American Ultra
Director: Nima Nourizadeh
(In theaters)
D+
There’s at least a mild anticipatory air surround American Ultra, the brainchild of writer Max Landis (Chronicle) and director Nima Nourizadeh (Project X). Unfortunately, the era of the Cult Film is approaching its dusk, as nostalgic cinematic allusions begin to lose their weight. American Ultra is a few years too late to be another Scott Pilgrim. Hell, it’s a few years too late to be much of anything worth watching. A pair of young, yet adequate, tandems both on screen and off do little to set this should-be aimless action flick off its course of mediocrity.
Mike (Jesse Eisenberg), a lethargic supermarket clerk, has little to look forward to, save his girlfriend of five years, Phoebe (Kristen Stewart), and the continuing episodes of his cosmic cartoon, Apollo Ape. While sufficient for him, Mike’s uncontrollable anxieties keep him literally grounded in a small West Virginia town. Meanwhile, Victoria (Connie Britton) laments as Adrian (Topher Grace), a former pencil pusher, achieves enormous success within the CIA. To make matters worse, Adrian motions to covertly destroy Victoria’s greatest project. Entitled Ultra, the program sought to erase the memories of petty criminals and turn them into human weapons. Fearing for the longevity of her life’s work, Victoria quickly seeks out Mike in an attempt to awaken the half-baked sleeper cell. Victoria’s plan only partially succeeds, as Mike tries to outrun his fellow assassins in a series of tangents filled with pot-smoking and illegal fireworks.
American Ultra stumbles upon the fine line that something like Frank treads so expertly. Even the film’s cast — most notably Stewart, receiving momentous praise for her work in Still Alice and Clouds of Sils Maria — is hard to blame, as they make the most of what has been handed to them. But Eisenberg is too hesitant to commit to anything, and Grace’s Grace’s sardonic, chickenshit persona fails to hint at any trace of a threat, favoring the tired (and boring) pompous asshole. Stewart far outshines the rest of the cast, emitting the only relatable sentiment. But even so, her performance is a far cry from her three most recent.
Like a parody of A History of Violence that tries way too hard, American Ultra’s action rarely raises eyebrows. One particular instance involving a frying pan does, for a brief moment, feel genuinely exhilarating, but the following moments feel lackluster and in desperate need of a John Woo education.
The semi-rural community is one of its few beacons of praise, as the empty parking lots placed against the backdrop of a massive refinery don’t feel too far from a small Oklahoma community. Mike meticulously places each food item on the perpetually dusty shelves, only to sabotage himself later as an excuse to actually do something. (Stagnation is one of the few things American Ultra harps on adequately.)
It’s still not enough to save this wreck of a film. Quirky without much of any substance, American Ultra’s “cute factor” runs dry before its first act gains any traction, completely uninterested in humorously delving into the culturally relevant plate it places before itself. If a movie leaves you with a desperate hankering for Judd Apatow, perhaps you’ve checked into the wrong hotel.
