No Country for Old Men

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.