YEATS’S poem, The Second Coming, contains the line: “The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.”
In The International, Clive Owen is all passionate intensity, playing an Interpol agent trailing an unscrupulous bank, which makes a business of financing third world skirmishes.
The film is a white collar action thriller, in which corporate fat cats in their high rises press buttons to create scenes of gut-crunching violence, with Owen’s Agent Salinger invariably playing a role.
The action clocks up some serious air miles as the scene shifts from Istanbul to Milan, Lyon and New York, and back again.
The shadowy IBBC bank takes no prisoners in its quest to deal arms to sub-Saharan guerrillas and broker Middle Eastern missile deals, dispatching the first victim seconds after the opening credits.
The action begins over a conspiratorial exchange between an agent and André Clement, an employee of the shadowy bank.
The Interpol man asks Clement to relax, to which he replies: “I’m more comfortable tense”.
This sets the mood for the taught, restless mood of the film, personified by Owen, who looks jet-lagged enough to have been on twice the number of long hauls the shooting required, with an erratic demeanour suggesting a diet of double espressos and Jack Daniels.
The director, Run Lola Run’s Tom Tykwer, saves the signature piece until last – a shoot-out in New York’s Guggenheim museum.
The timeless corkscrew design gets the full Matrix treatment, with its walls exploding as Owen and yet another IBBC assassin spray and pray among the portraits.
It’s a daring scene as the sacred space gets gloriously bullet-riddled.
The problem with Owen, however, is that he often comes off looking faintly ridiculous as his pumped-up posturing isn’t quite delivered with enough conviction.
A couple of times the audience laughed at the wrong moment when a “Mr Angry” Salinger line fell flat.
This wasn’t helped by the fact that he kept pulling out fortune cookie wisdom, such as “sometimes the hardest thing to do is to know which bridge to cross and which to burn” and “sometimes you find your destiny on the path you took to avoid it” – irritatingly vague, especially when delivered with such wide-eyed gravitas by Owen.
The International delivers high-octane, jet-set thrills that keep the viewer tuned in.
The problem lies with the protagonist as Owen slightly overcooks it with all the furnaces blazing and the action on the boil.
“The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity”, says Yeats. In The International, Clive Owen is all passionate intensity, playing an Interpol agent trailing an unscrupulous bank, which makes a business of financing third world skirmishes.
The film is a white collar action thriller, in which corporate fat cats in their high rises press buttons to create scenes of gut-crunching violence, with Owen’s Agent Salinger playing an invariable role. The action clocks up some serious air miles as the scene shifts from Istanbul to Milan, Lyon and New York, and back again.
The shadowy IBBC bank takes no prisoners in its quest to deal arms to sub-Saharan guerrillas and broker Middle Eastern missile deals, dispatching the first victim seconds after the opening credits.
The action begins over a conspiratorial exchange between an agent and André Clement, an employee of the shadowy bank. The Interpol man asks Clement to relax, to which he replies: “I’m more comfortable tense”. This sets the mood for the taught, restless mood of the film, personified by Owen, who looks jet-lagged enough to have been on twice the number of long hauls the shooting required, with an erratic demeanour suggesting a diet of double espressos and Jack Daniels.
The director, Run Lola Run’s Tom Tykwer, saves the signature piece until last – a shoot-out in New York’s Guggenheim museum. The timeless corkscrew design gets the full Matrix treatment, with its walls exploding as Owen and yet another IBBC assassin spray and pray among the portraits. It’s a scene to appeal to the iconoclasts, as the sacred space gets gloriously bullet-riddled.
The problem with Owen, however, is that he often comes off looking faintly ridiculous as his pumped-up posturing isn’t quite delivered with enough conviction. A couple of times the audience laughed at the wrong moment when a “Mr Angry” Salinger line fell flat.
This wasn’t helped by the fact that he kept pulling out fortune cookie wisdom, such as “sometimes the hardest thing to do is to know which bridge to cross and which to burn” and “sometimes you find your destiny on the path you took to avoid it” – irritatingly vague, especially when delivered with such wide-eyed gravitas by Owen.
The International delivers high-octane, jet-set thrills that keep the viewer tuned in. The problem lies with the protagonist as Owen, with all furnaces blazing and the action on the boil, slightly overcooks it.
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© 09 Miguel Cullen.
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