I have watched recently two movies set on different locations of the American desert: one somewhere in Nevada, few miles away from Las Vegas, and another one in the vastness of Texas plains, near the Mexican border. For some reason, feelings and dreams pop-out into my mind at the sight of such suggestive landscapes. The second movie is, of course, No Country for Old Men. The film is hypnotizing, perhaps just because I love these films of outcast human beings living at the edge of shear freedom, where all borders of life are cut to extreme. The fragile human condition is neatly exposed; the sacred dance with Death, never so romantic. The sky is a vast and brilliant white, the heat and the dust fill the space, and the dark cape of the night covers the land upon descend of its infinite star-dashed mantle. Human life looks to be hidden, more private than ever, and the doomed men are hunted between the claw of cheap motels and sordid, but comforting strip-clubs. Their virility is their blood, their coin of exchange and their most feared informer.
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