Two stars. Rated R, for strong violence, nudity, sexuality and relentless profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 7.28.17
British author Antony Johnston
obviously grew up reading John Le Carré, because his 2012 graphic novel — The Coldest City, with moody art by Sam
Hart — is laden with the sort of spycraft that George Smiley would have
recognized: bleak cynicism, operatives known only by code names, squabbling
between Intelligence Agency factions, cut-outs, traitors and double-crosses.
The story takes place in Berlin
in November 1989, immediately before and after East and West are unified. An
undercover MI6 agent is killed trying to bring invaluable information back to
the British: a list believed to identify every espionage agent working on both
sides of the wall. Veteran undercover operative Lorraine Broughton is sent to
Berlin, to retrieve the list and identify her colleague’s killer; her task is
complicated by the chaos of mass demonstrations calling for unification, while
KGB loyalists resist with increasing viciousness.
Definitely a hook on which to
hang a slick, thoughtful espionage saga.
Too bad director David Leitch and
scripter Kurt Johnstad didn’t see it that way.
They’ve essentially re-cast
2014’s loathsomely violent John Wick
with a female lead, and the briefest of nods to genre spycraft. (No surprise
there, since Leitch was an uncredited co-director on the first Wick.) The distinction is immediately
obvious with a name change — Atomic
Blonde — that more accurately reflects star Charlize Theron’s luminously
white hairstyle, and the luxuriously wild outfits that she wears so well: most
of them also vibrant white, with striking black accoutrements. Costume designer
Cindy Evans, take a bow.
The Berlin setting is persuasively
reproduced by production designer David Scheunemann; cinematographer Jonathan
Sela deserves equal credit for gritty street scenes, strobe-lit nightclubs and
shadow-laden noir tableaus. No question: This film looks terrific, and feels
like the ideal backdrop for cloak-and-dagger subterfuge.
But Leitch has no finer
sensibilities. His film is flashy trash: violent, tawdry and depressingly
nihilistic. Midway through this two-hour exercise in brutality, it becomes
impossible to keep track of who’s good, bad or in between; Johnstad’s script
keeps changing its mind, seemingly on every other page.
Not that Leitch’s target audience
will care, or likely even notice. They’ll turn up to watch Theron punch, pummel
and pulverize all who dare interfere with her mission. She does this with
considerable style; as a longtime stunt and action coordinator making his first
credited feature debut, Leitch definitely knows his way around close-quarters,
all-stops-out melees.
One of the best comes during the
third act, as Theron’s Lorraine struggles to protect a defecting Stasi agent
from half a dozen (eight? 10?) KGB thugs. The skirmish eventually boils down to
Lorraine and one relentless opponent, both beating each other mercilessly — the
punishment looking far more credibly painful, than often is the case in such
films — and both ultimately exhausted, spent and barely able to raise an arm,
let alone throw another punch or kick.
It’s a darkly serious skirmish,
because the stakes are dire, but there’s no question that Leitch stages it for
macabre humor.
Too bad he isn’t that inventive during
the rest of his film. Ultimately, Atomic
Blonde is just another callous, exploitatively self-indulgent dose of
wretched excess that hopes to pound its audience into submission. This process
is accelerated by Tyler Bates’ gawdawful loud score, and the dozens of period
punk and New Wave anthems — by David Bowie, Public Enemy, Ausschlag, Siouzsie
& The Banshees, Marilyn Manson and numerous others — that similarly shriek
their way throughout the film.
Ahem.
The story takes place via
flashback, as Lorraine is de-briefed after her tempestuous visit to East and
West Berlin, by MI6 investigator Eric Gray (Toby Jones) and section Chief “C”
(James Faulkner); a clearly annoyed Emmett Kurzfeld (John Goodman), visiting from
the American CIA, also sits in. Lorraine takes them back a week, to when she
was sent to liaise with reckless Berlin station chief David Percival (James
McAvoy).
Percival has been planted within
the German spy community for so long, that he has “gone native,” becoming as
aggressively duplicitous and hedonistic as the deceitful, casually impetuous
sociopaths with whom he regularly consorts. Calling him unstable is the
grossest of understatements, but is he trustworthy?
McAvoy attacks the role with relish,
mayonnaise and the entire contents of the condiments shelf, making Percival a
grotesque: more caricature than human being, and nobody to be taken seriously.
He and Lorraine frequently spar, and trade flinty gazes — something they’re
both skilled at — but it’s ultimately no more than movie posing.
The script does better with novice
French intelligence agent Delphine Lasalle (the exotic Sofia Boutella), who
surveilles Lorraine from a distance, until deciding that she can be trusted.
(Or can she?) (Alternatively, can Delphine be trusted?) Theron and Boutella
bring genuine chemistry to the wary dynamic between Lorraine and Delphine,
although — given Leitch’s sensibilities — this is mostly an excuse for a
hot-hot-hot sex scene between the two
women (Theron, now as always, being far from shy).
Meager clues eventually point to
a terrified Stasi intelligence officer code-named Spyglass (Eddie Marsan, an
always reliable character actor), believed to possess the microfilmed list of
Berlin operatives. Information is supplied to both sides by the enigmatic
Watchmaker (Til Schweiger), a craftsman who conceals data within the inner
workings of expensive wristwatches. (Hey, why not?)
The Watchmaker is a character
who’s just, well, there. No further
explanation thought necessary.
It’s difficult to determine
whether Lorraine makes actual progress; the meager plot elements in Johnstad’s
script are little more than vague filler in between Theron’s wildly aggressive
fight scenes. Leitch and stunt director Sam Hargrave choreograph these melees
with a distinct nod toward Jackie Chan, as Lorraine resourcefully battles her
opponents with a variety of “found” objects (love the sequence with the fire hose).
The resulting skirmishes gain
additional oomph from editor Elísabet
Ronaldsdóttir, but it’s important to note that they’re not built solely via
staccato cutting; Leitch “holds” on the action scenes for extended periods,
granting a suspenseful intensity akin to the mano a mano melees in the Jason Bourne series.
But there’s such a thing as too
much, and — Theron’s athletic physicality notwithstanding — the results grow
redundant and tiresome long before we reach the third act, which is just more
of the same (as was the case with both John
Wick entries). The overly embroidered depravity doesn’t help.
Ultimately, Leitch just can’t get
out of his own way, when it comes to telling this story ... not that Johnstad’s
script offers much of a story to tell. You’re much better off seeking the
Johnston/Hart graphic novel.
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