It's somewhat amusing to me that the same weekend movie-goers are being encouraged to see Machete, Robert Rodriguz's carnage-filled tribute to exploitation cinema, they're also being given the option of seeing The American. Both are attempting to cater to the action crowd, but they couldn't be more different films. One is a hammer to the skull; the other is a gentle nudge to the chest.
Forget the marketing. This is not a movie about a flawless hero, it is a movie about a broken villain. Clooney stars as Jack (or is it Edward?), a craftsman who makes guns for elite hitmen. The opening scene of the film indicates there are people that would like to see him dead. We can only imagine why; the specific reasons do not matter. What matters is that it's clear he's a man living with the consequences of past offenses, both external and internal. Within the first five minutes he's stripped himself of his only tie to a non-violent world. After that, it's off to Italy for one last job and a desperate search for healing.
Those in the mood for explosions and non-stop gunfire will be disappointed. Rather than a rock-'em-sock-'em roller coaster of testosterone, this is a nuanced character study in which stillness is just as threatening as a shootout, and most of the conflict is not that of assassins and victims, but of the soul.