American Star Review: Assassin Thriller Misfires on Tonal Inconsistency

American Star offers a meditative character study of Wilson (Ian McShane), a stoic hitman awaiting his next target on the sunny Spanish isle of Fuerteventura. As this grizzled assassin passes time ambling around the island’s arid landscapes, he unexpectedly confronts his own morality after connecting with a few locals, like a vivacious bartender and a lonely young boy.

Director Gonzalo López-Gallego eschews action for introspection, crafting a visually stunning mood piece that sinks into the creases of its protagonist’s weathered face. However, despite captivating cinematography and McShane’s nuanced performance, the film’s glacial pace and predictable twists often stall the narrative. American Star shows glimmers of thematic depth, but can’t fully outpace its own languor.

A Killer Vacation

American Star immediately drops viewers onto the sun-bleached sands of Fuerteventura, where we meet Wilson (Ian McShane), a dapper assassin casually gearing up for his latest hit. Decked out in a sharp black suit befitting a funeral (perhaps his target’s), Wilson claims his rental car and engine-revs out to a sleek modernist mansion in the middle of nowhere. Inside, he finds only stillness. His mark hasn’t arrived yet. With nothing to do but kick back until showtime, Wilson trades his work clothes for shades and a swimsuit, settling into a ritzy seaside hotel. To the other tourists, he’s just another silver fox on holiday.

But despite the umbrella drinks and languid poolside smoke breaks, Wilson remains all business, his eyes eternally creased with focus. When the mysterious beauty from the deserted house shows up slinging drinks at the hotel bar, sparks of intrigue finally ignite in Wilson’s glare. The stage set for confrontation, director Gonzalo López-Gallego nonetheless opts to largely ditch action for postcard beauty and patient character study once Wilson’s target fails to materialize.

The film revels in this frozen moment of calm before the storm, allowing McShane’s coiled intensity to silently steer the scene. We may know why Wilson’s here, but everyone else only sees a relaxed gent soaking up paradise. Until the job’s done, it’s killer’s holiday for this grim reaper.

McShane’s Masterclass in Minimalism

In American Star, Ian McShane delivers a masterclass in theatrical minimalism. Uttering barely a paragraph of dialogue, McShane nonetheless effortlessly commands every sun-dappled frame he occupies. We glean pages of backstory from the sagacious glint in his eyes alone, hinting at a lifetime of regrets dynamically struggling against McShane’s otherwise statue-still posture. He reveals nothing, yet exposes everything.

As the icily professional killer Wilson, McShane moves with both leonine grace and tightly-coiled power, keeping his volcanic intensity simmering on low boil behind a toothy, if weary, grin. When Wilson lights a cigarette, the simple flick of McShane’s lighter conveys caverns of emotional turmoil without a syllable spoken. McShane’s finely calibrated performance relies on the tiniest of mannerisms rather than big, showy explosions. A wry smirk here, a world-weary sigh there, and suddenly Wilson’s entire moral quandary plays out across McShane’s craggy façade. It’s a masterclass in minimalism.

McShane’s soulful subtlety makes Wilson’s gradual emotional thaw genuinely affecting. When Wilson bonds with a local boy and woman, we witness the assassin’s granite heart soften before our eyes as youthful joy and flirtatiousness ignite long-dormant embers within McShane’s eyes. For once, the killer enjoys a glimpse of the man he could have been. McShane makes Wilson’s quiet anguish so palpable that when violence inevitably returns, the tragedy cuts all the deeper.

Slow Burn to a Fault

Unhurried to a fault, American Star proceeds at the speed of a retiring hitman strolling through quaint cobblestone streets without a care in the world – which is exactly the vibe director Gonzalo López-Gallego seems to be angling for. The movie revels in stretching brief moments into miniature eternities: Wilson watches a musician tune his guitar for a little too long; a soccer ball bounces down an alley interminably; plumes of smoke rise from Wilson’s cigarette for what feels like a full minute.

It’s clear López-Gallego wants to steep audiences in the schemeless, sun-soaked days of Wilson’s forced vacation.  However, too often American Star’s utter lack of pace and plot borders on outright dull. Scenes drift along aimlessly without narrative drive. Besides McShane’s quietly compelling performance, there frankly isn’t much for audiences to sink their teeth into.

Unrushed reflection turns into outright tedium as the film cycles through the same few unhurried beats on an endless loop. American Star mistake stillness for depth, getting lost in gorgeous scenery as Wilson himself gets lost in his own head. Some may appreciate the meditative mood and chance to watch McShane subtly emote. For most though, the film’s snail-crawl tempo makes for an interminable sit.

Gorgeous Backdrop, Haunted Figure

Cinematographer José David Montero makes Fuerteventura the real star of the show in American Star, capturing the Canary Island’s rugged beauty in vivid detail. Cerulean seas crash against black volcanic ridgelines dotted with green scrub brush, creating eye-popping vistas. Montero’s meticulous wide shots reveal Fuerteventura as a prehistoric paradise seemingly untouched by the modern world besides a lone becalmed ocean liner shipwreck – an obvious stand-in for Wilson himself.

Framing McShane as a small lone figure adrift amid the island’s sweeping tableaus, Montero reflects Wilson’s profound isolation and turmoil even in such an idyllic landscape. Visual irony abounds as cheerful islanders frolic while our morose, silent antihero struggles with his inner darkness in plain sight.

The sight of Wilson brooding over a stunning sunset or hacking at the waves far out in the surf makes for memorable images, yet also underscores the tragic gulf between setting and character – between redemption and reality. Fuerteventura’s wild, hard-to-read vistas echo the moral labyrinth of Wilson’s mind: breathtaking yet forbidding, heart-stopping yet ponderous, achingly gorgeous yet achingly devoid of easy answers.

Thoughtful Setup, Sensationalist Finale

For much of its runtime, American Star thoughtfully explores resonant themes of morality, aging, and the possibility of change through Wilson’s tense soul-searching amid Fuerteventura’s salt-blasted vistas. McShane’s profound anguish as Wilson weighs his grim life path against a chance for connection and meaning gives the film a genuine depth often missing in typical assassin thrillers. However, the patient dramatic stakes established early on devolve into B-movie histrionics by the predictable final act, undercutting the setup’s promise.

Once Wilson forges tentative bonds with a kind bartender, Gloria, and a lonely young boy, we bear witness to the assassin awakening emotionally for the first time in ages. McShane movingly articulates Wilson’s longing for redemption, his performance gaining gravitas through the script’s thematic ambitions. Yet this careful character work gets discarded once American Star hurtles into a hackneyed cat-and-mouse climax between Wilson and a brash former comrade. After thoughtfully digging into its protagonist’s psyche, the film opts to climax on a series of increasingly implausible double-crosses, sacrificing logical coherence for contrived intensity.

Rather than culminating Wilson’s arc organically, the film’s jolting heel-turn into shock-value territory feels crass – as if the filmmakers lost faith in their artistic vision. American Star exhibits intermittent flashes of courage and vision before retreating into the comforting clichés of sensationalism. It’s a shame the storytellers didn’t trust their audience as much as McShane trusted them.

A Mixed Bag of Mood and Mayhem

Floating along on visual splendor and Ian McShane’s flinty charisma, American Star occasionally breaches the surface of something profound before sinking back into opacity. Director Gonzalo López-Gallego effectively conjures an entrancing mood, enveloping audiences in Fuerteventura’s arid beauty and Wilson’s smoldering ennui.

Anchored by McShane’s customarily riveting wordless performance, the film’s first half promises a psychologically rich descent into its protagonist’s fractured soul. Yet the bracing character study eventually devolves into a rote, risible thriller once Wilson re-embraces his violent career.

For all its picturesque tableaus and thematic ambition, American Star remains weighed down by languid pacing and a derivative final act that ditches nuance for cheap catharsis. It’s finally more style than substance – the cinematic equivalent of a majestic ruin surrounded by breathtaking scenery but hollow at its core. McShane elevates the material, but can’t fully overcome the letdown.

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