The conmen from Oceans Eleven have aged out of the rackets, lost their girlfriends, and have been forced into real jobs to make ends meet. That’s the basic premise of Wolfs, a lazy bromance that rests on the fading charms of its two leads.
At least since Pulp Fiction, the “cleaner” has become a fixture in the hit man genre. It’s a role George Clooney can play to perfection (cf. Michael Clayton).
Grizzled, stocky, nursing a bad back, Clooney’s Jack in Wolfs is reaching the end of his career. Although proud of his reputation, he’s started cutting corners and relying on tricks to get him through assignments.
Like helping politician Margaret (Amy Ryan), stuck with the body of a male prostitute in an expensive hotel suite. Jack is about to go into his routine when they are interrupted by Nick (Brad Pitt), a rival cleaner hired by the hotel’s security chief Pamela (voiced by Frances McDormand).
Turns out the incident was recorded on the hotel’s many video cameras. What’s more, Kid (Austin Abrams), the prostitute, was carrying a backpack filled with drugs. Jack and Nick have to return the drugs as well as dispose of Kid’s body.
Spoiler alert to anyone who hasn’t seen the trailer: Kid isn’t dead, just nearly comatose from a drug OD. When he springs back to life from the trunk of Jack’s car, Wolfs pretends it’s livening up too. There’s a prolonged chase through the streets of a snowy Chinatown Manhattan at night, allowing cinematographer Larkin Seiple many glistening compositions at the expense of momentum and plausibility.
Because if Jack and Nick don’t catch Kid, there’s no more movie. Not that much happens when they do. A stop at an illicit medical clinic. A visit to an ethnic wedding. Empty warehouses. Dark streets. In the meantime Jack and Nick share war stories, forming a grudging respect for each other.
The bantering between Clooney and Pitt is a retread of their Oceans schtick, minus the fabulous supporting cast and intricate enough plotting. Here they’re on automatic, Pitt in particular shambling through his part like he’s done for the past ten years, Clooney putting in just enough effort to keep our sympathy.
Face it, celebrities — no matter how big — teasing each other does not make a movie. Or at least not a good movie. Writer and director Jon Watts (behind the Spider-Man trilogy and a couple of episodes of The Old Man) leans on the meta by pretending that dialogue with “old,” “past his prime,” etc., refers to the leads’ movie careers. But meta doesn’t make a dull plot more interesting. When all else fails, Watts turns to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid for plot twists.
Reviews like this don’t mean anything to the filmmakers; considering their past successes, they aren’t about to listen to criticism. That’s the cinema of privilege, the sense that filmmakers have earned the right to do whatever they want. Clooney’s by no means the worst example, and for the most part I applaud his choices. He’s capable of better work.
Credits Directed by Jon Watts. Written by Jon Watts. Produced by George Clooney, Grant Heslov, Brad Pitt, Dede Gardner, Jeremy Kleiner, Dianne McGunigle, Jon Watts. Director of photography: Larkin Seiple. Edited by Andrew Weisblum. Music by Theodore Shapiro. Cast: George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Amy Ryan, Austin Abrams, Poorna Jagannathan.
Streaming on Apple TV+ Photo Apple TV+
