With a title as bland as “Assassin Club”, one that seems to present the idea that screenwriter Thomas Dunn seemingly forgot to conjure up a better moniker for this Henry Golding thriller, it serves the dual purpose of describing a by-the-numbers globetrotting suspense-fest that could either drive the viewer into fits of boredom with the familiar beats it hits over and over again or act as a gateway drug for those new to the genre. If it’s the second, my sincere apologies.
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Goulding stars as Morgan Gaines, one of those assassin types who’s so good at his job that, feeling burned out and wishing to settle down into a life that doesn’t involve eating dry cereal while watching surveillance footage, he wants out. However, his boss Caldwell (Sam Neill) has one last opportunity to not only give Morgan the chance to go out with a literal bang but also line his wallet; unfortunately for both Gaines and the audience, said opportunity means hunting down rival assassins, all of whom are revealed to be hunting him as well. It’s the sort of game that someone like Noomi Rapace as the mysterious Falk might be executing behind the scenes when she’s not dancing between blank stares and monotone line reading, and it all results in a film that could be seen as either Bond-lite or a lesser “John Wick” minus the Keanu Reeves badassery but with a healthy serving of tedium instead.
In that regard, director Camille Delamarre seems like the perfect man for the job, as he’s no stranger to semi-violent franchise attempts like the forgotten 2015 reboot “The Transporter Refueled.” But Delamarre plays it safe in such a dull fashion that “Assassin Club” lacks any and all surprises, with the exception of the cast, all of whom seem to genuinely be trying to deliver some sort of quality. The always charming Goulding especially succeeds, while Rapace plays a legitimately menacing baddie when not trying to cling desperately to her artistic tendencies. Rapace’s performance elicits moments where ones wonder if she just woke up minutes earlier and decided to read a few lines or if her lazy droning is somehow intentional.
Meanwhile, Neill’s Caldwell isn’t terribly offensive, though it’s easy to see the likes of Hugh Grant in the role just as well. There’s still no need for a scene involving an angry Gaines scolding Caldwell as the latter struggles to play the piano; then again, maybe Gaines needs more of that character trait, who’s to say? And then Daniela Melchior appears periodically as Gaines’ significant other Sophie, her arc plagiarized from “True Lies” and leaving her with little else to do but look concerned.
At the very least, Dellamare shoot the fight scenes well. And there’s a car sequence or two that, while seemingly stolen from the cutting room floor of any “Mission: Impossible” sequel, look acceptable. But overall, there’s nothing about any of the twists or turns in “Assassin Club” that will shock audience members into rewinding the moment to figure out what exactly transpired. Quite the opposite, in fact: one line during the film’s third act, likely intended for emotional impact when the film needs it most, will generate more laughs than were likely intended.
“Assassin Club” is neither a masterpiece nor a complete failure. It exists in that ennui that conjures up a memory of a Blockbuster Video that’s completely out of “Goldeneye” rentals, with an unrented copy of a Steven Segal actioner sitting nearby, awaiting its next victim. “Assassin Club” is that sort of film: one a viewer forgets before it even starts, and that’s no club in which this writer wants to partake.
