joint in Jericho (as in the Oxford suburb, not the ancient West Bank city) partly to escape the horrific doldrums that are the twin Odeon Cinemas in Oxford’s town centre, but mostly to take advantage of Jericho’s great pubs. Next time you’re in Oxford, visit the Gardener’s Arms for the world’s greatest I-can’t-believe-it’s-a-veggie-burger.
Anyway, the film was/is fantastic – another Coen triumph which sits a lot closer to Fargo in tone and style than anything else in the brothers’ oevre (I cannot believe I just used that word). It’s an adaptation of a novel by Cormac McCarthy which I’ve not read, but may just have to seek out having seen the film. But the thing that struck me most about it was the sound of wind that permeated each scene in testament to the film’s desolate Southern Texas setting.