May 01, 2025: Rust arrives in theaters and on streaming this week under a cloud that no film should have to carry. It’s impossible to watch it without remembering the on-set tragedy that claimed cinematographer Halyna Hutchins’ life and injured director Joel Souza — a catastrophe that has defined the film more than any plot point or performance ever could.
What we get in Rust, after all the indictments, media scrutiny, and moral questions, is a somber, well-shot, but ultimately modest Western. It’s a tale of redemption between a hardened outlaw grandfather (Alec Baldwin’s Harland Rust) and his troubled grandson (Patrick Scott McDermott’s Lucas) — a cross-generational buddy movie wrapped in 1882 frontier trappings.
Despite the emotional weight it bears and its handsomely bleak cinematography (the joint work of Hutchins and Bianca Cline), Rust fails to transcend its basic bones:
- Baldwin’s performance, though committed, feels out of place, his vocal timbre and contemporary mannerisms clashing with the grizzled gunslinger archetype.
- McDermott, a promising young actor, is stuck in a thinly written role that never fully explores the psychology of a violent teen sentenced to hang.
- The film’s runtime (2h19m) drags under the weight of a meandering, low-stakes fugitive plotline, devoid of real surprises or emotional evolution.
Supporting turns by Josh Hopkins (as a proto-forensics marshal) and Travis Fimmel (as a God-quoting bounty hunter) add flavor but not depth. The musical score, more art-house than outlaw, sometimes feels like it belongs in a different film altogether.
What Rust has going for it is mood, sincerity, and the quiet ambition of an indie Western trying to resurrect a classic American genre. What it lacks is urgency, dimension, and that ineffable spark that separates the merely watchable from the memorable.
It’s not a failure — and certainly not an insult to Hutchins’ legacy — but Rust is burdened by its origins and ultimately undone by its limitations.