Cormac McCarthy is one of America’s greatest storytellers. No author since Steinbeck has been able to illuminate the vast and unfathomable panoramas of the American landscape so well; nor, since Conrad, to locate so adeptly the sinister madness that pervades human culture. The first film adapted from McCarthy’s work was 2000’s disappointing, Billy Bob Thorton-directed effort “All the Pretty Horses”. Consequently, one might expect that Hollywood would once again mishandle the work of one of the literary geniuses of the last century. In the hands of Joel and Ethan Coen, however, these suspicions could not land further from the truth.

“No Country for Old Men,” an adaptation of McCarthy’s 2005 novel, will disappoint few. After a stunning string of flops, including 2003’s “Intolerable Cruelty” and 2004’s “The Ladykillers,” the Coen brothers’ latest venture surpasses stylistic expectations. McCarthy’s work is known for its violence, and the film has plenty of it, but the Coens balance the blood with the weighty mental counterpoint that the author eloquently integrates in his narrative. In doing so, they successfully maintain the author’s voice—keeping the film a philosophical thriller instead of just a thriller—and leave viewers with possibly the year’s best film.

Few directors wield the imagination or the courage to invest in the power of silence the way the Coens have in “No Country.” One of its most noticeable features is what lacks: a soundtrack.

Virtually free of artificial sound, viewers experience the barren vistas of south Texas as McCarthy intended—an antediluvian void where angels exist, but far more devils can be found. In the midst of the total quiet, tension swells, revelations spread, and the great, monolithic equilibrium of chance reigns free.

Set in 1980, the plot centers around Josh Brolin’s character, a hunter and Vietnam veteran who stumbles upon a suitcase containing several million dollars, left in the desert unclaimed when a drug deal goes bad. Brolin quickly finds himself in the crosshairs of unsavory bounty hunters, as the movers of the product look to reclaim their investment.

The homicidal Anton Chigurh, played flawlessly by Javier Bardem (“Mar Adentro”), counts himself among these mercenaries. Bardem, a merciless machine, pivots on the peculiar axis of coin-tossing to decide whether certain victims live or die. Having cornered Brolin’s horrified wife, he asks her to “call it,” in a voice that whispers rumors of the hell that exists inside.

The Gabriel to Bardem’s Mephistopheles is Tommy Lee Jones ’69, the aging sheriff of Brolin’s hometown. Jones follows the trail of bodies just a step behind Bardem, hoping to protect Brolin from the unstoppable evil. Jones provides a psychological grounding point, a man who has seen more years of bloodshed than any should, and is powerless to do anything but crack hollow jokes in the face of the tide that threatens to swallow him.

Like any McCarthy novel, in the battle between good and evil, evil always has a leg up. With a pressurized cattle gun used to punch out equal parts of deadbolts and human gray matter, Bardem’s brand of evil has two legs and an arm up. The film belongs to Bardem, a Hollywood unknown, and given his superhuman portrayal, it is doubtful he will remain unknown for much longer.

A short list of flaws somewhat tarnishes the film. The Coens’ expert use of silence leaves viewers on the edge of their seats for almost the entire movie. One or two moments fraught with unnecessary tension, however, detract from the more pensive scenes. Towards the end, Jones’s character waxes introspective about his looming obsolescence in old age, and his meditation dampens the momentum of the denouement.

But these minor setbacks are of little consequence. Most will be too busy picking their jaws up off the floor to even care.