Ain't Them Bodies Saints

Subject: Ain't Them Bodies Saints Thu Apr 24, 2014 10:33 pm

Comparing the work of fledgling film-makers to the sacred cows of the past rarely does them any favours, but writer-director David Lowery's second feature is so firmly grounded in the soil of Terrence Malick's Badlands, Robert Altman's McCabe & Mrs Miller and Arthur Penn'sBonnie and Clyde that it seems impolite not to acknowledge their influence from the outset. Set in the ethereal terrain of 1970s Texas Hill Country, and shot in the nostalgic natural light of a seemingly eternal magic hour, this beautiful, if somewhat self-aware, cinematic ballad sings of a doomed romance between two young outlaws, separated in the opening act by capture which leaves him behind bars and her holding the baby.

Facing 25-to-life after taking the rap for shooting a lawman, Bob Muldoon (Casey Affleck) dreams of being reunited with his partner in love and crime, his pencil-scrawled prison letters becoming the source of much sonorous narration. But as the responsibilities of motherhood start to bite, will former wild child Ruth (Rooney Mara) continue to wait for the object of her adolescent obsession, or will she be wooed by the more down-to-earth affections of decent lawman Patrick (Ben Foster), whom she has already inadvertently winged?

Describing his paean to the waning mythology of the west as being "about archetypes who get worn down by time and turn into real people", Lowery conjures a moody, melancholic and unapologetically mumblesome portrait of arcane antiheroes caught in the dying breaths of an old world which is evaporating around them, vanishing into the twilight mist. Crucially, Lowery (who edited the extraordinary and elusive Upstream Color) isn't interested in the mechanics of botched heists or prison breaks, which are depicted fleetingly and elliptically – his focus is on the aftermath of such traditionally centre-stage events. Having started life as an "action" script from which Lowery became "distracted", the entire film seems to be taking place in the wake of something which has already gone, sifting through fragmentary memories which linger like dust in the air, caught in the handsome half-light by award-winning cinematographer Bradford Young.

When there is dialogue, it's presented in long, languorous takes, the three principals cast not only for their naturalistic acting chops, but also their fittingly anachronistic features. Affleck in particular, who seemed so awkwardly at home in The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (for my money the best western of recent memory), is perfect as the charismatic Bob, a young gun intoxicated by the romance of banditry who seems to be starring in his very own movie. Mara is terrific too, blending fragility with a fierce and growing sense of self-reliance, her emotions deliberately unreadable, her hollow eyes always withholding rather than emoting.

The real magic, however, lies in the music, which slips seamlessly from Ben Foster strumming a child's acoustic guitar in his bedroom to the strains of a banjo being picked in a barroom, with linking themes blurring the boundaries between incidental accompaniment and on-set sound. Like the brilliant scene in Winter's Bone in which a round-table rendition of Fair and Tender Ladies sets the tone for awful revelations to come, the astute use of folk and bluegrass defines the palette of this film as much as the acting or the cinematography. While Lowery cites the songs of Bill Callahan, Bonnie "Prince" Billy, and Joanna Newsom as "vital" to making the movie, composer Daniel Hart tips his hat toward the work ofWarren Ellis and Nick Cave. The rhythmic hand-claps that accompany key pieces are particularly evocative, reminiscent of Jonny Greenwood's percussive violin-picking in There Will Be Blood – edgy, insistent and unsettling.
On the downside, there's no doubt that the noodling pace of this Sundance-supported yarn will alienate as many viewers as it entices. Although a mid-point jailbreak sets in motion a trail of violent revenge, this narrative element remains oddly incidental, existing more to introduce the spectre of an old-fashioned posse blowing into town, and to allow Keith Carradine to indulge in some talismanic storytelling about the history of an old pistol whose barrel now points to a bygone age. Even when laying the groundwork for future events, Lowery's eyes and ears are tuned to the past.
Last week, in his typically insightful and elegant closing column, the peerless Philip French wrote of being an "assiduous proponent of the dying genre of westerns". On the evidence of Ain't Them Bodies Saints, while the western may not be alive and kicking, its ghosts still haunt the landscape of modern cinema, drifting across the misty screens of the 21st century like a distant song – half forgotten, yet still remembered, and very much loved.