As the closing credits began to scroll up the screen, the cinetrix quickly scrambled to her feet. There was not a moment to lose. Striding briskly up the aisle, she surveyed the slow-moving crowd as she elbowed her way to the exit.
Entering the lobby choked with moviegoers, her pace quickened. A split-second's hesitation could be fatal. Reaching the stairs to the second floor, she took them two at a time, turned the corner at the top, and made for a door. Would she be too late?
The din of the crowd grew distant as the bathroom door closed behind her. Success! There was no line, but plenty of full-bladdered female patrons were closing in behind her. Suckers. She smiled at the growing line of women as she left minutes later and made her way back to the lobby below.
It was still clotted with people, so the cinetrix suggested to the 'Fesser and Aaaaron that they use the door beyond concessions dimly promising "Exit." Together they spilled out into the humid August night behind the theater. Surrounded by fire escapes and construction detritus, they gingerly picked their way toward paved-over Palmer Street, glancing at the glass walkway connecting the third floors of the Coop buildings above them, checking the alley door behind Aveda, monitoring the hungry hopeful diners outside the Border Cafe on the corner of Church Street. No one had noticed or followed them. Moments later, they merged with the crowds of pedestrians milling around Harvard Square.
Annnnnd scene!
You'll forgive the potboiler prose, I hope, but since the cinetrix saw The Bourne Ultimatum on opening night she's become convinced that the sinister genius of the Damon/Greengrass flicks is not the action--which is awesome, yes--but the way in which they transform the quotidian aspects of our lives into something filled with threat and foreboding. Commuting becomes much more exciting if you imagine the train station is crawling with assassins. Reading is fundamental: When you're battling a bad guy even a book can be a weapon. And of course that innocuous-looking building in midtown is actually spook central. The suits filtering in and out couldn't possibly be as generic as they seem.
A similar well-founded suspicion of the ordinary propels Hot Fuzz, which the cinetrix and her pal Peter caught up with on the day of its DVD release. In his way, super detective Nicolas Angel is as scary capable as Jason Bourne, which is why his higher-ups [Steve Coogan! Bill Nighy!] decide to bump him down to charming backwater Sandford--he's making them look bad.
Once in the Agatha Christie-quaint village, Angel is paired with bumbling Danny Butterman, who takes as gospel truth just the sort of Point Break bombast that Angel and Bourne rebuke. What Angel and Bourne know, and Danny comes to appreciate over time, is that when the shit goes down--and with a cutesy burg like Sandford it's only a matter of time--balletic bricolage beats the bad guys' oversized armory every time.
Which is not to say that either film is immune to the sort of bad bon mots upon which David Caruso rebuilt his career. I'll leave you with two:
Noah Vosen: [in car, on cell phone] Perhaps we can arrange a meet.
Jason Bourne: Where are you now?
Noah Vosen: I'm sitting in my office.
Jason Bourne: I doubt that.
Noah Vosen: Why would you doubt that?
Jason Bourne: If you were in your office right now we'd be having this conversation face-to-face.
[Bourne hangs up]
Danny Butterman: Where's the trolley-boy?
Nicholas Angel: In the freezer.
Danny Butterman: Did you say "cool off?"
Nicholas Angel: No, I didn't say anything...
Danny Butterman: Shame.
Nicholas Angel: Well, there was the part that you missed where I distracted him with the cuddle monkey, then I said "Playtime's over," and I hit him in the head with the peace lily.
Danny Butterman: You're off the fuckin' chain!
Indeed.
