Texas is big. It’s also kinda broken, at least in the way David Mackenzie and Taylor Sheridan show it in their 2016 masterpiece. Most people think of a Western and they picture a guy in a dusty hat shooting a revolver at high noon. But Hell or High Water isn't about that. It's about a different kind of violence—the slow, grinding kind that comes from a bank ledger rather than a gun barrel.
It’s personal.
If you haven't seen it lately, the plot seems simple enough. Two brothers, Toby and Tanner Howard, go on a spree robbing small-town branches of Texas Midlands Bank. They aren't trying to get rich. They aren't trying to move to Tahiti. They just want enough money to pay off the reverse mortgage on their family ranch because oil was found on the land. If they don't pay the bank by Friday, the bank takes the oil.
The irony is thick enough to choke on. They are robbing the bank with its own money to pay back the bank.
The Death of the American Frontier
There's a scene early on where a guy is moving a massive herd of cattle across a road because a wildfire is encroaching. He’s tired. He looks at the Texas Rangers—Marcus Hamilton (Jeff Bridges) and Alberto Parker (Gil Birmingham)—and basically asks why his kids would ever want to do this for a living. That’s the heart of the movie. The "frontier" isn't a place you conquer anymore; it's a place that's being foreclosed on.
Sheridan wrote this as part of his "frontier trilogy," which includes Sicario and Wind River. But this one feels different because the villain isn't a cartel boss or a nameless predator. It’s a corporation.
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The cinematography by Giles Nuttgens captures this perfectly. Everything looks bleached. Dehydrated. You can almost feel the grit in your teeth. You see the "Debt Relief" and "Fast Cash" signs plastered all over these dying towns like Archer City and Olney. It’s not just set dressing. It’s a reflection of the 2008 financial crisis that was still deeply felt in rural America when the film was made.
Honestly, the movie works because it doesn't judge the brothers. Toby (Chris Pine) is the "good" one, acting out of a desperate, quiet love for his kids. Tanner (Ben Foster) is the "bad" one, a career criminal who just wants to help his brother. Foster is electric here. He’s unpredictable. He’s the kind of guy who screams at the sun just because it’s hot. But he’s loyal.
Why the Dialogue Feels Real
Most screenplays try too hard. They want to be poetic. This script just wants to be honest. Take the relationship between Marcus and Alberto. Marcus spends the whole movie ruthlessly mocking Alberto’s Native American and Mexican heritage. In a lesser movie, this would just be cheap racism. Here, it’s a defense mechanism. It’s how two men who see death every day communicate affection.
When Alberto finally snaps back, it isn't a grand speech. It's a quiet observation about how the white man stole the land from his ancestors, and now the banks are stealing it from the white man.
Cycles. It’s all cycles.
The Music of Nick Cave and Warren Ellis
You can't talk about the vibe of this film without mentioning the score. It’s haunting. It’s sparse. It doesn’t tell you how to feel; it just hums in the background like the heat haze on a highway. The inclusion of Townes Van Zandt’s "Dollar Bill Blues" or Ray Wylie Hubbard’s "Snake Farm" gives it a regional texture that feels lived-in.
Music shouldn't just be a soundtrack. It should be a character. In this case, it’s the sound of the wind blowing through a screen door that’s lost its hinge.
The Final Confrontation That Wasn't
The ending of Hell or High Water is what sticks with you. Most movies would end with a massive shootout where everyone dies in a hail of glory. We get a bit of that on a ridge, sure. But the real ending is a conversation on a porch.
Toby and Marcus. One retired, one "successful."
They stand there, looking at each other. There’s no resolution. There’s no "gotcha" moment. Toby explains that "poverty is like a disease" passed down from generation to generation. He did what he did so his boys wouldn't have it. Marcus, who lost his partner, is looking for a reason to hate Toby, but he can't quite find a way to justify it.
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The tension in that scene is higher than any bank robbery. It’s two men who realize they are both victims of a system that doesn't care if they live or die.
What People Get Wrong About the Politics
A lot of critics tried to pigeonhole this as a "Red State" movie. That’s a lazy take. It’s a movie about class. It’s about the people who get left behind when the world moves on. Whether you're in a trailer park in Texas or an apartment in Detroit, the feeling of the walls closing in is the same.
The movie doesn't care who you voted for. It cares if you can pay your bills.
Actionable Insights for Film Lovers and Writers
If you’re a storyteller or just someone who wants to appreciate the craft more, there are specific things Hell or High Water does that you should pay attention to.
Specific Geography: The movie feels like Texas. It doesn't use generic desert shots. It uses specific Texas Midlands Bank branches. It uses the "T-Bone" cafe where the waitress is too tired to give you a menu. If you want your story to feel real, make it local.
Moral Ambiguity: There are no "white hats." The Rangers are doing their jobs, but they’re also kind of jerks. The brothers are criminals, but they’re also heroes to their family. Avoid binary morality.
Silence is a Tool: Notice how much is unsaid. Chris Pine does some of his best acting just staring at a field. You don't always need a monologue to explain motivation.
The "Why" Matters More Than the "How": The bank robberies aren't actually that clever. They’re messy. They’re chaotic. But we care because the why is so compelling. Always prioritize the stakes over the spectacle.
If you want to understand the modern American landscape, stop watching the news for an hour and a half and watch this movie instead. It tells a much more accurate story about where we are and how we got here. The land is still there, but the ownership is just a series of signatures on a piece of paper that someone in a high-rise office holds.
Next time you're browsing a streaming service, look past the big-budget superhero flicks. Find the stories that smell like dust and diesel. That’s where the real stuff is hidden.
Check out the cinematography of Roger Deakins in No Country for Old Men if you want to see the stylistic ancestor of this film. Look into the "New Western" genre as a whole—films like Logan or Wind River—to see how the tropes of the cowboy are being adapted for a world that has no room for them anymore. Study the way Sheridan uses "the ticking clock" as a narrative device; it’s the difference between a movie that meanders and one that keeps you pinned to your seat until the credits roll.