What a sad state of affairs. George Clooney is an A-list actor, a hot commodity — and for good reason. He’s got brains and debonair good looks. He can pretty much take any project that he wants, so it’s understandable that he took this one, at least just by looking at it.
The American is about a reclusive but skilled assassin named Jack (Clooney) who gets pulled back into service for one last assignment. All that he has to do is build a gun and stay out of trouble. That means he has to take a sort of chastity vow. Every time he makes intimate acquaintances with a lady, things go awry, people get killed and Jack has to go on the run. After one such incident in Sweden he ends up in a small town in Italy to hide, do his work and nothing else.
The problem is that he is more of a lover than a fighter. Naturally, he falls in love on this assignment and it becomes a huge complication for him and his boss Pavel (Johan Leysen). Finish the job quickly and then get out for good — that’s all Jack wants. He’ll never be happy until he’s free.
Poor guy. He’s the saddest fellow in the land and the sparse script is meant to imply how deeply he feels. He’s thoughtful and fond of butterflies for some unexplained reason. Above all else, he’s exceptionally quiet so what few words he actually says are meant to impart more weight. After listening to him talk, however, they just don’t. He sounds like a simpleton trying to pass himself off in a philosophy debate.
The American has just about everything going for it. It looks like an action movie with very little violence but is set up more like a suspenseful drama even though it’s actually just a love story. It has beautiful actors and locations, but its characters are so stereotypical as to be ludicrous, and the premise is so threadbare it barely sustains any kind of a plot. He has to build a gun. He has to fall in love. He has to retire to be free. He has to look like he’s chewing gum.
Because of all of these hindrances, The American is more of a tragedy. It’s a failed opportunity to give the star his shot at living some kind of James Bond fantasy. The cinematography is stellar, but with the director constantly focusing on endless scenery shots, extended takes of Jack driving through the countryside, it doesn’t matter how lithe George is. One fine love scene does not a good movie make. Every time we see him working out without a shirt on — and it’s more than once — we are only reminded of how banal and mundane the whole movie is. How about more dialogue, more scenes with him actually doing something that shows us his misery? Instead all we get are vague details about motivations but extended discussions about the inner workings of machine guns. If you think that Jack is the only one in pain, guess again. He has the whole audience keeping him company in misery.
