The American

The American is a misleading title; very little of the film's main character, an elusive assassin played by George Clooney, recalls America. Jack, as he is first called, is seen first at a cabin in quiet, rural Sweden cupping a glass of wine and he later moves on to a silent medieval Italian town so old and austere it seems itself an antique. He speaks little and dresses in rusty, dark tones, sporting Italian accessories. Nationality itself, as far as the plot is concerned, seems more a matter of landscape than politics. The director, Anton Corbijn, whose repeated geometric patterned village-scapes and broad, flat monochromatic squares of grass, snow and sky recall early Mondriaan, actually is Dutch. Even the opening credits swelled with Italian names. Knowing none of these things going into the film, and seeing the title and Clooney's art deco, suited silhouette on the poster, chasing down the end of the summer season with a Walther PPK, you might be surprised by what follows.

Corbijn is a photographer by profession and it shows in this cinematography; often characters seem the background of a larger portrait of a moody room, an empty bar or forested stream. The assassin, who goes by Edward-sometimes-once in Italy, pretends to be a photographer. So begins a long meditation on the complicated juxtaposition of photographers with their subjects. The assassin, like the photographer, fits nicely into this structure: he must get close to his subject but not so close as to obscure his perspective and thereby ruin the job. Both exist just barely outside of the world which they handle, fondling a flame that will either burn them or fade away. The American deals more than anything else with that peculiar aloofness, which turns out to be somewhat un-American.

This aloofness reveals itself in the slow ritual of work. His job is to make a specialized rifle, which leads into a thorough display of the kind of things otherwise hidden in action films: waiting, watching, scrounging for parts, and then patiently assembling the rifle itself. The particular style of his work, and the way it is filmed, assumes a decidedly European flavor. He never looks out of place; never makes a false step and speaks passable Italian. When he meets his contact at the bank of a stream to test the rifle he brings picnic fare as a cover. As he empties the bottle of Muscatto his contact points out that the wine they are not drinking has been chilled. The American shrugs and says, "Italian Police."

Like photography, whose work only minimally requires the actual taking of photographs, assassination seems to seldom involve the actual taking of lives. Preparation, and recuperation, occupy most of the assassin's time. When he is not meeting or calling contacts, he files, hammers, melds, fits, and polishes. Only a few steps away from his work desk, he does similar work on his own body, which looks as lean as the film does. These reflections, like those of the mirrored work of photography and assassination, pervade the action. What seems formally like minimalism-sparse dialogue, stylized silence, taciturn streets- becomes much grander taken all together: loneliness assumes a more austere character; aloofness seems essential for art, not only art-making. Austerity and reticence are not exactly inviting characteristics, and the collective sigh (or groan) released by the theatergoers as the film faded to black recalled the sounds of having been rejected. One man behind me began a subdued sort of angry shouting. The couple beside me, who arrived happily enough, looked as though they had just broken up. My grandmother went out of her way to contact me the next day to tell me not to go see it. I certainly felt odd as the final credits appeared, as though I'd been caught in a building moments before it collapsed.