The Inuits may not actually have a hundred
words for snow, but Cormac McCarthy knows at least 500 for gloom.
McCarthy’s 2006 Pulitzer-
winning, Oprah-approved, postapocalyptic
saga The Road might not be his finest work—in my mind,
that honor still goes to the astoundingly baroque Blood
Meridian—but it’s almost certainly his most focused, with
virtually every sentence conveying some new detail of utter desolation,
rendered great and terrible by the author’s neo-biblical prose.
(Phrases like “He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic
dark… while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out
their reckonings” may confound linguistically, but taken on an
emotional, cumulative level, are just, like, whoa.) After reading
The Road, everything seems strange for a while, like watching
the world through a depressive’s View-Master.
Arriving after delays and rumors of recuts, the long-awaited
cinematic version comes off as a nonstarter—an honorable,
respectful, well-acted adaptation that feels curiously inert. All the
beats are there—with the exception of a few of the most
notoriously grisly bits—but the chaos seems a little too
orderly.
Director John Hillcoat (The Proposition) retains McCarthy’s
somber melding of Mad Max, Dawn of the Dead, and the
Lone Wolf and Cub series, with unnamed Man (Viggo Mortensen)
and Boy (Kodi Smit-McPhee) trudging through the remains of America
toward the ocean while avoiding roving packs of cannibals. (Seen only
in flashback, the Woman gets a little bit more to do in the movie than
the book, possibly because she’s played by Charlize Theron.)
On a performance level, Hillcoat’s film succeeds, with the genuine
chemistry between the two leads bolstered by brief but strong
appearances from Guy Pearce, The Wire‘s Michael K. Williams,
and an agreeably hambone Robert Duvall. (Special credit goes, as it
often does these days, to Garret Dillahunt, who creates an indelible
bogeyman in maybe a minute of screen time.) Where The Road stumbles, unfortunately—and perhaps inevitably—is in its
attempts to adequately reproduce the book’s thunderously grim, somehow
cleansing vision. McCarthy’s basic theme of grinding inevitability
broken up by brief moments of happiness (including the best cameo by a
Coke machine since Dr. Strangelove) remains, but Hillcoat’s
noble effort ultimately falls under the category of things much better
imagined than seen. Instead of The End of All That Is, this is, well,
just a movie. 
Well-written book with a cheesy ending. Can’t imagine the movie could be better. McCarthy is sort of like the american Lars von Trier or Haenke. He is a sadist, but even more, he is uber-masculine, obsessed with what it means to be a MAN, which limits him, pushes him ultimately into sentimentality and melodrama in his prose. Can get very tedious the more you read him, “All the Pretty Horses” being a good example.
Coetzee is better, so much better; similar style but not limited.
Wonder what McCarthy’s relationship with his father is/was like. Not good I’m thinking.
Also significant that the Coen’s chose McCarthy for one of their films. Another duo obsessed with “real men,” albeit probably more out of nerdy self-anxiety than pleasing an elusive dad figure.
Anyway, it does get tiresome, all the macho shit.
the ending is not cheesy. it’s a major part of the theme of the entire book. the man has hope and faith despite it all throughout nearly every interaction with the boy. and he carries that to his end. and it has to mean something at some time. douche.
@1,You do have to have somewhat of a sociological imagination when reading books about characters from another time and place than now days, Seattle.
Not having seen this film yet, I have hunch Andrew is correct in evaluating it as falling under the category of things much better imagined than seen. Still, I can’t wait to see this –
Charlize Theron’s character is more prominent here because Theron’s company optioned the book and produced the film.
I think your penultimate sentence says it all. Some books just don’t lend themselves to cinematic interpretation.
I’ve always hated blowhard snobs like realman.
Realman? Really? Genderality is the core of your argument? If you think about the content and style of the writer, what else would you expect? It’s like expecting Frank Langella to be a good Mary Poppins. You insert your premise like a 13 year old in a brothel. Seems absurd.