This is probably the greatest thing I've seen at the cinema, this side of a man of overly generous proportions chomping down a tub of popcorn faster than you could utter out 'heart disease'.
And whilst it's not the stone-cold history-based definition of a Western by everyday standards, its tinged with the genre's glare anyway.
Sure, it doesn't have the feather-in-their-cap Indians, cattle towns and burlesque dancers flapping their legs to the tune of a broken piano as bar fight brawls out, but...it does have the parched lonely landscapes, the north-off-the-border mexican standoffs, the squinting yoga-wisdom sheriff, the pressurised-canister-flaring shoot outs, the coin-flipping hit man, the 'Delia-Smith-meets-a-seventies-lower-division-goalkeeper' hairstyles and a large enough dashering of cowboy hats to make a Blackpool hen party proud - had the cowboy hats been pink, tacky and covered with glittery fluff that is.
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