ALL THE PRETTY HORSES

In theory, it promised to be one of those timelessly magnificent cinematic experiences: an adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s lyrical, existential south-of-the-border neo-Western novel, marking the second directorial effort from Billy Bob Thornton (his first was the stunning Slingblade). Sadly, All The Pretty Horses never quite delivers on the promise, and while it’s a competent enough exercise, it’s also a largely lacklustre and listless affair.

Set around the Texan border in 1949, All The Pretty Horses bears witness to two good ol’ would-be cowboys being squeezed out of the way of life into which they were born. John Grady Cole (Damon) finds himself jobless and homeless after his mother sells the ranch he lived on with his late grandfather. Determined to keep the cowboy way alive, Cole saddles up with his friend Lacey Rawlins (Thomas) and rides across the Rio Grande, in order to avail themselves of ranching opportunities and cheap Mexican piss. On their journey, they happen upon young hothead Blevins (Black) who loses his horse and pistol to a Mexican, then stages a ridiculously reckless attempt to reclaim them.

In the ensuing confusion, our heroes ride on to find work on a Mexican ranch owned by a stinking-rich local cattle baron. Life is idyllic, until the happy male-bonding (naturally replete with homoerotic overtones) is disrupted when the boss’ daughter Alejandra (Cruz) makes it her business to seduce Cole, despite a chorus of disapproval from her family. Worse still, the local authorities learn of Cole and Rawlins’ previous involvement with the now captured and condemned Blevins, and soon things look horrendously precarious for our farmboy duo.

Thornton’s attempt to realise McCarthy’s grand, sweeping prose has one or two things to recommend it: Pretty Horses features an expansive score and some terrifically impressive cinematography, particularly a montage of Cole and Rawlins breaking in a seemingly infinite parade of mustangs in order to impress their new employer. However, while it looks fine, there are very little of the vast sweeping panoramic horizons which are normally a vital generic component.

Then again, short of resurrecting John Ford oir Sam Peckinpah, the film always faced an uphill battle to replicate the novel’s epic scope. In fairness to Thornton, two whole hours have been removed from his original director’s cut (thanks to Miramax mogul Harvey ‘Scissorhands’ Weinstein) which probably accounts from the film’s lack of grandeur and curiously choppy, episodic feel. All this, of course, is little consolation to the viewer, and even with two hours lopped off, the running time as it stands verges on the tedious.

Certainly, the script is a good deal stronger than your average neo-Western chit-chat fare: an opening scene wherein our cowboys stare at the night sky, discussing whether a belief in heaven presupposes a belief in hell, is a case in point. The characterisation, though, is on the shallow side: Damon is his usual good-natured, earnest self, while nothing much is required of Cruz other than to look decorative. This is just as well, since she’s a profoundly limited actress, and her Spanish accent sounds like the agonised phlegm-hocking of a chronic emphysema sufferer. Throughout, the pair of them flash beautiful toothy grins which border on the radioactive: hardly in keeping with the period detail.

Certainly, All The Pretty Horses serves up no shortage of pretty horses, making it an undeniably pleasant but deeply disapponting and lightweight exercise.