“And I’m a throat-clearing machine,” says buddy Ben Affleck.
“I’m a spy out for vengeance in The Bourne Supremacy,” says Matt.
“I’m a Metrosexual out for an Algae Detox Body Treatment and Bikini Wax in The Bourne Effeminacy,” says Ben.
“And together, we’re Damon and Hooch!”
Did you know Matt actually beats to death a knife-wielding assassin with a rolled up magazine? Who knew he was trained in assault mail? You can go postal armed only with a copy of Us Weekly? In this issue, Justin and Cameron are on the Rocks – and I’m going to slap you upside the head, sucka!
Two years after The Bourne Identity Matt’s still with the same girlfriend who tries hard to look sweet despite a tattoo the size of Slovakia and just as attractive.
Stop the shaky camera! What’s the matter with you people? You’ve got $80 million in the budget and you can’t afford a friggin’ tripod?! Bring your hot-buttered Dramamine, folks, and prepare to place your head between your knees.
Okay, you remember the Jason Bourne story, right? Matt is an agent in exile for the CIA, or the “Company” as we call it in the trade.
The CIA wants to keep Matt from destroying the agency, even though he’s completely minding his own business. There he goes, running along a beach, trying to get some exercise in India where 24 Hour Fitness means 24 hours away by plane.
Can the CIA bring Bourne in from the cold? How many European capitals must be thoroughly demolished with impunity along the way?
Matt has a passport for every mood: A glum blue for whatever country’s home to sullen ex Minnie Driver, an envious green for wherever Affleck is staging his comeback, and so on.
What would a Bourne movie be without high-speed chases in crappy-ass little vehicles on crappy-ass little streets? James Bond this ain’t. It’s bad news when the horn’s on the handlebars and the bell goes “ching-ching.”
Have you noticed that the older he gets, the more Matt Damon resembles Ray Liotta? “It’s essential preparation for my remake of Operation Dumbo Drop,” notes Matt.
Wherever a steering wheel’s on the wrong side of a two-foot-wide demolition derby car, wherever the street signs look like alphabet soup, wherever bags are stuffed with cryptic papers and bundles of cash, wherever you can shoot folks dead without any regard for consequences, there you’ll find our boy Matt.
Julia Stiles returns as the CIA agent in charge of logistics, although I suspect she schedules less cloak and dagger and more hair and makeup. Julia’s job is to infiltrate the MTV generation and prevent outbreaks of terror whenever Nelly is in da houze on TRL. Intel, Respek!
The Bourne Supremacy is heavy on travelogue, light on dialogue. And no matter where Matt travels, it’s always to a place where no man has shaved in five days.
All in all, Matt spends two hours running, walking, or racing around Europe and speaks about four lines, and here they are:
• Why didn’t you leave me alone?!
• Why didn’t YOU leave me alone?!
• WHY didn’t you leave me alone?!
• Why didn’t you leave me ALONE?!
Matt’s a wanted man. Every cop in every Euro-nook and cranny has a fax of his face. But they keep arresting the wrong guy:
“Stoppen Sie, Ray Liotta! Hände in der Luft, Herr Liotta!”
Like its predecessor, The Bourne Supremacy is everything you expect from an old-school thriller and then some.
No martini – shaken, stirred, or otherwise – required.
Photos Copyright ©2004 Universal Pictures