The American

He's supposed to fade into the woodwork, be anonymous, a shadow at best. He goes by Jack, or Edward.   It depends.  He travels from snowbound Sweden to sunny Italy after he kills 2 people, one of whom was his lover. Something went very wrong.  Perhaps because he took a lover. Assassins are not supposed to form unions that compromise their missions.  When emotions are involved, it ends badly for everyone. Jack has a superior, a barren, crater faced man who seems to have ice water flowing through his veins. That's what is necessary to get the job done, he would argue.  What Jack has been lacking of late.   He chides his employee for his mistakes, then sends him off with a map and cell to a remote Italian village to await instructions for the next gig. Jack will not be required to pull the trigger this time. Rather, he will rendevous with a mysterious female who requests, with extreme specificity, what sort of firearms and ammunition she requires for an apparent hit. En route to this new assignment, Jack flings the map and phone over a bridge.  He calls the shots.

His destination, when reached, seems to be filled with nosy types.  Instinctually, Jack drives some more, settling on another small town. He tries to go unnoticed. His days are regimented with exercise and the assembladge of guns, piece by piece. But anonymity is difficult for an American in a strange place. He'll return a greeting from a passerby, corrected for his imperfect Italian. An inquisitive elderly priest, Father Benedetto, will take an interest in him. Jack will again drop his guard and decide to join the father for food and drink. Perhaps ill-advised. He'll tell the old man that he is a photographer. Benedetto will size him up, correctly assuming that Jack's an "in the moment" kinda guy. Like many Americans, Jack has no appreciation or regard for history. Their connection will have its professional advantages for Jack, as the priest's son (yes) owns a garage that has plenty of metal.   Raw materials necessary to create an exemplary weapon silencer. 

Jack will also surrender to the flesh and repeatedly patronize a prostitute. It seems harmless; what could be less personal than paying for intercourse? We'll watch them make love (quite explictly at times). But they will have increasingly deeper conversations, each edging into some soul searching and baring. She'll see him out in a cafe and ask him on a real date. Does history repeat itself? Additionally, mysterious, armed individuals lurk in cars and around the corners of ancient villas. How did they know where he was? Are they Swedes, out for revenge? 

Director Anton Corbijn's THE AMERICAN surely stands alone in the mainstream cinema of summer 2010. It belies its carefully cut trailer, advertising itself as a nail biting actioner. It's nominally a spy film, with a plot that recalls countless films before it. Some good (THREE DAYS OF THE CONDOR) and many forgettable. If I were to continue to list all of the plot points, you may think this film to be another disposable thriller to which you might doze off on AMC one late night. As with other such genre pics, the plot is far from airtight. You'll question why a character didn't just put a bullet into another earlier on, why a mission was created with convolution where simplicity would've been better. 

 It's somewhat similar to the times you watch a James Bond film; do you ever wonder why the villain doesn't just kill the agent when he has the upper hand? Instead, the bad guy talks and talks long enough for 007 to formulate an escape plan. If Goldfinger or Blofeld had just shut up already and pumped a shell into Bond, life would've been be much easier for them. But then the movie would be over. We wouldn't have the continuing dramatic arc, hair raising chases, a denouement, not to mention a series of quotable wisecracks and innuendoes. It's pointless to try to apply what we call "logic" to such films (any film, arguably). This is not a Bond film. It is also not an adaptation of a John Le Carre or Martin Cruz Smith novel. It's more like those films from the 1960s that filled the frame with Jean-Paul Belmondo or other stoic existential antiheroes. Or Rene Clement's RIDER ON THE RAIN. 

There is very little dialogue. Deliberately paced is understating things, here. Some like to call it "glacially paced." I felt it was entirely appropriate. It is clear immediately that THE AMERICAN is about textures, landscapes, sounds. Nature is as important a character as George Clooney, who plays the eponymous lead. It's almost as if Terrence Malick had decided to make a hit man flick. Corbijn (who previously directed several music videos and the solid 2007 film CONTROL) never lets his hand become too heavy. He keeps the camera still and the frame wide. Very stylized, but never flashy or pretentious. Carefully and lovingly crafted. Possibly like that woodworker who takes his time to carve out something ornate and beautiful. It is more than a relief to watch a film that isn't so breathless, feeling the need for an edit every millisecond. It allows you to drink it all in, to listen and observe carefully. This, of course, will mean that many viewers will complain that it is "too slow". You'll hear the sighs of your fellow moviegoers, feel their restlessness. I completely surrendered to its groove. It was downright relaxing for me. I had just been to Europe and THE AMERICAN's Italian countrysides looked very similar to the Basque regions in France and Spain. An apt setting for such a quiet movie. 

Is THE AMERICAN filled with Meaning? One could draw an interpretation or two, but that really isn't the point. This is pure cinema, an appeal to your senses. Almost like when Andy Warhol created the world's first 24 hr. film, EMPIRE, a continuous, unmoving shot of the Empire State Building. A bit more happens here, of course. And the film is not devoid of meaning; the butterfly symbolism, for example is elegant in its simplicity. Interestingly, the finale is strangely sort of reminiscent of BLADE RUNNER. Even as, throughout the movie, we gaze upon a very private man's everyday doings quite closely, this is not meant to be cinéma vérité. This is skillfully designed filmmaking, not storytelling. Even though the plot twists and coils towards the climax, the message here is the medium. The cinematic palate. The choices of camera zooms versus not, the decisions of what to show and from what vantage point. A filmed poem rather than that of a taut novel.

Unlike Jack, this film has not downed multiple cups of expresso. There is true beauty in the landscape and in the actors (especially Violante Palcido as Clara, the prostitute, who does actually wear clothes in a scene or two). Everything is artfully photographed. Clooney, for his part, is a bona-fide star; he just iminates high wattage charisma no matter what he does. He stares at rivers, struggles with nightmares, painstakingly assembles rifles. In fact, this film is almost hardware porn-few films have so lovingly presented the creation of weaponry, even the sounds of Jack's work are fascinating. Much credit must also go to Andrew Hulme's precise editing. It's lyrical from start to finish. Walter Murch would be proud. That is not a light statement. If you're seeking a tightly plotted or lightning paced caper, look elsewhere. I must reiterate this. If you enjoy gazing at how the centuries old towns and fields and rivers unblinkingly watch the folly (could it be, love?) of man once again, you'll appreciate the vibe. Your blood pressure may even drop a few digits.