Beirut indulges in too many stereotypes

There is nothing Jon Hamm exhibits better than a headache.

That’s true whether he’s struggling to form a last-minute pitch for Lucky Strike in Mad Men, being betrayed by Kevin Spacey in Baby Driver or trying to pin down Ben Affleck in The Town. Or, as in Beirut, if he’s trying to negotiate life-and-death terms for a hostage in the middle of the war-torn Middle East as a U.S. diplomat.

With his brow tightly furrowed, sweat resting against his upper lip, otherwise perfectly coiffed hair lightly untethered, you can almost smell the whiskey peeling off Hamm in perpetual waves, giving the impression he, too, has no idea what to do with himself post-Mad Men. Because if there’s any role the actor has been pigeonholed into, it’s variations on an alcoholic savant.

In Beirut, we get Jon Hamm, the alcoholic white saviour.

The film opens with Hamm’s Mason Skiles in 1972. Happily working in Beirut, he’s wealthy, living in a large house above the brown-skinned people he and his friends talk about as if they’re wooden chess pieces. That is, of course, except for his Lebanese wife, not much more than silent arm candy, and Karim, a Palestinian child who seems to function as the family’s houseboy.

The action begins when Karim’s terrorist brother comes to take him away one day during a party at Mason’s home. Karim disappears and Mason’s wife is gunned down. Mason flees the country, and we cut to him bent over a Boston bar a decade later, unshaven and dewy: default Hamm.

Soon enough, he learns his presence is needed back in Beirut amid the Lebanese Civil War in hopes of furthering a hostage negotiation. And the Palestinian kidnappers are led by none other than a grown-up Karim!

Beirut ticks off just about every box when it comes to Middle Eastern stereotyping.

Civilians are depicted as bloodthirsty savages. Every shot of the city swaps its beautiful metropolis for ruins, set against a score of bombs and vaguely Arabian stock music. Children tote guns, with mosques on every corner. Meanwhile, a miserable Mason stands in the forefront, lens flare cast against the aviators he never takes off.

No wonder Hamm has a migraine.

It’s all so crudely and shamelessly stereotypical. Hamm would be better suited to taking two aspirin and calling his agent in the morning.