Guy Pearce wants his car back, eyes shark-black-determined and sweat-yellowed skin like leather. He's the soulless enigma that holds the sparse minimalism of The Rover together and that jet gaze and manifest twisted destiny is fascinating. He breathes too fast, his weathered shell cannot contain his psyche and is bursting at the seams of old rope holding together patchwork, fraying skin. Like Michôd's other efforts, there is a brutal, intriguing opacity: characters only speak when they want to and when they do, they don't reveal much. And here in The Rover, especially, there is no time to spend sleuthing around in the webs of existence... "why" will get you rotting and picked by vultures and to lean into Pearce's is to open a cavern too dark to keep looking within - he has extinguished all light and he will do it again. One of Pattinson's first post-Twilight efforts as the half-witted Ray is this nameless wanderer's burden. They stumble ball and chain across white entropy like George is Lennie's God and Lennie is a necessary encumbrance. The pure weight of human meat has a price now and every day you become cheaper and cheaper to your loved ones. 50 dollars and make it US.

...leave these parched souls...

You had best believe in ghosts these days, those phantoms you've shed from your steaming skull. You had best believe in ghosts, it means that you're still out there somewhere.