SilentDawn’s review published on Letterboxd:
Good god, this is charming. Clint is fucking 91 years old, frail as hell, still up on a horse and rocking a cowboy hat and a sly smile. It's almost absurd how kind and pleasant Cry Macho is. Unlike The Mule or Gran Torino, this doesn't entirely operate as a rumination of legacy or icon status. At least not explicitly. Rather, it seems to fully exist in the present, a gentle and genial reminder of simple pleasures and tender moments. Completely unadorned. Most of this movie is one long second act where Clint and a boy (who Clint is escorting out of Mexico so he can be with his father) hang out in a small village with a cantina owner and her family. He breaks in horses, pets a bunch of animals, talks to 'Macho' the rooster, takes a nap, has a brief romance, dances a couple times etc. It is pure undiluted Old Man Clint. The boy is a terrible actor, but like everything else in this movie, it's all function in service to these breathtaking little grace notes. There's barely a narrative at all. No stakes either. All you get is a godawful exposition dump at the beginning and then you're set to take in the vibes, which are impeccable. There's a stunning shot where Clint Eastwood lays down on the ground to sleep, and his silhouette merges with the soil as the twilight sky radiates above. And that's just one of many that melted my heart. If this movie is about anything, it's a recognition of the beauty in the world around us. Serenity and peace.