The American
I somehow managed to skip Monday's blog entry, so now I feel as if I owe you. To repay this debt, I'm going to do two posts today: this movie review, and then my normal one, which will address my travels as I begin a nine-day California trip.
Warning: spoilers ahead.
When the studio didn't offer previews for The American until only a few days before its release, many wondered if the film was a dud they were trying to hide. The real answer, as many critics have observed, is that this movie is a European art flick that happens to star George Clooney. That heritage is evident in both the film's strengths and, unfortunately, its many weaknesses.
On the plus side, the movie is beautiful, with every shot worthy of closer inspection. The acting is uniformly strong and understated. The themes are serious and worthy of consideration.
The problem is, the movie is so stereotypically an art film that you can predict almost everything about it.
What does every character do before taking any action? Sit, stare into space, and think. Every reaction shot is twice as long as it could be.
With what character does Clooney fall in love? The prostitute with a heart of gold and a bangin' body who dresses in Eurotrash chic she could never afford.
Who is the main antagonist? The life Clooney has chosen, as personified by the man who pays him.
Right up to the last shot, in which an endangered butterfly slowly flies upward as Clooney dies, his soul similarly ascending from the redemptive power of hooker love, The American embraces every art-house cliche. At this tender ending, most of us in my group were laughing and exclaiming, "No! Really? The butterfly?"
By every traditional metric of film quality, The American is a much better movie than the other flick I caught last weekend, Machete, but, man, I don't care if I never see The American again, while I've already asked Amazon to email me when the DVD of Machete hits the market.
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