I wrote a post about Daniel Woodrell’s superb Winter’s Bone three years ago. When I heard that the book was being made into a movie, I wasn’t real excited. It seemed the sort of yarn best experienced in Woodrell’s lean prose. Mostly, I damned sure didn’t want to see some big-name starlet stylishly slumming and making it all about them.
As is sometimes the case, I needn’t have worried. The movie is everything the book was: poignant, bleak, pitch perfect in every detail. It’s out on Netflix now, so if you haven’t yet seen it, do so. And if this film doesn’t get some sort of mention around Oscar time, then the Oscars are dead to me.
Netflix noir from down under
We’ve seen these skits before
Now a major motion picture
The guns of New Year’s