The book clearly puts the film, which I have already seen first, into perspective. Neither of them is a work of art likely to provide timeless insight into the human condition. However, the story holds well. The novel is short and to the point most of the time. The narrative weaves its way through maybe a hundred short paragraphs, which succeed at getting across the notion that life is no longer held together by the solid assumptions, not to mention actual physical reliances, of the old world.
The harsh new circumstances have conspired to pare down the characters of the man and the boy down to the barest urges, but to no avail: as the boy puts it, they are the ones carrying the fire, there are certain red lines they would rather die than cross.
The conversation between father and son is spare, wise, almost, dare I say it, zen-like. The author can be forgiven (and I use the term for rhetorical purposes only) for the odd philosophizing, which at any rate is kept to a minimum.
The film adds little to the story, but I don’t think it’s unnecessary. For one thing, it helped me picture the bleak reality of the world the book describes. And Vigo Mortensen and Kodi Smit-McPhee’s performances are quite decent, as far as I could see from under so many layers of hair and rags.
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