American Ultra

American Ultra is a bad film. Full stop. However, it might work in a very specific socio-political reading; if one were to view this film as the wish-fulfillment fantasy of an entitled yet disempowered youth who came of age in a post-9-11, Antonin-Scalia-thinks-torture-works context (like screenwriter Max Landis), then the premise of a stoned wastrel with a CIA-engendered superhuman ability to inflict great harm on others could conceivably carry narrative weight. However, if Jason Bourne met Tommy Chong in a dark alley, the resultant conflict would be at once more interesting and less jarring than the tonally dissonant mess that is American Ultra.

The film is not without its somewhat limited merits, but most of them are implied rather than fulfilled. Writing high does not equate to writing high-concept, and if the conflation of two disparate genres in the script for The Big Lebowski represents the metaphorical equivalent of a Ph.D. in stoner/noir, then American Ultra is the GED of the nonexistent stoner/spy-thriller subgenre. The story is at least succinct, but it’s also far too predictable to maintain any genuine interest. The supporting cast is possibly the highlight of the film, with Walton Goggins, Topher Grace, and John Leguizamo doing the best they can with what the script gives them, but far too often the screen is given over to Jesse Eisenberg and Kristen Stewart’s laconic rambling.

Stewart and Eisenberg’s chemistry, or lack thereof, is indeed lamentable. Give a hefty dose of lithium to two people who clearly like each other but are simultaneously convinced of their respective superiority, and you’ll arrive at something like the performances seen herein. This would be problematic enough if they were trying to carry a film more functionally intact, but while the story moves along at a fairly brisk pace and the structure is sound, abrupt leaps between action and comedy never allow the audience to become comfortable with either. That the action sequences are surprisingly graphic and the jokes surprisingly flaccid could possibly have been excused were the film not so self-satisfied. It’s as though the script targets a demographic that buys Mountain Dew and Funyuns at 3 a.m. but was written someone who has his assistant procure such things on his behalf. Director Nimah Nourizadeh (Project X) has certainly attempted to carve out a unique niche for himself, but his lack of competence is on full display and certainly not aided by Landis’ hastily slapped-together script. In a just world, Eisenberg’s stunt double and the CGI department would have received top billing.

Quietly but consistently insulting the audience it intends to fleece, American Ultra might well be the perfectly constructed film for stoned 17-year-old males in isolated rural environments. If your worldview stretches from the local 7-Eleven to the local Wal-Mart with nothing but a TV in between, this might be the film for you. But even if such is the case, you’re still likely to be disappointed. Rated R for violence, language, drug use and some sexual content.