At 87 years of age, and with nearly 50 years of filmmaking experience, Clint Eastwood is a seasoned pro, a resilient icon, and one of the last remaining titans of his era. It’s remarkable that at nearly 90 years old, he’s not only still making studio movies, but critical and commercial hits (it was only four years ago that “American Sniper” became one of the most successful pictures of his career). That context is vital for understanding just how clunky, clumsy, jarring and strangely amateurish Eastwood’s “The 15:17 to Paris” truly is.
Not without fine intentions, this is a stark, highly respectful retelling of the headline grabbing story, where three young American friends, Spencer Stone, Alek Skarlatos and Anthony Sadler, valiantly saved the lives of those on the titular train from an imminent terrorist attack. However, rather than dramatizing what happened with professional, possibly big name actors, the actual subjects play themselves, attempting to faithfully reenact what transpired on August 21, 2015. But what should’ve played as noble and authentic comes across as awkward and inauthentic, with Eastwood’s infamously run and gun direction paying little benefit to the inexperienced actors. Coupled with an unpolished screenplay by Dorothy Blyskal, “The 15:17 to Paris” is a staggeringly underdeveloped film, with 10 minutes of story stretched out into an uncomfortable, underworked 90 minutes. There’s no denying Eastwood’s legacy as a filmmaker, but if you didn’t know better, you wouldn’t guess that the man behind this film is the same one with four Oscars to his name.
Much like “Sully,” whenever “The 15:17 to Paris” is squarely focused on recreating the action-packed main events of the film — which unfold in real time — the movie is brisk and captivating, rivalling Paul Greengrass‘s “United 93” in its brutal, piercing immersion. In these moments, the execution is bold, tight and relentlessly intense. The cinematography by Tom Stern is close and confrontational. The editing is sharp and skillful. You don’t think about it as a movie. You’re in that moment. You’re there. And its familiar message about how anyone can become a hero when the time arrives resonates. But it’s the dull, confused, and shapeless 84 minutes leading up to that thrilling, invigorating conclusion that gives Eastwood’s newest cause for concern.
“The 15:17 To Paris” tells the story of how these three guys met in their early childhood, for no real discernible reason, with brief-but-welcome (and deeply underutilized) appearances by respected actors like Judy Greer, Jenna Fischer, Tony Hale, Thomas Lennon and Jaleel White. It’s all aimless padding, and the same goes for the events shortly before the climactic train ride, where we spent a good bit of time in the everyday lives of its subjects (mostly Stone, the most charismatic of the three, but that’s not really saying much), what led them to that train and their mostly uneventful journey throughout the heart of Europe. While “The 15:17 to Paris” strives to feel more grounded and realistic in its biographical telling, it clearly — and rather painfully — plays like Eastwood stretching out this already short film into something that’s eight times longer than it has any real need to be.
While the gripping events inside the train are rightfully cinematic, nothing else in “The 15:17 to Paris” earns that same distinction. Eastwood and Blyskal wander around, much like the subjects eventually do in Europe, looking for something that’ll give their movie a beating pulse. Between the strained performances from our three real-life heroes, the graceless transitions from one scene to another and the plain, wooden dialogue our already unprofessional actors are made to deliver, Eastwood’s new movie suffers from all the criticisms associated with his most recent work, with few of the merits. For a movie that’s seemingly committed to getting at the visceral truth of its narrative, it’s almost impressive how dull it turns out to be. It’s an inspiring story, but Eastwood can’t find the spark to bring it life. [C-]