THE calls himself an assassin. He is straight out of GQ, with a gait that is worth a fashion runway. He is menacing but you stop dead in your tracks because you just cannot get yourself to look away from that face: chiseled to kill and seduce. And then there is this woman dangerously silent and lovely in a model’s way. She barely has makeup on her face. Or, she is one of those who have developed the skill to paint her face without those gazing at her noticing the palette that lights up her person. The woman is mysterious, not in the dark deep way but in the sophisticated way. She goes to the library not to stock up on her op. cit and loc. cit, but look for a man she doesn’t even know. The librarian stares at her intently and gives her a sample population of millions. Looking for a needle in a haystack is not a proverb for this leading lady of ours, but a practical problem.
All these persona, events and processes are happening in Hitman: Agent 47. It’s a film where many are killed but the killing is done with quick precision, without so much as a grimace on the faces of those who kill and are killed.
There are many things goings for this film, which is now in theaters in the Philippines, aside from the two lead characters and the actors who play them. As I have stated already, the assassin is strikingly handsome and the object of the first chase, infinitely lovely. I call her that—“the object of the first chase”—because midway into the film, the woman is revealed to be the daughter of a man who is the object of a crazy search. The woman is looking for that important man who happens to be her father. That man is the brain behind the creation of men who are fitted both with genes and gadgets to kill. The men do not have fears and insecurities. They do not have emotions. They are not even capable of love. Or so it seems. When the film ends, and the woman finds her father, love and rage and all the emotions in between wreak havoc on what could have been just a clean killing. See, emotions are not really gatekeepers but tension necessary to a plot.
I cannot really divulge the plot of the film without spoiling everyone’s appetite for it. Let it just be said that, once more, speed becomes the catalyst to drive home the lessons in this caper. There are no essential villains in this film, which is good. The existentialism of the plot works: the villains are in us. The good and the bad are in us. Still, the main seducers of Hitman: Agent 47 are in the characters. In its first cinematic incarnation, Timothy Olyphant, shaved head and all, was this agent. In the present reincarnation, the menace is upped by the English actor, Rupert Friend. He’s so smart that even a red tie looks rare on him. His eyes are intense; the stunts are good.
Hannah Ware plays Katia, the mysterious woman whose search for a missing person, fuels the heat of the narrative about science and technology of producing men and women of substantial violence. Zachary Quinto as John Smith provides a foil to Agent 47 and Katia, and helps prove how duplicitous life can be.
Aleksander Back directs Hitman: Agent 47. Singapore as a location plays a bit role in the film.
In a news release from 20th Century Fox and Warner Bros., there is this information that Filipino Kali martial arts was used in the training of Rupert Friend as Agent 47. The action scenes in Hitman are described as “hyperreal.” The filmmakers also describe what they call “Gun Fu,” which is kung fu but with guns
As I write this, there is another “hitman” killing fans everywhere in this country in sheer delight, and that is Alden Richards. As played out on GMA’s long-running noontime show Eat Bulaga, the kalye-serye featuring Alden Richards—an odd cross between telenovela, reality show and improvisation—is taking the country by storm. If Alden Richards provides the charm and murderous cuteness in this story that keeps unravelling, Wally Bayola provides the gravitas. Bayola’s depiction of women is nonpareil.
The gag writers must be finding it hard to insert any other character there, even if that persona is played by the veteran Jose Manalo. The latter has donned a blond wig and put on back his lolo costume but to no avail. People—and diehard fans—are rooting for the pure love of Alden Richards to this strange being called Yaya Dub, and are loathing and becoming profoundly affected by the ancient rage of the old wealthy grandmother played by Wally Bayola.
Who would ever thought that Wally Bayola would be this big? Who would have predicted that he would rise from the morass of that sex-video scandal and be the main comedian in a show ran and occupied by stellar clowns? Life can be unpredictable and fun.