American Assassin. A Movie Review.

Minimal spoilers. But it won’t matter much, because you know what’s gonna happen before it happens anyway.

I was dragged along to see American Assassin. My best mate paid for the ticket, and it got me out of the house, so I couldn’t complain.

Mitch Rapp (Dylan O’Brien) watches his girlfriend and lots of people killed at a Spanish resort by Islamic terrorists. He dedicates the next 18 months of his life training (18 months? That’s not much. Bruce Wayne spent 12 years becoming Batman) to infiltrate and take out the terrorist cell. He’s picked up by the CIA, sent to covert ops specialist Stan Hurley (Michael Keaton) to be part of his assassination team. Rapp has issues with authority, is a loose cannon, blah, blah. Soon they have to stop one of Stan’s best students (oooh, didn’t see that coming. Yeah, you did) from using a nuke to take out a bunch of Americans.

american assassin

American Assassin suffers from the weight of numerous clichés, from characters to story to stunts to dialogue. It’s not the worst action movie I’ve ever seen, but it’s not memorable and not a movie I would recommend—you’ve seen all of this before with better scripts and direction.

Michael Keaton, as always, is great, but his role lacks depth and so he does what he can with the material he’s given. Dylan O’Brien looks alternately depressed and angry, but doesn’t muster much in the way of leading man charisma. The bad guy (Taylor Kitsch) is just an average bad guy.

My advice is save yourself the price of a ticket and see something better. This is one to stream on Netflix or rent on DVD (can you still do that?).

Rating: D

Window. A poem.

She’s seated before a window, sun highlighting shiny diamonds in her hair. 

Her fingers are flamingoes on her smart phone, a wily dance sped up to double speed, of muscle memory and familiar keys. 

Lips as full as pillows that I long to cushion with my own, and the dress she wears hugs contours of which I am so painfully aware.

Her eyes escape to velvet shores and silken sheets upon the beach, and I must look away too soon, lest she see me here.

Scant feet separate us and small talk fills the space between, all luscious notes and plosives, siren tones and sibilants, all lead to hidden depths unseen.

And so I say my goodbyes of which she’s painfully unaware, dragging feet and head hung low as I make my way back home, and relive those few minutes that we were together there.

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