Killers (2010)

Ashton Kutcher as a CIA assassin. Katherine Heigl as a childish, hysterical wife. The hilarious notion that your boring neighbors are ruthless hit men. Dialogue that could clog toilets. “Killers” has all the ingredients for 2010's worst film. The film opens as Kutcher’s killer sets up a hit on some guy in France as Heigl and her parents (Tom Selleck and Catherine O’Hara) arrive for vacation. Kutcher’s stud wants out of the biz, Heigl’s doormat wants a man because in films such as this no woman can live outside of a man’s approving shadow. They meet nauseatingly cute. They marry. Three years in, the past is back to whack Kutcher. Guns blaze. Kutcher smirks. Heigl sobs. Not a moment of this contrived riff on “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” is believable, not the actors, setting, plot, romance or words spoken. Not to pick on Heigl, she seems incredibly nice, but I could not decide the worst scene she is made to play: When she jokingly claims daddy wants to rape her, or when her ad professional melts into tears because she has to (!!) speak in public. This isn’t just a bad film. It’s spittle in the face of any thinking woman and the guy who loves her. F

The American (2010)

At one point in “The American,” George Clooney’s cold-hearted assassin desperately asks his handler, “How did they find me!?!” Clooney’s Jack is talking about the relentless thugs gunning for his ass. I thought, “Cause, damn, man, you the only fhking American within 300 miles.” Indeed, killer-for-hire Jack is the only apple pie eater hiding out in a tiny Italian village. Every resident spots Jack from a mile away and yells, "Bonjorno American!" His enemies can’t not find him. (Why the hell not stay in Rome? I've been there. It's easy to get lost.) Jack is rightfully paranoid, frisky and ready to give up the job, but not before assembling a rifle for a mysterious hit-woman (Thekla Reuten) who -– as does Jack -– digs butterflies. Directed by Anton Corbijn, the photographer famous for U2 album covers, “American” recalls a dozen old French or Italian dramas about the thug who emerges from his self-made hellish life just before the clock stops. The film is nearly saved by gorgeous camera work and Clooney’s performance, all cold, raw and grounded. B-

In Bruges (2008)

"In Bruges" is a brilliant, one-of-a-kind, off-kilter, very European (and I mean that as a complement) film about hit men cooling their heels in the historic Belgium city after an assignment goes terribly, awfully, ungodly wrong. It's bloody, nasty, hilarious, and smarter than most American crime comedies can ever hope to be. And it nearly never falters, except for an ending that seems a bit too Euro-ironic (to divulge it would be wrong). You know what? Hell with it. I love the ending's oddness.

Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell are London-based killers sent on the sabbatical by their seething, obscenity-spewing boss (Ralph Fiennes, delightful in a role that would scare Voldemort, Satan, and Cheney). Gleeson is Ken, the veteran killer, who instantly falls in love with the city's medieval architecture. Farrell is Ray, the novice young killer so despondent over a grievous error, he's suicidal. The two sight see, bicker, drink, meet a drug-addled-slash-racist dwarf, and wait for orders from Harry (Fiennes).

It all sounds absurd, and some of it is wonderfully, but Gleeson, Fiennes, and especially Farrell sell every minute. Props go to director/writer Martin McDonagh, who gives his cast some of the best and most unprintable lines in recent memory. He also gives this film soul and weight. All the strangeness onscreen, it seems more grounded than any crime film of the genre with hot babes, fast cars, and men jumping buildings or such nonsense. That Farrell can make his character likable after his secret is revealed is a testament to the actor's talents, long absent in such crud as "Daredevil." As the dwarf, Jordan Prentice is a hoot in a role that roils stereotypical "midget" roles. Gleeson, as always, is fascinating, menace mixed with sadness, and a long life lived. One of 2008's best. A