Do you really need to know anything else about this movie? Because that's actually the only thing of any consequence that happens in it: boobs. AND I'm gay and therefore don't care about boobs, at least in my walking-around, plain old daily life when I'm not thinking about how important they are for nourishing babies or whatever. Which happens, tops - TOPS - maybe three times a week, maybe more if I happen to be at a carnival. Anyway, that should tell you something about how hard-pressed I am to come up with a raison d'etre for this movie.
Really, though, "The American" is a two-hour snoozefest about George Clooney alternately exercising, performing cunnilingus, looking wary, and occasionally (though not NEARLY often enough to generate anything approaching excitement) getting shot at. In Italy, for no discernible reason except that, perhaps, the director (Anton Corbijn, which looks like "Anton Corbin" with a sneeze in it) had some Italian friends to whom he owed favors. Except that half of them (there are about four people in this movie) play Swedes. I dunno; YOU try to understand it. All I know is that I left the theater not understanding anything more (of any consequence, anyway) about GC's character, including little things like, you know, WHO HE WAS OR WHAT HE WAS DOING OR (hahaha) WHY.
Well, we do find out at one point that he makes guns. Because that's what he spends most of the movie doing. Like, a lot. For interminable amounts of time, to the point where I began to get the feeling that Cor-sneeze-bin has a Tom Clancyesque fetish for the minutiae of mechanical processes, esp. regarding weapons. So when he's not feeling up/falling in love with the local strumpet, doing pull-ups in his tiny little villa/hotel-room, or meaninglessly chatting up a local priest who looks like Jabba the Hutt only with less defined facial features, he's making a gun. For someone else. Who
(spoiler) (as if you care)
never even gets to use it. In fact, that's what this whole movie feels like: never-gets-to- use-it.
So George, please, the next time you read a script that says "mercilessly bangs hot Italian chick in delicious red bordello-lighting", please keep it in your pants for long enough to realize that THE ENTIRE FILM IS A BAG OF CRAP.
Namaste.
Really, though, "The American" is a two-hour snoozefest about George Clooney alternately exercising, performing cunnilingus, looking wary, and occasionally (though not NEARLY often enough to generate anything approaching excitement) getting shot at. In Italy, for no discernible reason except that, perhaps, the director (Anton Corbijn, which looks like "Anton Corbin" with a sneeze in it) had some Italian friends to whom he owed favors. Except that half of them (there are about four people in this movie) play Swedes. I dunno; YOU try to understand it. All I know is that I left the theater not understanding anything more (of any consequence, anyway) about GC's character, including little things like, you know, WHO HE WAS OR WHAT HE WAS DOING OR (hahaha) WHY.
Well, we do find out at one point that he makes guns. Because that's what he spends most of the movie doing. Like, a lot. For interminable amounts of time, to the point where I began to get the feeling that Cor-sneeze-bin has a Tom Clancyesque fetish for the minutiae of mechanical processes, esp. regarding weapons. So when he's not feeling up/falling in love with the local strumpet, doing pull-ups in his tiny little villa/hotel-room, or meaninglessly chatting up a local priest who looks like Jabba the Hutt only with less defined facial features, he's making a gun. For someone else. Who
(spoiler) (as if you care)
never even gets to use it. In fact, that's what this whole movie feels like: never-gets-to- use-it.
So George, please, the next time you read a script that says "mercilessly bangs hot Italian chick in delicious red bordello-lighting", please keep it in your pants for long enough to realize that THE ENTIRE FILM IS A BAG OF CRAP.
Namaste.