This movie should have been called Bryan Cranston, Slay. It just doesn't get much better than watching this powerhouse man performing his crazy, hyper-nuanced craft in a movie (or show) that otherwise doesn't matter as much as it wants to.
Sure, it would have been nice for the film to be better written and better executed, and its tone is about as confused as its focus. Does it want to be a slick crime thriller, or a Breaking Bad ripoff with some period drama? Does it want to be a dense character study or a fun summer action flick? It doesn't know, which translates onscreen to not really being any of those things. But before long in the viewing, I realized I just didn't care about the story. Its fact-based narrative is intriguing, obviously, but it's been done countless times before, and far more effectively. Derivative and flirting with crippling sentiment, the plot even meanders through familiar thematic territory, leaving us more annoyed than moved.
Cranston, on the other hand, shows us his power in every frame. Singly making the film worth watching, he imbues so much duplicity and earnestness into his performance that I found myself absorbed into his gravelly voice and his gaunt, weary visage. He maneuvers as a gymnast, walking a treacherous balance beam with each conversation he has with his wife, his partner, his boss, his enemies, his targets. Though the script gives him almost no helping hands, Cranston makes the character riveting and emotionally palpable.
He is engrossing. The movie is serviceable. Take it or leave it.
IMDb: The Infiltrator
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