Revenge thrillers are a lot more interesting when the characters involved have actual personalities, as opposed to being one-dimensional rage machines.
With respect to the latter, Wrath of Man is a recent case in point: sheer boredom.
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| With a successful assignment behind them, Moody (Samuel L. Jackson) and Anna (Maggie Q) turn their attention to a long-dormant mystery ... little realizing the consequences of this seemingly innocuous investigation. |
If star Maggie Q were a better actress, the results here would be similarly noteworthy. Sadly, her thespic limitations are a distraction, particularly when in the company of seasoned scene-stealers such as Samuel L. Jackson and Michael Keaton.
Following a brief prologue that tips its hat to the core premise in 1994’s Léon: The Professional, we’re introduced to Anna (Maggie Q) and Moody (Jackson). They run a rather unusual extermination business, with high financial returns for the successful removal of two-legged cockroaches. They’re always successful.
Indeed, Moody taught Anna everything he knows. And she was an eager pupil.
By day, she’s an antiquarian book dealer — intelligent, refined and shrewd — with an adorable street-corner London shop. She also spends as much time as possible with Moody, whom she adores as a surrogate father. She’s troubled by the implications of his relentless coughing jags, but maintains a neutral face while (for example) celebrating his 70th birthday with a particularly special gift. (Guitar geeks will salivate.)
An old case has been nagging Moody; he asks her to investigate somebody who went off-grid back in the 1990s. Back in her shop, Anna is approached by a cultivated and sophisticated gentleman who introduces himself as Michael Rembrandt (Keaton). He also knows books; they quote Edgar Allan Poe to each other. Their banter is superficially flirty, but the undertone is tense. Deadly.
Keaton makes excellent use of his arched eyebrows and condescending, reptilian gaze. Campbell wisely lingers on it.
Rembrandt departs; Anna watches him thoughtfully. (Credit where due, Maggie Q does contemplative thoughtfulness pretty well. Her line deliveries, alas, are another matter.)
Hours later, all hell breaks loose.
It soon becomes clear that everybody even remotely connected to the search for this long-missing somebody, is being assassinated. Sometimes quite viciously. The nastiest wet work is handled by thugs supervised by the mildly sophisticated Duquet (Ray Fearon). But somebody else is pulling the strings: a Big Bad who isn’t revealed until the third act.
Somehow, it all leads back to Vietnam, where Moody first met Anna when she was a traumatized adolescent (and well played, if only briefly, by Eva Nugyen Thorsen).
As is de rigueur in such stories, Anna endures all manner of punishment during the first two acts, most often giving as good as she gets. Maggie Q is reasonably credible at such kick-ass stuff, having established that cred during three seasons of television’s Nikita. Stunt coordinator Diyan Hristov choreographs the melees and skirmishes with verve and creativity.
And, throughout, Rembrandt pops up at odd moments. We’re never quite sure what to make of him, and he and Anna aren’t sure what to make of each other; the resulting dance has the erotic charge of a sexy pas de deux, and the hypnotic menace of two circling cobras. Keaton and Maggie Q work well together, and Campbell knows it; he grants plenty of screen time to each encounter, while Wenk’s script teases us with uncertainty.
Patrick Malahide is deliciously loathsome as Vohl, a corrupt businessman who may hold some answers. The always engaging Robert Patrick pops up as Billy Boy, a former mercenary turned biker boss, who knew Moody back in the day.
Jackson, as always, is a hoot ’n’ a holler. More crucially, age hasn’t diminished his capacity for sudden, persuasively lethal bursts of violence.
Production designer Wolf Kroeger’s efforts are striking: from the warmth of Anna’s book shop, to the icy chill of Vohl’s large, ultra-modern office. Most of the location work was done in Bucharest — filming wasn’t able to take place in Vietnam — and cinematographer David Tattersall gets similar mileage from the way he frames the city’s classic and modern architecture.
Even when nothing of consequence is taking place, Campbell and his team ensure that what’s on the screen — backgrounds, character placement and so forth — is visually dynamic.
The Protégé may not have the suspenseful excitement and high-octane charge of, say, the Matt Damon Bourne films, but it’s certainly better than average: a perfectly acceptable way to spend a couple of hours.
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