“Half of Interpol is chasing Bourne,” says Joan Allen, “because who could find a guy who looks like Matt Damon wandering the streets of Europe’s capital cities in broad daylight with no disguise?!”
Yes, Joan Allen returns to the Botox Intelligence Agency, defending the world from the terrorist acts of tiny facial lines. “My previous face is hiding in a cave on the Pakistan border,” explains Allen. “And my new one is suffering an onslaught of friendly peel.”
Her boss is Scott Glenn, who could use some of that peel, as long as it’s accompanied by a hammer and chisel. His face couldn’t be more weathered if it was at the bow of an arctic ice-breaker.
Matt Damon can travel anywhere he wants because although he forgot who he is, he remembers how to say so in 4,357 languages, including several that are dead and two of extraterrestrial origin.
“All-cay e-may att-May amon-Day!” Matt shouts in pig-latin when even the French don’t understand his French.
Come to find out that Matt has undergone some kind of creepy behavior modification not unlike what his pal Ben Affleck underwent during the Jennifer Lopez era – except the bag was over Matt’s head this time, not Jennifer’s.
Once David Strathairn discovers the whereabouts of Damon, it’s time to call in the “assets” – trained killers by day and hookah-smoking, Turkish coffee drinking disco dwellers by night. “These men are licensed to kill,” says Strathairn, “and to dance!”
“David Strathairn?” asks one “asset” who asked not to be identified. “I thought that was Sam Waterston!”
No matter the pedigree of your average assassin, it is impossible to look macho at the wheel of a Vespa scooter. “I will kill you as you scoot, Matt Damon!” says one “asset,” with a glint of hookah and Turkish coffee in his eye and his next shower at least a week or two in the distance.
But all of that is just an appetizer for the main course: The pouty stylings of Julia Stiles, whose cherubic face looks less at home in the spy biz than in the business of shooting arrows at would-be lovers.
The CIA claims that the death of Jilia Stiles will ultimately save American lives. And that’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make. Who wouldn’t pay for the chance to see Julia Stiles run for her life? Kill the pouty runner! Kill the pouty runner!
Lickety split, Julia becomes Matt’s new accomplice, and that can mean only one thing: You have to learn to cut and dye your own hair. Oh, and a fondness for high speed escapes and a future in Lifetime movies helps, too.
Whoever is at the center of this storm, one thing’s for sure: It’s going to be a legendary elder Hollywood actor.
“That’s my cue!” says the great Albert Finney, who slurs and mutters those words as if they were mixed into a blender as an eye-opener.
“Your complexion is ruddy!” complains Damon.
“No wonder my liver is on the beach in Cabo sipping a Mai-Tai,” explains Finney, who manages to slur that entire sentence without implicating a single vowel in the crime.
Tauter than Joan Allen’s forehead, The Bourne Ultimatum is this summer’s high-speed, fast-pumping pleasure.