The American, B+

In Theaters, 103 minutes, Rated R

Everything you’ve heard about The American is true. It’s slow, especially for a summer film marketed as a thriller. Release it in December and call it a drama, and you might not be hearing those complaints. It feels way more European than Hollywood. It’s gorgeous. George Clooney is playing it minimalist down the line. And the story arc is a bit tired. But, for my money, it still packs a punch. Of course, redemption’s the name of this game. Call me a priest, but I’m a sucker for that, as I am for George Clooney, Italian women, and European films shot on location. The American’s got all that in spades, so it’s no surprise I was smitten.

You might know director Anton Corbijn for his first film, the universally hailed biopic of Joy Division’s Ian Curtis Control. It’s more likely you know his photographic work for U2 (think the cover of Joshua Tree and Achtung Baby) or his videos (U2’s "One", Nirvana’s "Heart-Shaped Box"). Here, his photographer’s eyes pay dividends in every meticulously framed shot, wringing an austere beauty equally out of winter landscapes or a mechanic’s workbench. It doesn’t take a photographer’s touch to see the allure in electric Italian beauty, Violante Placido, but it’s hard to imagine how she could look better then she does through his lens. If Corbijn’s pacing is on the slow side, it’s never monotonous, but used to turn the screws on the tension until the springs pop and the violence rips through his carefully constructed world.

George Clooney plays Jack (or Edward, depending), an assassin and specialized firearm designer who’s laying low in an Italian village until his handler (Johan Leysen, I knew him from Swing Kids) can figure out who wants him dead. Clooney has never dialed it down this far before, stripping himself of almost everything but his looks and intelligence. Don’t let that fool you into thinking he’s not acting. Watch him closely and you’ll see the exact rhythms of a highly organized brain on display in every nuanced motion. The way he picks up tools, lays out metal, arranges his life. And notice the haunted, hunted look that never leaves his eyes. While in town, he makes an unlikely friend with a local priest with a past and starts frequenting, then dating, a local prostitute, the fore-mentioned Ms. Placido. Placido is perfection here, bringing a jolt to every scene, and, more importantly, making the closing scenes of the film plausible.

Corbijn’s symbolism can be a tad heavy-handed (calling Jack Mr. Butterfly TWICE, for instance), but he wants you to know that he’s interested in redemption and transformation-- that none of us is fully defined or limited by our pasts. Not an assassin. Not a prostitute. Not even a priest.