When the title of a film is more vibrant than anything you'll see on the screen, it's an issue.

There's some appreciable serenity and a lot of personal grief on display in Out Stealing Horses, but it's only visible in fits and starts.

What Mr. Moland is after, in tackling an "unfilmable" novel, is evidenced in the visual tone, emotional content and Mr. Skarsgård's mutely eloquent performance.

Out Stealing Horses is far too composed to be an outright failure, but it's precisely that modicum of understanding that also makes it such a lame, frustrating slog.