There is dark humor, and then there is the kind of humor in which a bone sticking out of a man’s arm qualifies as one of the lighter moments. No Country For Old Men, a film of dark beauty and sharp formal precision, is not a comedy by any stretch of the imagination; but, like the best films, it proves that an element of absurdity is necessary to chart the best and worst elements of human behavior.

Based on Cormac McCarthy’s grim bestseller, No Country For Old Men explores the explosion of violence that accompanied the growth of the drug trade on the Texas-Mexico border in the early 1980s. “Crime you see now, it’s hard to even take its measure,” Sheriff Ed Tom Bell intones over the gorgeous opening shots of dawn rising over the Texas prairie, which looms as an imposing, primitive landscape. The type of crime Bell describes is personified in Anton Chigurh, a profoundly odd character that, as played by Javier Bardem, combines a hunched, deadpan maliciousness with some pretty questionable style choices—with his vampiric complexion and his helmet-like mop top, he looks like Michael Myers auditioning for the Monkees. Chigurh is combing South Texas for a case containing $2 million in stolen drug money, which has been found and appropriated by a welder named Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin). Sheriff Bell links the money to the swath of violence following Chigurh around the area, and tries to prevent further carnage while helplessly bearing witness to it.

Bell is played by Tommy Lee Jones, who, after a period of star-making roles in summer blockbusters, has settled comfortably into his role as the 21st century’s answer to Gary Cooper; he receives top billing, but is there mostly to react to the proceedings. Brolin plays Moss as a grifter convinced at every turn he's doing the right thing, and as the noose draws in his face tightens with it, into a mask of stoic incomprehension; it's a revelatory performance. But Bardem steals the film, bringing lethal gravity to a character that could have easily become a caricature. His Chigurh is one for the books, an unsavory hybrid of Travis Bickle and Jack Nicholson's Joker.

Much has been made of this film being a “return to form” for Joel and Ethan Coen, the auteur siblings responsible for some of the most memorable filmmaking of the last 20 years. Since their cultural milestone O Brother, Where Art Thou?, the Coens have mostly been treading water with genre spoofs and directionless farce. They've been circling this kind of material for years, though—an aborted earlier project, based on James Dickey’s horrific WWII novel “To The White Sea,” also concerned a hunted man—and, after such a string of listless films, they’ve latched onto McCarthy’s terse prose with a newfound sense of purpose. No Country hurls its characters toward their fates with uncanny velocity, but even beyond its narrative confidence, the value the Coens place on human life removes the film from its thriller trappings to a stark exploration of the human capacity, and tolerance, for cruelty. The majority of thrillers present even major characters as points on a graph, to be dispatched when the story drags; but there are no ciphers here, and neither are there assurances that the people you like will make it to the end credits. Characters are framed as ants hauling over harsh terrain, straining against their own insignificance in a barren world that pushes human life to its periphery. Shot after shot finds people and things pinned to a huge landscape in wide frame, and much of the film’s action takes place in a vacuum—in parking lots, hotels, deserts. Even city streets in broad daylight are made to appear silent and empty.

Which all makes No Country For Old Men sound harsh and depressing—not much of a date movie. But it’s easily one of the most watchable, entertaining films to come out in the last five years, brimming with memorable characters, teeth-grinding suspense sequences, and some well-placed, seriously dark humor (there’s one bit involving a mariachi band that had the Drafthouse audience roaring). It’s the kind of movie that ought to be called a picture, and it’s the best one you’re likely to see all year.