WHAT was God thinking when He invented the Australian Outback? Why does He paint his greatest sunsets in a kingdom of flies? North Queensland is the merciless setting of Nick Cave’s gripping 1880s “western”, and it’s one of the most powerful frontier films I’ve ever seen.

Lyrical, too. The inexplicable correlation between the bleak and the beautiful is the unforgettable theme. The opening credits flick through faded black and white photos of a murdered couple, tastefully dressed for the grave. It rapidly transpires that this aimless slaughter was the work of Arthur Burns (Danny Huston), an almost mythical figure in these hard-bitten parts. Bounty hunters such as Jellon Lamb (John Hurt) have been trying to nail him for years, and lost most of their wits and teeth in the process. Huston’s savage outlaw is as elusive and manically erudite as Conrad’s nemesis, Kurtz, in Heart of Darkness.

The responsibility for bringing him to justice falls on the grimy shoulders of Captain Stanley, a ruthless colonial lawman who regrets the day he and his genteel wife (Emily Watson) set foot in Australia. Ray Winstone is terrific in the role. Covered in bluebottles, he corners Arthur’s estranged brother, Charlie (Guy Pearce), in a shoot-out and makes a proposition that the beaten loner cannot refuse. The details are as bald and spare as the dialogue. Charlie has nine days to kill Arthur or their 14-year-old sibling, Mikey, will be strung up on Christmas Day.

“I will civilise this land,” mutters Winstone. His promise looks increasingly hollow, scene by dusty scene. The pioneer folk in the grim town of Winton are a bitter and twisted tribe of tattered clothes and pork pie hats, full of broken dreams and ugly resentment.

Aborigines are treated like scum. And watching someone being whipped to death is top-class entertainment. The director, John Hillcoat, frames the quirky formality of these bigoted souls to haunting perfection.

By contrast there’s almost something romantic about the untamed outlaws. The motley gang who follow Arthur may have the morality of cockroaches, but their respect for the land is almost mystical.

There’s nothing sweet about the choking tension. Cave and Hillcoat crank up the suspense with rare skill, and the cast whittle marvellous performances out of stock parts. Pearce’s stone-eyed Charlie rides into the desert knowing that he will probably die before seeing his brother. Winstone’s compromised Stanley risks his career, and perhaps his life, on the gamble. And Watson wears the pain of an arid marriage and small-town cabin fever in every tilt of her limpid, crumpled face. For a festival contender, this is as visceral as they come.