It's a lot easier to explain why John Woo's The Killer shouldn't work than to account for why it does. After all, Woo's film features virtually all of the painful cliches of the action film genre: 1) a renegade cop whose unorthodox tactics alienate his superiors and the public, 2) a villain who is responsible for the death of the partner of the renegade cop so that the cop's investment in the case can become personal, 3) an accomplished and highly disciplined criminal who just wants one last big score so that he can retire from his life of crime, 4) an ambitious, panicky cop-boss who insists on meddling with the work of his subordinates and causes more problems than he solves, forcing the renegade cop to stay on the case despite orders to the contrary, 5) a love interest who puts herself in danger whenever the script runs out of ways for the heros to put themselves in danger, 6) an improbable boat chase that leads to an improbable car chase, 7) yet another improbable car chase, and 8) huge stacks of fuel tanks that always seem to materialize wherever there's gunplay for the purpose of exploding at just the right moment in the course of the shootout.

Perhaps the greatest testament to John Woo's artistry is that it is impossible to describe The Killer, which is unlike any other action movie ever made, without sounding as if we are describing every other action movie ever made. If God truly lives in the details, then He pays rent to John Woo, for it is only in the details that we see the difference between what Woo does and what other action directors try to do. Woo transmutes the very recipe that I had come to regard as the formula of a worthless genre into the conventions of a captivating artform. I had no idea action movies could be this good.

Let's start with the characters, for they are clearly what Woo started with. Our main character Jeffrey Chow (Chow Yun-Fat) is a professional assassin. Whether or not he has ever killed an innocent person we don't know, but his target in The Killer is a slimy crimeboss. And since he risks his life to save a little girl who strays into a gunfight, it seems reasonable to assume that he has made his living killing degenerates. In his efforts to help a woman whom he accidentally wounded on a job, he says, "Not everyone in this world is untrustworthy." That line may be the first peek that we get into the subtle ways in which John Woo will examine notions of trust, love, honor, and, most importantly, friendship in the course of his film. But we will never get a Mel Gibson or a Liam Neeson screeching idiotically about what honor is; we will only see characters who either seek or fail to seek to deal with one another honorably. Better yet, we will see that those who fail to be honorable can always make amends, be forgiven, grow.

Some viewers are likely to object when a renegade cop named Li (Danny Lee) actually puts his gun down when ordered to do so by an assassin fleeing from justice. "That's not what a real cop would do," they will whine; "a real cop would get in so much trouble for that." But Li knows that he can trust the killer because 1) he has just seen the killer endanger himself by bringing a wounded child to an emergency ward, and 2) the killer fired off five rounds at him as they stood face-to-face and never even grazed him after taking out a sniper at a distance of roughly one hundred meters. Li is entitled to assume (rightly) that Jeffrey missed on purpose and that he has no interest in killing him.

That act of faith on Li's part is the beginning of a friendship that only seems formulaic. If we listen to what the characters say, then we will find that their relationship cannot be formulaic because we have never seen any characters quite like these. When Li says, "I believe in justice, but nobody trusts me," he is not surprised to hear his friend the assassin reply, "I have the same problem." Not only is it not a hackneyed line, but it isn't presented as some variant of Wildean wit. Jeffrey means it. He really does believe in justice, but not the justice meted out by arbitrary systems and incomprehensible institutions. He believes in a justice that is meaningful on a personal level. And what's more, his faith in that kind of justice is not at all weakened or threatened by the fact that no one else regards it with anything but contempt.

The callous way of the world is represented both by Chief Inspector Tu (Barry Wong), who quickly loses faith in his best cop, and by the crimelord Johnny Weng (Shing Fui-On), who refuses to pay Jeffrey what he owes him. When Jeffrey's mentor Sydney approaches Weng for the money he owes Jeffrey, Weng says, "Why are you doing this for him?"

Sydney's response, which would perfectly valid in a world in which friendships are honored, is to say simply, "He's my best friend."

"Cut the crap," Weng replies, dismissing the notion of friendship as childish. Even more interesting is an exchange between Weng and Sydney that appears later in the film. Immediately after Jeffrey tells Li, "The world has changed; honor is now a dirty word," we cut back to Sydney attempting to collect Jeffrey's money from Weng. As Weng's men pummel Sydney for his impudence, Weng observes, "Sydney, sometimes I think you're not human. You're more like a dog."

Without making any overblown speeches on the topic, Woo invites us to ask ourselves what sort of violence we do to the notions of loyalty and friendship when we use the term 'dog' as a pejorative. More importantly, Woo doesn't lecture to us about how we need to change our ways. Instead, he merely leaves it to us to see the value of making certain changes. And through such self-sacrificing figures as Sydney and Li and Jeffrey, we learn that we can't expect the music to swell and little children to sing our praises when we behave honorably towards our friends. We can only expect contempt, scorn, and derision for standing by the people we trust. Regrettably, we appear to have decided that the only thing worth suffering for is romantic love, but The Killer is a persuasive testament to the fact that friendship (even if we've forgotten what it really is) is worth suffering for.

But as powerful as that lesson is, I think it's safe to say that most people do not watch Woo for his lessons. They watch for the choreographed gunplay that is simply unlike anything they've seen before. When Jeffrey shoots Weng's uncle on a job, he sends one bullet through the man's head and then two more through his chest. Throughout the film, Jeffrey and Sydney and Li demonstrate that they know how to kill people. They never trust a single bullet to do the job. The first bullet is only used to throw their target off balance. Then, more often than not, they grab their target by the hair or the shoulder and fire two or three rounds through vital organs before moving on to their next enemy. How can this incredibly graphic violence be said to improve the film?

Although it's bound to appease the gore fanatics of the world, I don't think the violence is magical just because the bullet wounds are handled with what passes for 'realism' with someone like me (i.e. a person who has never actually witnessed a person being shot through the head). What's important about Woo's reliance on the systematic infliction of multiple gunshot wounds is that we become accustomed to thinking of people as difficult to kill. Most gunfights don't have much tension because we tend to think of the outcome of gunfights as being determined by chance. People are moving around; it's impossible to draw an accurate bead on anyone or anything; bullets get sprayed; some folks die; some folks live. By having the bad guys killed over and over again with multiple gunshots, Woo persuades us that the ordinary gunshot wound is just that--a wound. Our heros take bullets in their arms, their legs, even their backs--but they don't just keel over. And we accept what would come across as indestructibility in other films because we see how much trouble they take when it comes to killing their enemies. Until someone shoots them the same way that they are in the habit of shooting others, we expect them to keep going--and are genuinely surprised when they die.

To attempt to describe with words what Woo accomplishes with a single frame of film in any of the action sequences from The Killer would be to slight his intricacy. I don't have the skill to describe it; and you probably lack the patience to read a description. Woo has more happen in thirty seconds of shooting than most action directors manage to put into their entire films--and yet somehow Woo enables the viewer to take all of the action in, to follow the many things that appear to be competing for our attention, but turn out to be working together towards an irresistible composition. Everything comes together perfectly in the action sequences; and all the parts of the film come together into something that feels very like a perfect whole.



Recommended: Yes