This quietly sardonic crime thriller demonstrates anew the captivating power of star wattage.
Because — to be blunt — writer/director Jon Watts’ film wouldn’t be such a much, absent George Clooney and Brad Pitt.
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| Despite competitive wariness, two professional "fixers" — Brad Pitt, left, and George Clooney — reluctantly admit that they'll need to work together, in order to clean up what has become an increasingly troublesome mess. |
Watts clearly designed this project with them in mind, playing to their unruffled charisma, and the fact that both — along with their characters — gamely make the most of being in their early 60s. You’ll also detect a strong echo of the Danny & Rusty vibe from Ocean’s Eleven and its two sequels, including some familiar bits of dialogue: “What’s the play here?” (Clooney) and “I don’t work that way” (Pitt).
Or, for those with longer memories, the similarly well-bonded banter between Paul Newman and Robert Redford, in 1969’s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
But it doesn’t begin that way here.
Watts opens his story with a bang, as ambitious New York politician Margaret (Amy Ryan), blood splattered all over her dress, finds herself in a fancy hotel suite with the body of a young stud. Panicked, knowing full well that this could destroy her career, she dials a number listed in her phone solely as a pair of brackets.
That reaches Clooney’s anonymous character — known solely, from this point forward, as “Margaret’s Man” — who shows up sporting a fashionable black turtleneck, leather coat ... and latex gloves, along with assorted other, um, tools of his trade. That would be “cleaner,” or “fixer,” or “calmly methodical fellow who makes problems go away.”
He has barely begun to work when his apparent twin (Pitt) shows up: similarly dressed, clearly in the same line of work, and equally irritated to discover that he has competition. He has been summoned by hotel owner Pam (Frances McDormand, making the most of her brief voice-only phone performance). She has all her rooms bugged and on camera, and wants this mess cleaned up for the same reason: to avoid bad publicity.
Pitt’s character, equally anonymous, is subsequently known as “Pam’s Man.” (Or perhaps we should just call them George and Brad, since Watts clearly wants us to identify with their signature screen presence.)
Clooney and Pitt make the most of the wry squabble over the “best way” to deal with this problem, how best to clean up the room and dispose of the body, and so forth ... while poor Margaret frets, gasps and blinks in wide-eyed helplessness.
(I suspect an actual seasoned politician would be more calm and self-assured, but Ryan had to play the cards that she was dealt.)
Pam’s Man lets his, ah, competitor do all the work, preferring to crack wise from the sidelines; Watts milks every grisly detail for maximum gallows humor. The best bit — we chuckle, despite ourselves — involves the clever manner in which Margaret’s Man employs a luggage trolley to get the body into his car trunk.
(This film’s title is part of the joke: two men so singular — each a lone wolf — that they cannot be designated as a conventional plural.)
The story subsequently expands from there, involving a similarly professional underworld operator who can make bodies go away (Poorna Jagannathan); a young drug courier dubbed The Kid (Austin Abrams), bearing four bricks of heroin; and a gaggle of violent Albanians led by the bloodthirsty Dimitri (Zlatko Buric).
Along the way — surprise, surprise — the two cleaners reluctantly realize that a) they need to work together; and b) they grudgingly respect and even like each other. After all, they’re both smooth operators. (To further emphasize that point, the soundtrack includes Sade’s hit song of the same title.)
On top of which, they obviously should have been partners all along. The Kid assumes this at one point, saying, “You’re basically the same guy!” Abrams is equally delightful as this hapless dweeb; The Kid is simultaneously scared out of his mind, and yet awed by the debonair coolness of his reluctant companions. As are we.
Events take place during a single night, in New York’s gaily decorated December streets; cinematographer Larkin Seiple makes the most of what appears to be a genuine light snow storm. Editor Andrew Weisblum and stunt supervisor George Cottle orchestrate one of the best, longest and most audacious foot-and-car chases I’ve seen since Warren Beatty was similarly pursued, during the suspenseful third act of 1971’s $ (Dollars).
The cheerfully gruesome tone and occasional grisly violence notwithstanding, none of this can — or should — be taken seriously. Just kick back and enjoy what Watts has given us: a breezy and welcome reunion with two stars who know how to light up a screen.
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