Tommy Lee Jones' directorial debut, a contemporary Western set on the Texas/Mexico border, is certainly an ambitious film, beautifully crafted and superbly acted. Unfortunately, the tenuous plot and hazy political undertones contrive to muddy its overall effect, which is a shame is it's very close to being a great film.

Taking as its model Sam Peckinpah's "Bring me the Head of Alfredo Garcia," Jones was evidently not ashamed to borrow from his forebears in the Western genre. The film is packed with nods to Peckinpah, Ford and, during its wackier moments, Buñuel. Jones apparently gave each cast member a copy of Albert Camus' L'Etranger to read in order to awaken their empathy with the subject of alienation.

That is not to say that the film lacks originality. There is plenty to admire about Jones' unhurried direction, and the cinematography (Chris Menges, of " North Country" fame) is equally impressive. It helps that the scenery is so stunning; beautiful, slow-moving shots of the arid plains and sand dunes; fields of yellow daisies contrasting with the ugliness of many of the characters and their squalid lives.

When Melquiades Estrada (Julio Cedillo), an illegal Mexican immigrant, is accidentally shot by newly-arrived border patrolman Mike Norton (faultlessly acted by Barry Pepper), and his body is found in a hastily-dug shallow grave, the authorities are in no rush to track down his killer. "He's a wetback," explains the overtly racist local sheriff (Dwight Yoakham). It is left to rugged and ultra-taciturn ranch-hand Pete Perkins (Jones) to mete out justice, which he does by kidnapping Norton, forcing him to dig up the corpse and frog-marching them both on a soul-searching pilgrimage to the small Mexican town where Melquiades was born.

This is the contrived basis for the road movie, which begins about half way through the film. As though needing justification for the trip they undertake, an explanatory scene is inserted in which Melquiades' extracts a promise from Perkins, in flashback, that he will take him home should harm befall him on American soil.

Once the trip is underway, the pace and tone of the film change considerably. The first half of the story (the more convincing) jumps back and forth continuously, the nonlinear chronology a trademark of scriptwriter Guillermo Arriaga ('21 Grams' and 'Amores Perros'), introducing us to the characters and their dingy lives in the trailer-park homes, small-town cafes and seedy motels of border-town Texas. It is a portrait of racism, small-town politics, affairs and unhappy marriages. Thereafter, the film settles into forward motion and the message seems to become more spiritual. Mortality, self-discovery, forgiveness and redemption become the order of the day.

Westerns with a modern twist are in vogue and, like 'Brokeback Mountain' this one is both classic and contemporary. While it is easy to imagine John Wayne appearing over the next scraggy dune, the viewer is constantly brought into the present by the pervasive presence of TV soap operas or the ring-tone of a mobile phone in the middle of the desert. "I'll buy you a Nintendo," says the border patrolman to his bored young wife (January Jones), the vacuousness of their lives further emphasised by one particularly memorable (though not for her) sex scene.

Indeed, there is a dark humour to proceedings that, at times, verges on the grotesque; most of these moments involve the rapidly decomposing corpse of Melquiades.

But what is the film ultimately about? Arriaga's script makes no bones about the incompetence and corruption of white Americans (in stark contrast to the Mexicans, who are all morally balanced). "How many got away?" asks one border patrolman after a bungled chase. "Three," replies Norton. "Well, somebody's gotta pick strawberries."

Jones does not seem content with mere political posturing. His no-bullshit, soulful character is a splendidly extreme version of many others he has played in the past. Is this how he wants us to see him (much of the action was actually shot on his ranch)? The word "smug" has cropped up in a number of reviews, some critics accusing him of developing his gruff, popular persona. "You can wonder if this seasoned rascal is who Jones really wants to be, or who he might be if he weren't just an actor," said one critic, "but the evocative questions this year fall instead to why this slope-headed paradigm is so attractive to Americans, and why we have lately gone so far as to elect it president." [1]

In the end, who cares if Jones is trying to cultivate an image? Isn't that what all actors/directors try to do? Ultimately, he should be applauded for attempting to create something quirky and intelligent. The film deservedly swept the board at Cannes: Even if its message is somewhat cloudy and the plot somewhat contrived, it is superbly acted, beautifully shot and has enough moments of black humour to leave you satisfied if a little confused at the end.

[1] Michael Atkinson in the Village Voice. "Six Feet Under. Western tale of reburial knee deep in grimy detail, marred by Jones' simplistic persona."