Michael Winner's original 1972 rendition of “The Mechanic” is by no means the peak of Charles Bronson's similarly-minded filmography; it's a mean, brusque little thing, with a tin-ear for human conversation and the moral quandary behind its premise. On the other hand, it has a certain grimy sheen, a veneer of sweat and the visual after-burn which epitomizes that particular moment in time for the American thriller, plus an opening that eschews dialogue, favoring an escalation of pure, palpable tension. It also has Bronson's ungodly ugly mug, maybe the most entertaining thing in the movie, looking for all the world like someone etched lines into his face with a carving knife. In any case, and seeing as we're we're in the middle of what appears to be a cultural recession, someone thought that “The Mechanic” yearned for a resurrection—one with very slick cinematography, and featuring the only balding British actor to pull off a successful career with slight variations on a single facial expression. Problem is, the redo takes the grime out of the original—the musk, the scent. And in so doing, it turns the material into essentially just another Jason Statham vehicle: a brightly lit, gun-metal slick actioner with only a surface level narrative.

Winner wasn't a part of the same kind of stylistically unified blob that American action thrillers have turned themselves into today. His 'Mechanic' was a studio picture, passed around from one pair of hands to the other until he himself settled on it, but there's a personal idiosyncrasy about the film—words unlikely to be directed toward its update. There are still things to enjoy in the new 'Mechanic,' but mainly these things revolve around how well Statham carries himself through material that, having been reduced toward its more simplified state, comes off as little more than a rehash of any number of his previous films. Even more grating is the notion that—given all the similar rolls Statham has been handed over the years—in the right hands, something like this could've become a conscious reflection on the kind of image Statham's created for himself, carried over from film to film, and the emotional ramifications of that character's moral and mental flux. Of course, this kind of thing isn't a requirement—a well-made genre film is a well-made genre film. The primary problem I had with this particular remake, beyond whatever vague and shallow reasoning the industry is using to justify this spate of redos in general, is that its director, Simon West, is a member of that new school of in-house studio action directors. A stable-hand possessed of little if any personality or idiosyncrasy in his approach to the source material, West's only real purpose seems to be to pump out as much of a broad sketch outline of a schlocky action film as possible, while remaining as barely true to the dynamics and characters of the original as he can.

The film blessedly refuses to fall into the editing state of incoherence that defines action movies of late, but what it does offer is merely a collection of hollow set-pieces, inexplicably golden-hued and slight, lacking texture and grit—that blood-in-the-mouth feel that permeated Bronson's outing. This coupled with an odd, out of place John Williams-esque soundtrack further situates this cash-grab for hire in the arena of 2002's “xXx,” or thereabouts. It's all an exercise lacking in visceral feeling, something essential to the material, and something you'd think the movie's grizzled leading man would bring to the table if only by proxy. The relationship between Statham's Arthur Bishop and Sutherland's Harry McKenna at the center of the narrative does survive, if only because, when people aren't flinging themselves at each other, West's camera is surprisingly serene, enough to allow us to hear the two speak. And the kind of unintentional metafictional commentary that comes with something like this, as Statham—both the young buck  and an old hand on the action scene—acts as a tense mentor, bringing his bushy-eyed newbie (Ben Foster) into the field. There's a tensity and emotional relevance here that the film almost consciously doesn't allow itself to strike on, on purpose, elsewhere—and that congratulations goes to the pair of actors at the heart of it, who manage to inject their individual brands of personality into the roles and make them work. And come to think of it, I'm not sure if Statham's ugly enough to be the next Bronson anyhow. He needs a couple bashes of the ugly stick before that could be anywhere near true.

Review by:
Henry J. Baugh