In Anton Corbijn’s “The American,� George Clooney plays Jack, a hit man who wants out. He and a pretty friend are ambushed on a frozen Swedish lake in the opening sequence; the ambushers get it, as does the lady friend. Who had nothing to do with it, as Jack explains to his handler in Rome. The handler (Johan Leysen) sends Jack off into the Italian countryside to lie low.
Jack lies even lower than the handler wanted, ditching the cell phone, choosing a different town, making friends with the local priest, and indulging in a local prostitute. Jack communicates with the handler from the world’s last pay phone, and gets one last assignment — to procure a weapon for the beautiful Mathilde (Thekla Reuten).
Unfortunately, Jack’s not only the go-to gun guy, he’s also the target.
So far, so good, right?
Wrong.
The film suffers from a pace that might be charitably described as “tooth-grindlingly slow.� And with the torpid pace comes the fatal flaw — the audience has plenty of time to wonder about all the inconsistencies in the story. Such as — how can Jack make a sophisticated sound suppresser for the rifle from bits and pieces of junk grabbed seemingly at random from the mechanic’s shop? And where did all those cool bench tools in his little apartment come from?
And how exactly did the Swedish guy know just which little picturesque Italian mountain town to find him? And why do people insist on wearing noisy leather-soled shoes on cobblestone streets and alleys?
And, speaking of grinding teeth, how do they make those itty-bitty cups of coffee last so long? And aren’t there any snaggle-toothed hookers in picturesque Italian mountain towns? And why doesn’t the hit lady wear any underpants?
Buying a movie ticket is entering into a contract. The filmmaker agrees to entertain the viewer, the viewer agrees to suspend disbelief and be entertained.
This film violates the terms of the deal.
The montage isn’t just slow, it’s glacial. The dialoge sounds like everyone just went over the wall from a Trappist monastery, and it’s taking a while to get the gift of gab going again.
It’s not a good sign for any movie, but especially bad for a thriller, when the audience is checking their watches and sighing, as they were at The Moviehouse.
Even more distracting are the sound effects. Tools whirring and scraping. Beef stew bubbling in pot. Rifles being assembled, disassembled, and reassembled — with every “clack� and “thunk� lovingly amplified.
Think of the multiple plot absurdities of Alfred Hitchcock’s “North by Northwest� — the pace and the wonderful sequences render them irrelevant. A more energetic, less artsy approach might have saved “The American.�
Bright spots: Clara, the hooker Jack falls for (played by Violante Placido), is seen fully nekkid, partially nekkid, and darn near nekkid while standing in what looks like a good trout stream.
For the ladies, shots of George Clooney exercising with no shirt on. I hope I look like that when I’m in my late 40s — oh, wait, I am in my late 40s. Rats.
There is a brace of inventive action sequences, and some lovely scenic shots from the picturesque Italian mountain town tourist bureau.
I wanted to like “The American.� It sounded like it was in John LeCarré or Graham Greene territory, and I am heartily sick of the standard action flick and the attendant noisy, inane conventions — heavy reliance on computers and gadgetry, the meaningful expression school of two-shots replacing dialoge, the night streets that have just been hosed down and the ritual denunciation of George W. Bush for whatever evil is in play.
But this “American� is neither quiet, nor ugly — just dull.
“The American� is rated R for violence, sexual content and nudity. It is playing at The Moviehouse in Millerton, NY, and elsewhere.
Cella’s paintings are tucked in almost every available space thoughout Little Store Antiques. L. Tomaino
