The American (2010)

The American may be indebted to the existential crime cinema of one Jean-Pierre Melville, but it also owes a great deal to Sergio Leone, and I don't think director Anton Corbijn (who directed the great Joy Division biopic Control) is shy about the fact that even though he's trying to make an existential thriller, he's also making a Leone-esque western that takes an oblique approach to telling its classic story about a protagonist who says more with his eyes than with words. As Herbert Grönemeyer's score guides the viewer through the action of the un-action, I couldn't help but think of last year's fantastic, and similarly deliberately paced "thriller," The Limits of Control. Both films require the viewer to be patient with their hired-killer tropes as the film washes over the viewer instead of attacks them with a barrage of phony action scenes and quick cuts. Apropos to how we feel watching this film, the opening shot, a slow push-in, invites us to ease into this meditative world where ambiguity should not be misconstrued as laziness. There are problems with the film's script (written by Rowan Joffe who penned 28 Weeks Later, the better of the two infected films), yes, but I think they're only pressing if you go into The American expecting another hyperactive spy thriller a la the Bourne films (and, man, how boring would that have been).

The American is very deliberate, yes, but it is never boring. There are obvious comparisons to be made between Alain Delon and Melville's Le Samourai, but I like what Jason Bellamy says when he likens it more to a Steve McQueen film (read his thoughts on this connection; they're fantastic). The performance by Clooney is appropriately terse and mysterious (he does a great way of showing that there's always something go on behind the eyes of Jack/Edward; he's always trying to figure something out). The performance is very star-y, too .What I mean by that is: this is a movie star we're watching. Everything about Clooney in this role exudes cool and sexy (the image of him walking off a train with shades shows how much of a star Clooney is, again, to invoke Jason's comparison, very McQueen-esque) while he assembles weapons to sell to people who are going to use them for bad things. Throw in beautiful women – one of whom, the extremely beautiful Violante Placido, spends most of the time nude – and exotic locations and you have full-fledged throw back to the types of American thrillers made in the 70's. These are the kind of thrillers where American filmmakers, heavily influenced by European cinema, explicated more existential themes isolation and making sense of a modern world.

The American has these aspirations (and how!) by being brilliantly blatant; it's heavy-handed with its themes but never overbearing. What I mean is this: the film is about Jack/Edward (Clooney) and his job and lack of human connection, sure, but it's also about his character trying to find where he fits. He is also called Mr. Butterfly, a name that makes more sense when you see the film and one of its favorite motifs, and much like the endangered insects he claims to be photographing while on his trip to Rome, Jack/Edward is becoming endangered. There aren't too many people like him, and now is the time for him to break free from his profession and make some sense of things. The vibe of the film didn't feel faux-European to me (the on-location filming – as much a star of the film as its big movie star much like the city of Bruges was the star of In Bruges – which was always awesome and beautiful to look at helped) because I was so hypnotized by the film's aesthetic. I didn't care if The American took itself too seriously; I was just glad that it wasn't another Bourne-type movie.

Now, this doesn't sound like anything new, but it's in the execution and the mise-en-scene where this film excels. The film makes it a point to film Jack/Edward in a way that it's clear how isolated, pushed to the side he feels. Clooney is almost always shot in a medium or long shot (or shot from behind with follow-shots) and placed to one side of the frame or the other; there's special attention being paid here to the peripheries, too, as if we, like Jack/Edward, always have to look over our shoulder or to see what's going on. When the film does employ close-ups, it's in a very Melvilleian way in which it's almost as if we're inside the character's head. The framing and deliberate aesthetic and musical score are perfect examples of how the tone of a film can totally render a screenplay's flaws moot. When held to a microscope, The American's plot doesn't really hold up. But who cares? The film isn't about plot. Just like Le Circle Rouge wasn't necessarily about a heist or Le Samourai about a hitman killing people, so too is The American about so much more than a "will-he-won't-he-get-out" type spy thriller.

Am I overrating the film? Perhaps. But I love it when movies take their time to tell their story. I love it when every piece of context doesn't have to be spelled out. The pacing of the film allows for us moments where we can figure out for ourselves who Jack/Edward works for, why he does what he does, and why he's becoming disillusioned with the whole enterprise. There's a great moment near the end when someone enters a building, and we know someone is going to die, but the film cuts back to another scene – a nice moment between two characters – and then cuts back to the person ascending a flight of stairs while a dead body lies at the foot of those stairs. It's a small thing (like that slow push-in to open the film, or the fantastic framing of Clooney in a coffee house where we're watching a car outside instead of the movie star inside), but it's something that is usually taken for granted in movies. It shows not just the art of cutting, but it also shows the art of restraint. I loved everything about this movie; it's one of my favorites of 2010.

DVD Review: Le Cercle Rouge

There’s a certain kind of aura to Jean-Pierre Melville’s films; a kind of gravitational pull that sucks you into the story and places you in the most wonderful kind of reverie. True, there isn’t much that “happens” in Melville’s films, but they are always teeming with a confidence, a certain suaveness that is seen through all of Melville’s characters, especially Corey and Vogel from Melville’s 1970 crime masterpiece Le Cercle Rouge. When one watches Melville you know you are in the hands of a master.

Like all of Melville’s films there is a deliberate pace, with minimal post production, that allows the viewer to sit back and fully take in what is happening on the screen. There may be a scene that goes on for five minutes that contains two people looking at each other, but these scenes are never plodding, rather they allow the viewer to fill in the blanks, drawing their own conclusions about the histories Melville’s characters might have shared. When you watch a Melville film you are in the presence of a master hypnotist; it’s a state of reverie you won’t find in any of the other French New Wave filmmakers – who always seemed to want to distract you with a barrage of freeze frames and other New Wave tactics. Rohmer, Resnais, Malle, Goddard, and Truffaut; all of them shrink in comparison to Melville, and Le Cercle Rouge is a perfect film to admit as evidence.



Loneliness is not what you come to expect from crime/caper films; nor are deep existential themes: themes of chance, happenstance, and a general “what if?” feeling. Where’s the fun in that? Jean-Pierre Melville’s Le Cercle Rouge tackles some of these unconventional themes (for a crime film, anyway); however, it’s also an utter joy to watch in addition to being deeply contemplative.

The film begins with a quote from the Buddhist Ramayana that gives the viewer some insight into how the film will play out. The quote mentions that people who perform the same duties will eventually meet within the red circle. Luck, chance, or happenstance is what guides these people into the red circle. The two characters who encounter each other through chance are Vogel (Gian-Maria Volonte), a recently escaped convict, and Corey (Alain Delon), a recently released convict. Corey knows of a heist that “can’t miss” from a police guard in the prison who is actually friends with Corey.

Corey, upon his release, pays a visit to his old mob boss Rico. Corey steals his gun and some money and then tells him he’ll pay him back. He then leaves to play some billiards late at night (an old stomping ground perhaps), and it is here we see what Corey is capable of doing as he quickly dispatches two henchmen sent from Rico. Corey then buys a car, stops to eat at a restaurant, and there is when he and Vogel will meet.

Vogel has just escaped from a train, being guarded by policeman Mattei (André Bourvil). Mattei knows Vogel better than anyone, and like any good Melville film, the opening of the film is played out with little to no exposition; so, it’s on the viewer to try to fill in the blanks and the assumed long standing cat/mouse relationship these two have. In a wonderfully executed (and mostly silent) escape scene, Vogel finds himself at the diner that Corey is at. He hops in the trunk of his car, and when Corey is at the next check point (the police have set up barricades to look for Vogel at this point) Corey claims that the dealership never gave him the key for the trunk, when at an earlier check point, before Vogel jumped in his car, he opened the trunk, no problem. Again, this is one of those brilliant little moments that Melville stages that says so much by saying so little, and the onus, once again is on the viewer to make that connection.

Corey and Vogel finally meet as Corey drives out into the middle of nowhere and tell Vogel he can come out of the trunk and that he’s safe. Corey tosses him some cigarettes as a sign of friendship, and these two professional criminals can tell just by looking at each other that they can trust one another, and that Corey saved Vogel because of the unwritten code that criminals abide by.

That’s essentially your set up for what is a fantastic, and highly influential, crime film. Vogel and Corey recruit Jansen (Yves Montand), an ex-police sharpshooter to join their jewel heist plans. Mattei, searching for Vogel still, now realizes that he may be searching for more people. He is under a lot of pressure from his boss, the police director (who is pure existential style gives a speech about how all men are guilty) so he visits an old informant friend Santi, the owner of the nightclub, to help him act as an informant and bring down Corey and Vogel.

The plot is intricate, but executed in the most simplistic, minimalist way possible – that is not to say that the film isn’t deep; rather, its simplicity allows for those wonderful moments of contemplation I alluded to earlier: where the viewer is drawing their own conclusions and creating their own past histories for these characters. The film contains scene after scene of brilliantly understated coolness. It all leads to one of the most brilliantly executed and taut heist scenes I’ve ever seen in a film – all without the aid of post production or unnecessary expository dialogue during the scene. The heist scene is at least 30 minutes long, but the scene is filmed as if the viewer were doing the job with the criminals. It’s highly effective and never boring; it’s definitely the highlight of the film, and Melville didn’t have to ‘sex’ up the scene to make it more ‘interesting’ or ‘entertaining’ for the viewer – he trusts the scene to be interesting enough to keep the viewer on the edge of their seat. That is what makes Melville’s films so fascinating: he doesn’t have to say much for the viewer to draw some pretty deep conclusions about the film. Plus, compounding on all of that is the very basic element (and ultimate goal of film) that this film is extremely entertaining.

Melville has had somewhat of a resurgence in the last ten years. He’s now getting the recognition as one of the premiere New Waver’s, and his influence is all over the films of directors like Steven Soderbergh (more aesthetically than anything) and especially Jim Jarmusch (Ghost Dog has a lot of Melville in it, think of the deliberate pace of that film, as well as other Jarmusch films that are existential exercises that say very little and allow the view to contemplate the film has it is happening).

His Influence on Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Twelve, specifically, is apparent: everything from the locations, to the way they pull of the heist, to the way Soderbergh dresses up Casey Affleck to look like Corey. Soderbergh has always been indebted to the French New Wave with his copious amounts of zooms (both pulling in and out) and his love jazzy music accompanying his camera on a long pull in, usually focusing on a woman walking down the street (I’m specifically thinking of the introduction to Catherine-Zeta Jones’ character in Ocean’s Twelve; very New Wave). So, it’s great to see these two great filmmakers taking after a somewhat forgotten (until recently) figure of the French New Wave.

I mentioned earlier about the loneliness found in the film: this is not the style of crime film that Scorsese would popularize a few years later with Mean Streets, then in the 90’s with Goodfellas, and culminating in Casino: all films about professional criminals (specifically Italian mobsters/gangsters in Scorsese’s world) that experience varying degrees of success, only to come crashing down by the films climax. So too do Vargas and Corey experience some good times, mostly in regards to their new found friendship – the heist goes off well, too – but how fitting that Melville end his suave, confident crime film about suave, confident criminals with his two main characters shot and dirtied, their downfall is not as operatic or theatrical as Scorsese’s gangsters, but it’s just as tragic.

As mentioned earlier the film is not merely an existential contemplative exercise – it has style to spare. Melville’s aesthetics are nothing like his fellow New Waver’s, he is far more subtle, but Le Cercle Rouge’s attitude is in the same spirit as Godard’s film, for instance, and you’re always certain that you’re in the hands of a master. Melville gives most of his actors the onus of carrying the attitude and portraying the suave criminals, so that the effect is far more subtle. Consider Corey: he never shoots anyone, but when he holds a gun, he looks like he knows what he’s doing with it. Look at the way Melville’s characters smoke a cigarette – countless filmmakers have probably coached their actors on how to be cool by referencing Melville, and specifically this film. That attitude and style elevate it from being simply a morose, existential character study about the loneliness of criminals (although that is definitely lurking in Melville’s films, especially Le Samourai). Melville, more than anything else, seems interested in the camaraderie, the friendship of this rag-tag group of criminals that occurred through mere happenstance. If Corey’s trunk wouldn’t have been available, then he would have never met Vogel.

About chance: this is something that as a professional criminal you would not subscribe to. Look at the contrast between the meticulously planned heist at the end of the film, and the chance meeting between Corey and Vogel. Melville likes to play with the notion of happenstance and how it ultimately acts as the downfall for these criminals; which makes sense, because really a criminal who relies solely on luck is bound to get caught.

The film is also a masterpiece in mis-en-scene. Consider the still above: Corey is talking with Jansen about selling off the jewelery they just stole. Jansen explains to Corey that he doesn't want his cut of the loot. Corey has freed him of his demons (there is a very bizarre nightmare scene as we are introduced to Jansen, as obviously he did something as a policeman that he wasn't proud of) and that is enough of a payment. An odd thing to say for a criminal, and look at the picture on the wall as Corey and Jansen are talking. There's a gun pointed a Corey, knowing that he is about to set foot in a trap Melville slyly foreshadows Corey's suicide mission of selling the jewelry to someone he's never sold to before. It's a great piece of blocking by Melville, and it's evident throughout his films.

I have a special affinity for Melville: when I was about 13 I was a huge fan of John Woo, especially is beautiful ballet of violence The Killer. When I read an interview with Woo stating that Melville’s Le Samourai was the inspiration for his film, specifically the main character played by Chow Yun-Fat, I immediately ran out to find a copy of Melville’s film. Well the film was a little too slow for this 13 year old, but something did indeed happen while I watched the film: I realized that film didn’t exist just to keep us busy with bullets flying and explosions on screen. My eyes were opened to the possibilities of what film could offer; so, even though I kind of thought Le Samourai was boring then, I stuck with it until the end, and found it to be one of the most rewarding film experiences of my life. It ushered me into a new kind of film-going experience, an experience that now included an array of films from all over the world, and I now saw that film could be thought about during the viewing of the film: Melville’s film invited me, offered me the opportunity to contemplate what the film meant in between scenes, not just when the credits rolled. That’s when I was hooked. So even though my assessment of Le Cercle Rouge may be a bit biased, containing just the slightest taint of nostalgia, I don’t think that’s such a bad thing. It’s a great entertainment, a great contemplative film, and a great example of why the French New Wave was so hugely popular and influential.



There is a remake in the works with Chow Yun-Fat, Liam Neeson, and (gulp) Orlando Bloom as Corey. You can read about some of the details on imdb.