In his final film, Harry Dean Stanton returns to a character and setting with echoes of his breakthrough lead role in Paris, Texas as a cantankerous, independent nonagenarian in a small desert town having to face up to his own mortality at last. The film consists of nothing more than following him on his daily routine from morning yoga, through coffee in the diner over a crossword and buying cigarettes from the local shop, to repairing to the bar for a Bloody Mary in the company of the regulars. And why should it force in anything more? This is real life, and accordingly the key note that carries throughout it is him looking up the dictionary meaning of 'realism' at the start and then insisting on telling those he meets what it means in practice.
Stanton was to die shortly after completing the film and his artless, moving performance is infused with a corresponding sense of urgency, as good as he ever did in anything before, each small gesture and vocalisation speaking volumes, and benefiting from a wryly witty script that allows a simple story to breathe.
7/10
