The Tourist (2010)

Watching The Tourist is like receiving a beautiful postcard from a dreamy European locale inscribed, “Wish you were here…but not really.”

This work of pretention (your first clue: no opening credits) begins immediately with the ham-fisted, obvious surveillance of a huge pair of lips, a shapely behind, and an over-the-shoulder glance (Angelina Jolie) as they enjoy breakfast at a sidewalk café in Paris. Seriously, the camera lingers on those glossy, bee-stung lips for nearly the entire movie, and she has so many sidelong glances and half-turn over-the-shoulder line deliveries, it’s almost like the camera was mounted on her ass. These lips, posterior, and glance are parts of a woman named Elise, and she’s being followed and drooled over by a squad of Eurocops, led by an officiously snide Scotland Yard inspector (Paul Bettany), because they’re certain she will lead them to her fugitive boyfriend, the mysterious Alexander.

Instructed by a message from her lover-in-hiding, Elise boards a train to Venice and looks for a passenger of Alexander’s relative size to deceive the police. She finds her decoy in Frank Tupelo (Johnny Depp), a community college math teacher from Wisconsin touring Europe alone. With his mop of unruly hair, insouciant facial hair, and soft-spoken manner (note this in particular), it’s no surprise that Frank ends up in Elise’s embrace, sharing the most luxurious hotel suite in Venice, mistakenly arrested by Italian police, manipulated by the Scotland Yard guy, and being chased and shot at by a vengeful, imperious gangster (Steven Berkoff) and his cadre of Russian gun thugs who all look like the genetically inferior offspring of Vladimir Putin.

Some people are going to like this movie for a few obvious reasons. Those with a fondness for or a desire to visit Venice will not want to miss it, because the city is well-showcased with gorgeous panoramic shots worthy of any travelogue, including the requisite depiction of a gondolier at work. There’s a lot of action in, around, and above the winding canals and walkways, really showing off the city’s charms. Also, the storyline has some dark edges (including a surprising use of a tailor’s tape measure) but stays relatively frothy and romantic. And those who lust for Ms. Jolie will have much to gawk at, especially in a scene at a formal ball where she unsurprisingly turns the heads of everyone in the room.

But I have some issues with The Tourist, and I point to four culprits. The first is director and co-writer Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck. This is his first English-language movie after winning the Oscar for his superb German film The Lives of Others; unlike that film, von Donnersmarck has apparently gone Hollywood with trite, cliché-ridden direction, right down to the train-entering-a-tunnel symbolism. Perhaps it was easy for him, as a European, to buy into the tired old stereotype of American tourists being gauche and unsophisticated. More than once in this film, characters make sneering jibes about Americans, even when the Yank in question is acting reasonably. Yes, there are many idiots traveling abroad with U.S. passports, but there are tourists from other countries who behave much the same way when they come to America. It’s a classic fish-out-of-water scenario, trying to find one’s way in unfamiliar surroundings, and such tourists could use a smile, a welcome, and maybe some assistance, rather than condescension. Tourism is good business for any local economy, and smart people embrace that rather than reject it. (For example, as bad a rap as New York City gets, I’ve encountered many more helpful people than snotty jerks on my travels there.)

As for the other two co-writers, Christopher McQuarrie and Julian Fellowes…what happened, guys? Both men are Oscar-winning screenwriters: McQuarrie for the already-classic mystery The Usual Suspects, Fellowes for the intricate workings of Robert Altman’s US/UK hybrid Gosford Park. So how did these two talented writers team up with a noted European director to produce such a flimsy plot and unthrilling suspense story? Did they hire interns to ghost-write this transparent screenplay and then sign off on it without reading the finished product? I hope the pay was enough that each of them can try to write something worthwhile the next time around.

But the biggest fault of this movie is Johnny Depp. I’ve liked him in such past roles as Edward Scissorhands, J.M. Barrie, and Sweeney Todd, and even when I’ve been so-so about some of his movies I admire his willingness to push the boundaries of character and performance. But Depp breathes rarefied air these days; he’s an international star, living in France, and bashes life in the United States in his interviews. This Kentucky-born actor is now completely unconvincing as an American.

As Frank Tupelo (did they throw a dart at a U.S. map for his last name? We’re lucky it wasn’t “Frank Kansas City”), Depp does not speak or behave in any way like a typical Midwestern American, particularly one caught up in such threatening circumstances. He’s so passive, he hardly ever raises his voice, even when he’s being shot at through a hotel room door and trying to reason with the desk clerk downstairs. Angelina doesn’t fare much better with her underwritten role, but she seduces the camera with those lips and glances. Meanwhile, Depp’s concept of an American tourist involves wearing pajamas, reading a cheap paperback, and murmuring his lines with little or no emphasis. His underacting is out of touch with reality and disgraceful in its mediocrity.

Overall, The Tourist is more like an American Tourister, easily lost as generic baggage.