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Wanted
Directed by Timur Bekmambetov
Written by Michael Brandt, Derek Haas and Chris Morgan
Starring James McAvoy, Angelina Jolie, Morgan Freeman
Classification: 18A
Rating:

The source is just another comic book, but this time it seems a bit smarter. The voiceover track is stock too, but here it's darker and funnier. Of course, the chase scenes are inevitable, but now they're crisper and jazzier and kinetically more inventive. So Wanted is familiar and it's not. This is a blockbuster busting out of the block; this is a Hollywood staple served up on a European platter; this is summertime fare with a wintry verve.

And the difference-maker isn't hard to trace. Meet director Timur Bekmambetov, who, in his two previous Russian-language pictures (Day Watch and Night Watch), proved himself a major visual talent in dire need of a narrative leash. He's found one here in an efficient yarn that rings some neat variations off a fixed theme. Sure, the hero undergoes the usual metamorphosis from wimp to warrior, and, as ever, evil has ownership designs on the entire planet. But the plot bends through a few pretty clever twists, the climax is worthy of the name, and, as infamous last words go, it's hard to beat this flick's seven final mots, especially since they're spat right in our face.

But back to the start, in an atmospherically bleak Chicago that's all El-train racket and under-bridge grunge. There, we're introduced to Wesley (James McAvoy) in pre-transformed, Clark Kent mode – a dweeb accountant mired in his office cubicle, bullied by his fat boss, cheated on by his faithless girlfriend, victimized by acute anxiety attacks and, well, generally establishing himself as a primo candidate for a superman makeover. Who better to perform the task than a bunch of weavers? Yep, weavers, the modern descendants of an “ancient clan,” toiling in a textile mill straight out of Dickens. Happily for the movie, these sweater-knitters enjoy a sideline biz as a “fraternity of assassins,” one of whom happens to be Wesley's long-lost daddy. “You have the blood of a killer in your veins,” our boy is told, and, for him no less than us, the revelation proves hard to swallow but even harder to resist.

So he quits the daily grind for the ungodly mills of the weaver/assassin trade, not least because the fraternity includes a foxy femme named Fox. That would be Angelina Jolie, multi-tattooed and looking distinctly leaner, not to mention meaner, in this outing. Under orders from the CEO of the lethal corp (Morgan Freeman, exuding his characteristic authority), Fox puts her charge through the most brutal of boot camps – whipping (and beating and knifing and bloodying) him into shape. This strangely extended sequence, complete with sadistic sparring partners and Rocky-esque slabs of beefy punching-bags, has two principal effects: (1) Having already lost his Scottish accent, McAvoy is further required to lose his boyish good looks, with his face repeatedly pounded into a pulpy ooze; and (2) Bekmambetov gets to show off not just his flair for suppurating red gashes but, perhaps more important, his taste for ironic black humour. Blockbusters seldom require their titans to suffer so long and so flamboyantly.

The steep price paid, Wesley emerges with the ability to channel his past anxiety into pure adrenalin, bursts of the stuff that render him awfully fleet of foot, ultra-keen of vision, and, better yet, capable of bending bullets much like Beckham bends a soccer ball – a skill at least as useful on the killing fields as it is on the pitch. All prepped for his career change, the newly minted assassin is mildly chagrined to discover that the fraternity's do-good credo – “Kill one and maybe save a thousand” – has something of a Bush/Cheney odour clinging to it.

This is where the plot gathers speed and begins to do some nifty bending of its own. I shan't spoil your fun beyond saying that, judged by the reaction at a preview screening, one of the surprises possesses quite the solar plexus kick – it's been a while since I've heard that sweet sound of an audience gasping as one.

What's more, the collective gasp arises during a particularly lively bout of action. These days, any hack can do that Matrix trick of slowing down the bullets, but Bekmambetov does it even while speeding up the suspense. Check out his dexterity with a speeding train, flashing out of a dark tunnel, teetering atop a high trestle, perched above a plunging gorge. This is definitely a Russian with an eye for spectacle, Eisenstein mated to Spielberg but gleefully and venomously drenched in post-commie, rogue-capitalist attitude. Did I mention those infamous last words?

For all these reasons, you come out of Wanted feeling juiced, fired up and ready to go. Go where? Me, I'm chucking this pale cubicle and heading for the bright lights of the nearest textile mill. Word's out they've got an opening on the night shift.