‘ATOMIC BLONDE’
‘Atomic Blonde’ is a garbled Cold War spy thriller
“Looks can kill” takes on a whole new meaning when MI6 agent Lorraine Broughton slams her red stiletto heel into the chest of a Russian agent as they hurtle through the streets of West Berlin days before the fall of the Wall. After managing to flip the speeding car from the backseat, Lorraine — played by a platinum-bleached, devious Charlize Theron — coolly climbs out of the car window to slide her unblemished “weapon” back on her foot.
Welcome to the world of David Leitch’s “Atomic Blonde,” where the raw brutality of East Berlin crashes into the neon hedonism of the West with punk, sex and sleaze. The film cuts between Berlin and London as Lorraine acts as narrator and protagonist, retelling the story of her mission as she sits smoking in an interrogation room a few days later.
She enters Berlin to retrieve sensitive information with her new partner, MI6 agent David Percival (a bristly James McAvoy), who has “gone feral” in East Germany. She leaves the same city a few days later, battered and steely-eyed, just to meet more danger in the West.
This love song to Berlin rests on shifting ground. The careless plot bruises the film, otherwise rife with jagged brio, electric visuals and a steamy, gnarled nest of vipers. Confusing rather than enigmatic, the film’s threadbare storyline breaks the audience out of the world it winningly creates.
Aesthetically, “Blonde” writhes with shiny, sultry cool. Neon lights and retro synth-punk music are the arterial pulse of the film. Instead of tailored James Bond suits or Jason Bourne’s undercover cop neutrals, Lorraine Broughton wears the catwalk to a catfight. She kicks and stabs in svelte black-andwhite ’80s-inspired haute couture, her wardrobe doubling as her weapon in the smoky stairwells of East Berlin.
In this realpolitik tango at the fall of the regime, blood stains even the darkest jackets. Although Mr. Leitch romanticizes Ms. Theron’s uncrushable hand-to-hand combat skill, she bleeds and winces and hurts, wobbling in exhaustion at the end of one particularly highstakes fight.
Still, moments of private intimacy — deep breaths in an elevator, ice baths at dawn — peel back Ms. Theron’s Teflon gaze to show a more complicated character underneath. A woman in a traditionally man’s spy role shows a stronger, more empathetic protectiveness, one that slips out several times during the film. A good example is her love affair with a younger French agent (a coquettish and rock star Sofia Boutella). It’s a rare lesbian relationship on screen that actually furthers the plot and complicates both characters rather than just serving as eye candy for the panting audience.
But it just isn’t enough. The action and aesthetics are laudable, but the lack of signposts to help audiences understand deceitful characters’ motivations confuses rather than enthralls. The weight of this film rests on Ms. Theron’s bleeding and sinewy shoulders, a load she manages to bear — but one she shouldn’t have to.