Having already reviewed the Oscar-winning film of Cormac McCarthy's book, I thought it would be interesting to read the source novel and see how good a job the Coen brothers had made of their adaptation. Most of the major critics around the world praised the film up to the eyeballs but, for my money, it was riveting for around three quarters of its length but took a curious misstep in its final furlong where it seemed to head up a bleak back alley and was left crying out for a shot of redemption that never came. The result had me shuffling out of the cinema feeling decidedly cheated. It had been so close to wonderful.

McCarthy’s novel follows a similar trajectory – it opens with action and rarely lets up for the first two thirds. It’s clear from the get-go that the Coens have produced one of the most faithful screen adaptations in film history and that this might just be the problem; because what you can achieve in the narrative of a book sometimes simply will not translate into visuals, no matter how hard you try.

From the opening chapter it’s all right there – the taut, economical style grabs you by the lapels and pulls you headlong into a terrifying story of murder and pursuit. The dialogue feels absolutely authentic – this isn’t so much hard boiled as microwaved within an inch of its life and most of the best lines have made it into the screenplay, lifted wholesale and pasted right in. In Anton Chigurh, McCarthy has created a memorable villain, a man with a relentless determination to pursue his quarry to the very end and Javier Bardem nailed that character absolutely; there’s no question about that.

But where McCarthy manages to supply the redemption I spoke of in reams, there just isn’t any on offer in the film, because you can’t really show it. That comes courtesy of a series of monologues from the character of Sheriff Bell (again, superbly played by Tommy Lee Jones in the film) who pops up every few chapters to provide a meditation on the nature of evil and a lament for the passing of a code that he believes once existed in America. But of course, long monologues do not make exciting cinema, so the Coens stripped Bell’s observations down to the short piece that provides a wistful coda in the book; and it’s just not enough to send viewers home feeling satisfied. Well, not me, at any rate.

So, in short, full marks for the Coens for coming as close as they did, but no cigar for the countless critics who praised the film out of all proportion and never really acknowledged its shortcomings as they should have done. Anybody who fancies a blistering read should check out McCarthy’s novel – it really is mesmerising.