It’s a pertinent moment, a glimpse of a stone-cold classic motion picture in what I feel is a stone-cold classic motion picture. I’d rate both movies as being perfect masterpieces, but the convergence of the two feels very appropriate for other reasons. With his spaghetti westerns Sergio Leone, a foreign outside eye, deconstructed American mythology and, with Once Upon A Time In The West especially, grappled with the authenticity of a nation’s identity and how it was built. There’s a touch of that sort of activity happening in Anton Corbijn’s second feature film. When the café owner proudly proclaims “Sergio Leone! Italiano!”, you almost expect the main actor to respond with “George Clooney! American!” in line with his image as a shining icon of the USA. He’s a handsome and masculine rugged individual with a sparkling smile associated with Hollywood entertainment, A-list glamour and Democratic idealism. Clooney is, therefore, perfectly cast as the enigmatic title character of The American, not just because he is such a compelling and excellent actor, but because of those associations. Like Leone playing with Henry Fonda’s persona in Once Upon A Time In The West or Alfred Hitchcock (British), screwing with the Jimmy Stewart type, Anton Corbijn is a European twisting an established all-American persona. Clooney’s ‘Farfalla’ is a foreigner in exile in the rustic Italian rural backwaters, but we don’t get the ‘loud, obnoxious American tourist’ clichés. We also aren’t forcefed a mass of trite Italian stereotypes, and the shadows of World War II occupation or mafia movies don’t cloak the encounter of the two national identities either. Clooney’s character, an assassin, really has no identity. He has multiple names and is a confused contradiction. He says he’s no good with machines but is a master craftsman with obvious expertise, whether he’s building a rifle or fixing up a broken down automobile. The only consistent handle that anyone has on him is the fact that he identifies as American and, as above, he doesn’t impress himself as an archetypal Yank. Altogether, he’s just a blank individual without a past, a quiet loner whom no one can penetrate and whose personality is repressed below conditioned reticence. He and Jean Reno’s Léon of The Professional are both very alike in that they are introverted, meticulous killing machines whose work has led them to alienating loss and tragic isolation. Léon’s personality and true identity are suppressed and hidden behind those shades. The only expressions of humanity on display are in his taste for milk, his affection for his pet plant and his adoption of Natalie Portman’s Mathilda. With Jack in The American we get even fewer hints. The protagonist’s reach for love and empathy is in the soul connection he tries to kindle with Clara (Violante Placido). Otherwise we get scant few details or indication of character, even in his conversations with the priest, Father Benedetto. He’s a bare void of a figure whose existence is built on violent deeds and those events are brief and sporadic. The action in The American stirs up thoughts of Kurosawa and Peckinpah movies (Sam Peckinpah being another director concerned with dismantling myths about America and ‘heroic’ bloodshed). It happens in short, messy bursts without glamour or triumph and then there’s chilling emptiness. What the character does have, though, is a few tattoos. They don’t provide any clues to help us break through the mystery, but the butterfly positioned at the top of his back resonates. That’s the mark that comes to define him as he develops his relationship with Clara (who calls him “Signor Farfalla”), that the camera keeps on catching sight of and that symbolically starts to really mean something as The American progresses towards its later stages. A fragile, pretty little thing below the facade he wears, the image of a butterfly suggests that there is something more to this figure, a human being of feeling and emotion alive underneath. His exile and relationship with Clara come around to make him consider quitting and bring Signor Farfalla hope that his trapped soul can find freedom. But breaking free seems impossible when, butterfly effect style, executions he enacts in Sweden ripple out and disturb his Italian solitude. As a lone assassin, he’s one small figure who’s beat out little movements with far-reaching impact. The generated waves of death that surround are now overwhelming. No one can get close and he can’t escape himself. Corbijn’s profound film isn’t about an American at all. It’s about being human and being dehumanised. James’ previous column can be found here. Follow Den Of Geek on Twitter right here.
