Film and literature are very different media. Even the laziest of observers will confirm that yes, books tend to be small, oblong and papery whereas cinemas are larger, less portable and serve popcorn. But those are just the surface differences, each art form has its own strengths and weaknesses, especially when it comes to the messy enterprise of story telling.

Books, in direct contrast to their compact size, can tell sprawling stories of emotional depth and complexity. Films require a certain economy of narrative but handle the grand sweep of action and spectacle with natural aplomb. Arguably, books unlock the reader’s imagination, challenging them to fill in the details of a fictional world, while cinema is more prescriptive, locking down those infinite possibilities to a consistent, artistic vision. Neither is the ultimate expression, each merely offers a different aperture to view the story.

And so we turn to John Hillcoat’s The Road, a grim, intimate and mostly successful attempt to bring Cormac McCarthy’s novel to the screen, or as script writer Joe Penhall puts it, ‘transmute the state from ice to water, or water to gas’ while leaving the audience in no doubt it’s the same base element. Penhall asserts that the novel is ‘delivered directly to the blood stream’ and the film attempts the same trick. It can’t rely on McCarthy’s stripped down, bleakly evocative prose but it can offer breathtaking vistas of rotting cityscapes and a dying world, broken and bowed by an unspecified apocalypse.

Viggo Mortesson’s perfectly calibrated performance draws us into this world, wielding sparse, fractured dialogue to devastating effect. Life on the road is sketched out in visceral detail in a series of scenes that unfold as slowly and deliberately as a storm front. By playing to the medium’s strengths in this way, concentrating on visual storytelling and well paced narrative beats, the celluloid Road captures the essence of its literary cousin and delivers a wounding yet strangely uplifting cinematic experience.