Film Review: The Ballad of Buster Scruggs

I loved True Grit (Coen 2010), LOVED it. A remake so fine, all other remakes should be measured against it from here on. The dialogue, the scenery, the characters — the crazy, quirky Coen-ness of it. Oh, it was just wonderful and I am so fond of it, that it was with some trepidation I clicked on the Coens’ latest, (another Western, no less), The Ballad of Buster Scruggs (Coen 2018) on Netflix.

Well, trepidation, trepischmashion.

From the 'git go, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs was marvelous. The Coen’s anthology, six short stories connected by theme and setting, has a quality rare in this cinematic landscape of sequels and prequels: unpredictability. They take obvious and perverse pleasure in both subverting the expected (what color hat is that on Buster?) and dishing up the conventional — wagon trains, singing cowboys, sharp shooters and the hangman’s noose.

Beautifully crafted and beautifully disturbing, Ballad is not as audaciously funny as O! Brother Where Art Thou (Coen 2000) and though shot-through with death as the consistent theme, it’s not as dark as No County For Old Men (Coen 2007). Though the violence is bright and jarring, the photography — so sumptuous, and so striking, makes it all so… beautiful. Particularly in the third installment, All Gold Canyon which juxtaposes breathtaking scenery to a grizzled and hardbitten Tom Waits. The imagery leaves me breathless — the landscape is perfect, but with every hole dug in the idyllic valley, we are again reminded that Man is the monster.

Joel and Ethan Coen have once again deftly woven narratives bubbling over with dark humor and humanity, while paying loving homage to classic Western themes. Sidestepping predictable tropes with the grace of Fred and Ginger, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs is a disquieting, unconventional and wholly satisfying cinematic gift this holiday season.