Wanted
Directed by Timur Bekmambetov
Timur Bekmambetov’s yawn-worthy adaptation of Mark Millar and J.G. Jones’ comic mini-series Wanted struggles to remain afloat on blood, four-letter words and lots and lots of headshots. Complete with an extended peek at Angelina Jolie’s ass (take that, Beowulf!) and more slow-mo bullet-time than all three Matrix films put together, Wanted is s a zit-riddled high-schooler’s wet dream.
Accountant Wesley Gibson (James McAvoy) may as well be in high school for all the angst-ridden woes he has, which are supposed to lend him an Everyman quality. After all, who hasn’t felt like the world has taken a massive dook on them every now and then? As a typical white-collar whiner, Gibson pops pills to stave off panic attacks on the Leo Bloom order (a la Gene Wilder, not Matthew Broderick). He lives in a crappy apartment, Cathy (Kristen Hager) his girlfriend is screwing his best friend Barry (Chris Pratt) and his morbidly obese boss treats him like a latrine. He’s just like you, you miserable, insignificant puss-stain, you.
Enter Fox (Jolie), Wesley’s escape from his real-world problems. She informs him that he’s the son of the world’s best assassin (David O’Hara) and asks him to retain his place alongside The Fraternity, a group of killers that kill based on a secret code dictated by the Loom of Fate. Yes, you read accurately, the Loom of Fate. It dictates a code through its threads that, when deciphered properly, explains who needs to die. Excepting Greek tragedy, textiles have never been this eventful.
As ridiculous as its messenger may be, a higher power governs the film’s badass antiheroes. This is supposed to make killing an act of fidelity. Even though their guns are flashy, and they use ornate bullets with outlandish carvings on them and have magic superpowers that allow them to shoot around obstacles to hit their targets, they kill bullies and badmen to serve mankind.
True to this thinking, the gun is an object of worship. It’s not only sexy (it can get you a hot piece of ass like that Tomb Raider chick), it’s also a gallant weapon to be handed down from generation to generation. “This gun you’re holding belonged to your father,” Sloan, the head of The Fraternity (Morgan Freeman), explains. “He could conduct a symphony orchestra with it.” If he means the kind of symphony that Trent Reznor might conduct—Nine Inch Nails’ “Every Day is Exactly the Same” gives voice to Wesley’s dreams of making the world pay for being such an unfair cesspool—then Wesley is just like Ravel.
That sense of misplaced chivalry is the most salient tonal shift between Millar and Jones’ comic and Bekmambetov’s film. Bekmambetov is preoccupied with the fickle nature of destiny and the image of the modern-day errant knight. It’s a theme that he also explored in his superior Night Watch and Day Watch, the first two installments of Sergi Lukyaneko’s Night Watch fantasy trilogy. According to his films, superhuman champions, whether they be jaded vampires or nebbish accountants, are chosen by fate and it’s up to them to become the “Gods of men,” as Sloan says.
To get audiences to appreciate the nobility of these utilitarian murderers, screenwriters Michael Brandt, Derek Haas and Chris Morgan had to tamp down the not-so-titillating flamboyance of the original comic. In the movie, The Fraternity are assassins, not super-villains; Gibson stops flaunting his newfound skills after telling his boss and his former best friend to fuck off instead of fulfilling his destiny, er, fantasy of raping a celebrity; (Wesley growls at the film’s end, “What the fuck have you done lately,” instead of crowing, “This is my face while I’m fucking you in the ass.”) Somehow, the potty-mouthed-assassin-with-a-heart-of-gold shtick just doesn’t work when the hero is raping a Britney Spears knockoff.
While key details have changed, the movie is just as obnoxious as the comic. Like the comic, the movie is stuffed with cheap stabs at the post-modern condition that ape Chuck Palahniuk’s drugs, violence and sex-fueled novels (Office drones! Pill-popping! Adultery on Ikea furniture!). It also clings to the notion that cubicles and Starbucks are signifiers of the 21st century, a world given voice by a stick-figure victim that turns into a proud serial killer. In that world, anyone with half a brain wouldn’t turn down the chance to kill people for all the right reasons, if given the chance.
Directed by Timur Bekmambetov
Timur Bekmambetov’s yawn-worthy adaptation of Mark Millar and J.G. Jones’ comic mini-series Wanted struggles to remain afloat on blood, four-letter words and lots and lots of headshots. Complete with an extended peek at Angelina Jolie’s ass (take that, Beowulf!) and more slow-mo bullet-time than all three Matrix films put together, Wanted is s a zit-riddled high-schooler’s wet dream.
Accountant Wesley Gibson (James McAvoy) may as well be in high school for all the angst-ridden woes he has, which are supposed to lend him an Everyman quality. After all, who hasn’t felt like the world has taken a massive dook on them every now and then? As a typical white-collar whiner, Gibson pops pills to stave off panic attacks on the Leo Bloom order (a la Gene Wilder, not Matthew Broderick). He lives in a crappy apartment, Cathy (Kristen Hager) his girlfriend is screwing his best friend Barry (Chris Pratt) and his morbidly obese boss treats him like a latrine. He’s just like you, you miserable, insignificant puss-stain, you.
Enter Fox (Jolie), Wesley’s escape from his real-world problems. She informs him that he’s the son of the world’s best assassin (David O’Hara) and asks him to retain his place alongside The Fraternity, a group of killers that kill based on a secret code dictated by the Loom of Fate. Yes, you read accurately, the Loom of Fate. It dictates a code through its threads that, when deciphered properly, explains who needs to die. Excepting Greek tragedy, textiles have never been this eventful.
As ridiculous as its messenger may be, a higher power governs the film’s badass antiheroes. This is supposed to make killing an act of fidelity. Even though their guns are flashy, and they use ornate bullets with outlandish carvings on them and have magic superpowers that allow them to shoot around obstacles to hit their targets, they kill bullies and badmen to serve mankind.
True to this thinking, the gun is an object of worship. It’s not only sexy (it can get you a hot piece of ass like that Tomb Raider chick), it’s also a gallant weapon to be handed down from generation to generation. “This gun you’re holding belonged to your father,” Sloan, the head of The Fraternity (Morgan Freeman), explains. “He could conduct a symphony orchestra with it.” If he means the kind of symphony that Trent Reznor might conduct—Nine Inch Nails’ “Every Day is Exactly the Same” gives voice to Wesley’s dreams of making the world pay for being such an unfair cesspool—then Wesley is just like Ravel.
That sense of misplaced chivalry is the most salient tonal shift between Millar and Jones’ comic and Bekmambetov’s film. Bekmambetov is preoccupied with the fickle nature of destiny and the image of the modern-day errant knight. It’s a theme that he also explored in his superior Night Watch and Day Watch, the first two installments of Sergi Lukyaneko’s Night Watch fantasy trilogy. According to his films, superhuman champions, whether they be jaded vampires or nebbish accountants, are chosen by fate and it’s up to them to become the “Gods of men,” as Sloan says.
To get audiences to appreciate the nobility of these utilitarian murderers, screenwriters Michael Brandt, Derek Haas and Chris Morgan had to tamp down the not-so-titillating flamboyance of the original comic. In the movie, The Fraternity are assassins, not super-villains; Gibson stops flaunting his newfound skills after telling his boss and his former best friend to fuck off instead of fulfilling his destiny, er, fantasy of raping a celebrity; (Wesley growls at the film’s end, “What the fuck have you done lately,” instead of crowing, “This is my face while I’m fucking you in the ass.”) Somehow, the potty-mouthed-assassin-with-a-heart-of-gold shtick just doesn’t work when the hero is raping a Britney Spears knockoff.
While key details have changed, the movie is just as obnoxious as the comic. Like the comic, the movie is stuffed with cheap stabs at the post-modern condition that ape Chuck Palahniuk’s drugs, violence and sex-fueled novels (Office drones! Pill-popping! Adultery on Ikea furniture!). It also clings to the notion that cubicles and Starbucks are signifiers of the 21st century, a world given voice by a stick-figure victim that turns into a proud serial killer. In that world, anyone with half a brain wouldn’t turn down the chance to kill people for all the right reasons, if given the chance.
