Here’s The American in 9 words:
Michael Clayton bores himself to death eating hooker pussy.
Don’t get me wrong, there is some nuanced shit going on here in terms of film-making. The Italian countryside is shot beautifully. The cinematography captures the adroit struggle of the terrain against itself. Is our hero conflicted? Me thinks! Me thinks! Most of the hills are barren, dry, while the only scenes with vegetative life are near the river, which coincidentally is where Mr. Clayton has his most meaningful interactions with women. Maybe the director is trying to say something about how women and water both have the power to give life (rumor has it they have vaginas). I don’t know. I didn’t go to school for five years to get a B.A. in English to jump to those kind of drastic conclusions about metaphor. Especially from a director whose previous experience has been Rockumentaries.
Heavy handed symbolism aside, and despite the fact the trailer made this movie look like a literati’s Bourne, this is in fact a character study. But character study requires intimacy that makes one uncomfortable for relating to a character’s eventual perversion. I never related to Michael Clayton in The American except when he told the fat whore she would not satisfy his need for a jizm cave. The sense this made was undone within a few scenes when Clayton actually goes down on his H.O.C (hooker of choice). She is a love interest, true, but she’s also a prostitute that fucks strangers for money. Call me old fashioned but I believe such unclean women should be purified by fire. And that a serf’s place is in the field loving his toil. What the fuck was I talking about?
Wait. Sweeping vistas of the Italian countryside? George Clooney’s working out shirtless? Same notorious bachelor falling head over heels with a hooker for her heart of gold? No shaky-cam. Only fifteen gunshots? Six fired at plants? No super hot young women? Did I mention he has a butterfly tramp stamp? Is this…is this…a chick flick?
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