It’s hard to watch a good premise turn into a droning drama that spends the majority of onscreen time wallowing in narcissism and concluding with the age-old moral, “It doesn’t pay to kill people.”

Violante Placido plays a prostitute with a conscience and George Clooney stars as an assasin in “The American”, where his usual charm and charisma is replaced with awkward and socially distraught. (photo courtesy of Focus Pictures)

Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola have been singing that tune since the ‘70s, and while this isn’t their movie, “The American” thrives on clichéd renditions of that ballad for a grueling two hours. George Clooney puts aside his usual dose of charm and charisma as he tries out awkward and socially distraught. He’s an assassin who goes by many names, like Jack, Mr. Butterfly and, you guessed it, the American. He moves through Europe, trying to stay ahead of the Swedes, who want him dead for some unknown reason — we just assume that the life of an assassin makes for a few grudges and we don’t need to know more than that, nor do we receive anymore details. He’s a spy or mercenary (they never really say) at a turning point in his life. Will he continue this life of secrets and death or leave it all behind and start over? In the meantime, we watch as our leading man dates a prostitute, constructs a sniper rifle, calls his boss, avoids a hitman and discusses sin with a priest. It might be enjoyable if it didn’t feel like a recycled version of Bond and Bourne without the fight scenes or compelling dialogue.

In “Up in the Air”, Clooney provided a soaring performance as a traveling businessman on the verge of expiration in the digital age. Here, Clooney is a man in the business of death who’s tired of being alone; in short, the plotline of every film in this genre. But rather than our leading anti-hero shooting his way out of the life, we get to see a much more accurate description of a few days in the life of an assassin…and it is really, really boring. He spends his time staying out of sight and purchasing tools and parts for a custom rifle, though everyone thinks he works with cars as a hobby. But then the night comes — cue the local prostitute, Clara (Violante Placido).

Unlike other beauties our international man of mystery has bed, this prostitute with a heart of gold awakens the American’s need for real intimacy, not just sex, in a way only possible post-“Pretty Woman”. The clichés bleed through the pages of this thin screenplay, going nowhere new and ending in the most expected of places.

“The American”, based on Martin Booth’s novel, “A Very Private Gentleman”, suffers from the same problem as last year’s “The Road”, based on the novel by Cormac McCarthy. But while “The Road”, lacking a driving plotline, had enough introspective ideas to keep a higher level of interest, “The American” moves like a film trying to stay true to the literary source without creating enough on-screen movement to compensate for what might have been interesting internal moments on page. What we get is a film with barely any dialogue and far too few thrills to live up to the genre it claims to be a part of. Everything’s so underwhelming and painfully difficult to sit through.

I’m sure screenwriter, Rowan Joffé, thought he was creating something intellectually deep, especially with the debates about the nature of sin, but he had much better luck with depth when he wrote a biting critique of the Bush Administration in the margins of the zombie film, “28 Weeks Later”.

Everything about this movie screams space filler. Clooney doesn’t seem to care about his performance and none of his co-stars provide much substance or chemistry. It also doesn’t help that he shares the screen with only three actors, Violante Placido, Thekla Reuten as fellow assassin, Mathilde, and Paolo Bonacelli as Father Benedetto. I imagine the novel had much more to offer on the inner workings of a killer, but here, we’re left with a few key conversations between the main characters while we spend the rest of the time watching Clooney mope around.

“The American” seemed like it might have promise, but I found myself checking the time an hour in, fearing that I might die a little inside over the remaining 60 minutes. At that point, the film had said everything it needed to but just kept going. When the credits rolled, I truly didn’t care about any of the characters and greatly wished I’d seen “Machete” instead.