Why would your clients follow you? You're an accountant.

The Accountant

(2016)

(SPOILERS) A reasonably-sized hit stateside, probably because The Accountant has a flashy idea at its centre (an autistic hit man: whatever next?!), if one foolhardily flirting with insensitive territory, is reasonably well executed (from journeyman director Gavin O’Connor, at least surrendering any faux-aspiration towards serious dramatics per Pride and Glory and Warrior), and stars Batfleck, perfectly cast as a remote, impersonal, impassive number-cruncher (emotional depth has never been Ben’s metier). If that sounds like faint praise, it is, since the picture is junk, but fitfully entertaining junk.

Most of that fitfully entertaining part snaps into gear when Batfleck, as mild-mannered but socially-inverted accountant Christian Wolff, is out and about snapping necks and shooting villains more villainous than himself, equipped with firepower more fearsome than theirs (lest we forget, since he gets off scot free, he’s cooking the books for any criminal outfit that will employ him, although we’re clearly supposed to forgive, as he gives a lot of money to charity and informs the treasury department of the really bad eggs; this aspect has the whiff of a script conference note, rather than the germane behaviour of a high-functioning autistic). When O’Connor is concentrating on the action, which ups its ante further once Jon Bernthal’s assassin appears on the scene, The Accountant is a highly satisfying slayfest, especially so during Batfleck’s takedown of Bernthal’s entire squad during the finale.

It’s elsewhere that the feature frequently stumbles and crumbles amid a litter of clichés and careless plotting. Wouldn’t you know it? The legit case Christian takes to avoid treasury scrutiny (a robotics company offering limb replacements) is nothing of the sort – making Ben something of an autistic killer accountant equivalent of Jessica Fletcher – since a criminal scheme has been hatched to up the profits of the company in anticipation of a public offering. And – wouldn’t you know it? – affable John Lithgow is actually an arch-villain, given to fevered, despotic rants immediately prior to batfleck putting a bullet in his head. And – wouldn’t you also know it? – there’s a love interest (Anna Kendrick) for Christian, although even screenwriter Bill Dubuque (formerly of the mostly sloppy The Judge) isn’t quite shameless enough to go there.

For all that The Accountant is rudimentary in characterisation and plotting, it frequently lacks clarity with its villains’ scheme. Added to which, the subplot concerning JK Simmons’ treasury investigator and his protégé Marybeth Medina is strictly by-the-numbers, from her deductions (Christian’s aliases are all famous mathematicians, and will you look at those green-on-black super-sized internet articles on the subject letting us dummies know how she worked it out!), to the photos of their target (all inconveniently of the back of his head), to his recounting how Batfleck let him live one fateful day.

There are flashbacks that work well enough, however; those with Jeffrey Tambor mentoring Christian in prison are engaging because Tambor is engaging. And those of young Christian being taught to survive in a world that won’t care for him are eerily similar to those of Dexter (right down to there being a similarly psycho brother). Although, this aspect in itself is a tad dubious, since it parallels a high-functioning autistic with a high-functioning serial killer. Tellingly, Ben’s younger self (Seth Lee) delivers a rather more impressive, punchily flailing performance than Ben himself (whose height of expressiveness is a wee wince when smacking his shin bones).

I didn’t twig the twist regarding Bernthal being Batfleck’s brother before the person sitting next to me whispered it, although I did deduce the voice on the line was the grown-up daughter of the institute director who offered to help young Christian; frankly, I could have done without the bro-bonding of the final scene, although Bernthal can’t help but incrementally improve any movie he’s in.

As for how responsible The Accountant is in its depiction of autism… Well, certainly, if you expect more from Hollywood movies than you ought, you’re bound to be disappointed. The makers are careful to make inclusive comments, such as viewing those diagnosed as leading different but no lesser lives, and considering normalcy a value judgement, but there’s a persistent sense that Chris’ place on the spectrum varies according to the demands of exposition or interaction (or gags: "I have a pocket protector") in the given scene.

Some have said it’s cool that those with autism get a hero of their own… Sure, in the same way Harry Callahan’s a fine role model for budding sociopaths, I guess. The Accountant’s a picture that essentially excuses a father for turning his sons into ice-cold killers, since at least they’re socially-enabled ice-cold killers (at least they have jobs!) It’s also as unsuccessful in making accountancy appealing as Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit was in promoting the role of compliance officers (about the most exciting thing we learn of the trade is that when auditors scrawl notes across doors, walls and windows, they’re considerate enough to use dry-erase markers). But with an additional appreciation for Jackson Pollock, which may make it even more of a disappointment.

Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.

Comments

Mondo bizarro. No offence man, but you’re in way over your head.

The X-Files 8.7: Via Negativa I wasn’t as down on the last couple of seasons of The X-Files as most seemed to be. For me, the mythology arc walked off a cliff somewhere around the first movie, with only the occasional glimmer of something worthwhile after that. So the fact that the show was tripping over itself with super soldiers and Mulder’s abduction/his and Scully’s baby (although we all now know it wasn’t, sheesh ), anything to stretch itself beyond breaking point in the vain hope viewers would carry on dangling, didn’t really make much odds. Of course, it finally snapped with the wretched main arc when the show returned, although the writing was truly on the wall with Season 9 finale The Truth . For the most part, though, I found 8 and 9 more watchable than, say 5 or 7. They came up with their fair share of engaging standalones, one of which I remembered to be Via Negativa .

Isn’t it true, it’s easier to be a holy man on the top of a mountain?

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Schnell, you stinkers! Come on, raus!

Private’s Progress (1956) (SPOILERS) Truth be told, there’s good reason sequel I’m Alright Jack reaps the raves – it is, after all, razor sharp and entirely focussed in its satire – but Private’s Progress is no slouch either. In some respects, it makes for an easy bedfellow with such wartime larks as Norman Wisdom’s The Square Peg (one of the slapstick funny man’s better vehicles). But it’s also, typically of the Boulting Brothers’ unsentimental disposition, utterly remorseless in rebuffing any notions of romantic wartime heroism, nobility and fighting the good fight. Everyone in the British Army is entirely cynical, or terrified, or an idiot.

It’s not as if she were a… maniac, a raving thing.

Psycho (1960) (SPOILERS) One of cinema’s most feted and most studied texts, and for good reason. Even if the worthier and more literate psycho movie of that year is Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom . One effectively ended a prolific director’s career and the other made its maker more in demand than ever, even if he too would discover he had peaked with his populist fear flick. Pretty much all the criticism and praise of Psycho is entirely valid. It remains a marvellously effective low-budget shocker, one peppered with superb performances and masterful staging. It’s also fairly rudimentary in tone, character and psychology. But those negative elements remain irrelevant to its overall power.

You have done well to keep so much hair, when so many’s after it.

Jeremiah Johnson (1972) (SPOILERS) Hitherto, I was most familiar with Jeremiah Johnson in the form of a popular animated gif of beardy Robert Redford smiling and nodding in slow zoom close up (a moment that is every bit as cheesy in the film as it is in the gif). For whatever reason, I hadn’t mustered the enthusiasm to check out the 1970s’ The Revenant until now (well, beard-wise, at any rate). It’s easy to distinguish the different personalities at work in the movie. The John Milius one – the (mythic) man against the mythic landscape; the likeably accentuated, semi-poetic dialogue – versus the more naturalistic approach favoured by director Sydney Pollack and star Redford. The fusion of the two makes for a very watchable, if undeniably languorous picture. It was evidently an influence on Dances with Wolves in some respects, although that Best Picture Oscar winner is at greater pains to summon a more sensitive portrayal of Native Americans (and thus, perversely, at times a more patr

My Doggett would have called that crazy.

The X-Files 9.4: 4-D I get the impression no one much liked Agent Monica Reyes (Annabeth Gish), but I felt, for all the sub-Counsellor Troi, empath twiddling that dogged her characterisation, she was a mostly positive addition to the series’ last two years (of its main run). Undoubtedly, pairing her with Doggett, in anticipation of Gillian Anderson exiting just as David Duchovny had – you rewatch these seasons and you wonder where her head was at in hanging on – made for aggressively facile gender-swapped conflict positions on any given assignment. And generally, I’d have been more interested in seeing how two individuals sympathetic to the cause – her and Mulder – might have got on. Nevertheless, in an episode like 4-D you get her character, and Doggett’s, at probably their best mutual showing.

You’re a disgrace, sir... Weren’t you at Harrow?

Our Man in Marrakesh aka Bang! Bang! You’re Dead (1966) (SPOILERS) I hadn’t seen this one in more than three decades, and I had in mind that it was a decent spy spoof, well populated with a selection of stalwart British character actors in supporting roles. Well, I had the last bit right. I wasn’t aware this came from the stable of producer Harry Alan Towers, less still of his pedigree, or lack thereof, as a sort of British Roger Corman (he tried his hand at Star Wars with The Shape of Things to Come and Conan the Barbarian with Gor , for example). More legitimately, if you wish to call it that, he was responsible for the Christopher Lee Fu Manchu flicks. Our Man in Marrakesh – riffing overtly on Graham Greene’s Our Man in Havana in title – seems to have in mind the then popular spy genre and its burgeoning spoofs, but it’s unsure which it is; too lightweight to work as a thriller and too light on laughs to elicit a chuckle.

The best thing in the world for the inside of a man or a woman is the outside of a horse.

Marnie (1964) (SPOILERS) Hitch in a creative ditch. If you’ve read my Vertigo review, you’ll know I admired rather than really liked the picture many fete as his greatest work. Marnie is, in many ways, a redux, in the way De Palma kept repeating himself in the early 80s only significantly less delirious and… well, compelling. While Marnie succeeds in commanding the attention fitfully, it’s usually for the wrong reasons. And Hitch, digging his heels in as he strives to fashion a star against public disinterest – he failed to persuade Grace Kelly out of retirement for Marnie Rutland – comes entirely adrift with his leads.

I tell you, it saw me! The hanged man’s asphyx saw me!

The Asphyx (1972) (SPOILERS) There was such a welter of British horror from the mid 60s to mid 70s, even leaving aside the Hammers and Amicuses, that it’s easy to lose track of them in the shuffle. This one, the sole directorial effort of Peter Newbrook (a cameraman for David Lean, then a cinematographer), has a strong premise and a decent cast, but it stumbles somewhat when it comes to taking that premise any place interesting. On the plus side, it largely eschews the grue. On the minus, directing clearly wasn’t Newbrook’s forte, and even aided by industry stalwart cinematographer Freddie Young (also a go-to for Lean), The Aspyhx is stylistically rather flat.

I don't like the way Teddy Roosevelt is looking at me.

North by Northwest (1959) (SPOILERS) North by Northwest gets a lot of attention as a progenitor of the Bond formula, but that’s giving it far too little credit. Really, it’s the first modern blockbuster, paving the way for hundreds of slipshod, loosely plotted action movies built around set pieces rather than expertly devised narratives. That it delivers, and delivers so effortlessly, is a testament to Hitchcock, to writer Ernest Lehmann, and to a cast who make the entire implausible exercise such a delight.

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