Dir: Anton Corbijn, 2010
Jack (George Clooney) is an assassin (or at least someone who's really good with guns) who's hiding from some murderous Swedes and completing his last job in a small Italian town. His boss instructs him to make no friends and talk to no one. But, of course, no brooding, guarded Clooney character ever escaped the charms of a hooker with heart of gold or the prying eyes of a well-meaning local priest.
The American starts off stark and beautiful, with slow shots of white snow and two lovebirds by a roaring fire. Then there's some gunfire and you think "alright, excitement." And then, there are a whole lot of scenes that go like this, but not necessarily in this order: Jack does sit-ups. Jack does push-ups. Jack does pull-ups. Jack takes a walk. Jack looks pensive. Jack broods. Jack looks suspicious. Jack tries hard not to smile, for this is a serious movie and he is a man with demons. Jack uses a payphone. Jack builds a gun. Jack visits a prostitute. Jack and the Italian countryside star in an extended car commercial. Jack eats. Jack sleeps and wakes with a jerk.
The makers and marketers of The American would like you to believe it is a very Hitchcockian affair. For starters, there's the minimalist poster of Clooney looking intense and running, gun in hand, which hearkens back to the North by Northwest image of Cary Grant running from a crop duster. And let's face it folks, Clooney's the top contender for the Contemporary Cary Grant Award, so the parallels draw themselves. Then there's the not-so-subtle casting of Paolo Bonacelli, who looks more than a bit like Hitchcock himself, as the Father Benedetto. And there are, of course, some super-tense scenes where you expect something jarring to happen, but flinch anyway when it does.
The problem is that Jack's a bad man of so few words that we don't actually care too much about him. Yeah, someone's after him, but so what? The sooner they get him or he gets them, the sooner the movie's over. That's about the extent of my investment in the character for the first three quarters of the movie. So imagine my boredom and chagrin at having to watch him go through the motions of his day in what felt like real-time.
The slowness of the film is a catalyst for The American's second big problem — its recycled playbook predictability. What's a viewer to do with all that mental energy not being solicited by anything on the screen? Why, expend it accurately guessing the "twist," among other plot points (not that it's hard). And, call me crazy, but I kind of want to believe that top notch assassins/spies/whatever Jack and his shady comrades are are at least a little more ingenious than I am. I shouldn't be able to figure out their next moves or see through their charades so easily.
OK, there are some beautiful scenes in this movie. And the acting is good. But, as good as Clooney and the rest are, and as gorgeous as Italy is, The American is still boring and disengaging. It still tries too hard to seem subtle, to hint at things — like Jack's tortured soul — by slamming them in the audience's face. It's still not something I recommend seeing in theaters.
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