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The pains of young Jason. God help us.
Paul Greengrass's film, much like its predecessor The Bourne Supremacy, is already a subject of study concerning the evolution (or involution?) of contemporary action cinema and the progressive reduction of ASL (Average Shot Length, the average duration of shots). Even David Bordwell, a great scholar of cinematic technique and aesthetics, has written about it: I refer to his essay for a more competent and analytical perspective than I can provide (http://www.davidbordwell.net/blog/?p=1175).
Like Tony Scott and Michael Bay, but in a less openly boisterous and more "auteur" manner, let's say, Greengrass is an advocate of hummingbird cinematography. That is to say, arm yourself with eye drops before watching because blinking might make you miss two or three shots at the very least: the ideal situation would be that of Malcolm McDowell for Kubrickian Ludovico's Technique. We're talking about an overall average of about two seconds per shot; overall, because when the pace picks up, it goes down to a few tenths of a second, and not even retinal persistence can help the unfortunate who decides to endure the screening.
An aggravating factor is the continuously moving handheld camera, which, in comparison, makes The Blair Witch Project seem like a Tarkovsky long take. Let's not even talk about the constant zooms, the skewed visual composition, unsolicited strobe effects, and the complete inability (or indifference) to provide the viewer with an adequate geographic map, or even just a minimal perception, of the environments.
There's no excuse that holds. The excuse of empathizing at all costs is easily refutable: Jason Bourne is a war machine with lynx-like reflexes and a keen sense of spaces, so why should we, the viewers, be placed in a position of inferiority compared to him, when it is the total empathy on which such a plot should be based? Greengrass is one of the most overrated directors around, at least in my humble opinion. It's not about originality: his is a crude, elementary, and, worse still, derivative aesthetic.
And what about the plot? Not much to say. Without the character of Franka Potente (murdered at the beginning of the second chapter), the only vaguely interesting one, we are left with a handful of two-dimensional figurines thrown into the mix, including the protagonist. After exhausting chases, on foot and by car, shootings, and explosions, we arrive drained at a conclusion that many had already guessed at the beginning of the first film of the saga.
However, both the public and critics have appreciated it. We eagerly await the next chapter: The Bourne Epilepsy.
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