Hell or High Water

Am I getting old? Time marches on, sure, but has my life trolley pulled into the old-man station, the very last one before the end of the line? I don’t think so because I don’t feel old and I don’t shit myself nearly as often as real old people do. When I wear adult diapers it’s because I want to show off.

Also, I don’t reside in a assisted living, unless you count my wife rolling me over so I don’t choke on my vomit. I mean the kind where clueless, budget-constrained administrators consider it good fun to make senior citizens sing shitty old-timey songs, or let condescending youth groups come in and hug them while pretending to give a shit about them. I also have not been reduced to a zombie shuffling down corridors, dosed with a daily drug cocktail served in a tiny paper cup. Speaking of which, do you guys know where to buy those cups? I bet could better control my alcohol intake if those were the only cups I had. Plus, I’d look like a fucking giant.

I asked if I’m old because I had a moment of crisis as I pulled into Olde Town Theater’s potholed lot on my bike and found myself surrounded by slow-moving Buicks doing a ballet to find the very closest parking spots. Gray Buicks, silver Buicks, burgundy Buicks, and more burgundy Buicks. I went inside, made my way down the stained and tattered hall and entered my theater to discover that, unlike most of the time when I’m surrounded by snot-nosed kids, I was far and away the youngest person in the audience. The light streaming from the projector fell across silvery pates. Faces were tired, hands with papery skin dipped into small popcorns. 

What was it that got the old-timers out of their LA-Z-Boys, got them to shut off the AM radio, stop sending their grandchildren e-mails with links to Youtube clips of bad magicians, slip past the nurses and head to the movies? The answer is Hell or High Water, the cinematic equivalent of their Buicks. 

Hell or High Water is sturdy, reliable, traditional and comfortable. It’s made from solid, heavy cast-iron. Like the big-ass Mercurys and Oldsmobiles of yore, this thing’s a tank offering no surprises, none of that high-tech bullshit, just a smooth ride and enough trunk space for a few bodies.

This is a modern western, steeped in tradition the way today’s Buick reminds an old man of the Roadmaster sedan his dad had in 1951. And like where that Buick runs best, the movie takes place in flat, straight West Texas. That’s a place Hollywood thinks has nothing but honorable men with guns and women that love them. To set the stage, the movie’s plains are littered with clues of how the collapse of 2008 affected people in West Texas: quick cash loans, foreclosures and pawn shops. 

Jeff Bridges plays a stubborn, colicky Texas Ranger a few days from forced retirement when a pair of brothers (Chris Pine and Ben Foster) start robbing banks. The brothers, being Texans, are noble about it. They take only what they need, and only from the bank that suckered their mother into reverse-mortgaging the family’s dried-up ranch. Their plan is to get the money, buy out the bank’s interest and then lease the property to Exxon, forever saving Pine’s kids from the poverty he and his brother endured.

Bridges is motivated to solve one more crime before his life trolley reaches the end of the line, maybe to prove that old people are not obsolete and shouldn’t be shunted off to sing “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” He’s drives a Mercury and he operates on gumption and gut instinct. He is partnered with a part Mexican/Indian whom he likes to lovingly tease with low-brow racist commentary.

So, we’ve got a grumpy cop with something to prove about the old ways of the west, and two young men who are trying to right a wrong perpetrated by a faceless and greedy bank. In that way it is like the last generation of 50s westerns that moved beyond good versus evil and tried to tell bigger stories using upstanding men in spurs. There’s a shootout and there are chases into the canyons and cliffs. There’s a sharpshooter. There’s a rapscallion redeeming himself through death. Everyone pays a price for their actions.

Every act of this movie is reassuring and familiar like dark velour seats, a big-ass speedometer, a cassette deck, pinstripes and bench seats. All of that is fine if you’re one of those people who like to say “They don’t make them like they used to.” For the rest of us, though, we’re pretty fucking happy they don’t make them like they used to. Airbags, better fuel economy, more powerful engines, and better longevity are awfully appealing. If you’re feeling nostalgic, Hell or High Water is the next best thing to Alan Ladd. But for those of us who know how to use our remotes controls, Alan Ladd is already available to stream. Three Fingers.