American Ultra posits a mildly amusing premise -- what if a stoned-out slacker found out he was Jason Bourne? -- and turns it into ninety or so minutes of filmmaking that are probably a lot more engaging than they have any right to be.
Norman Mailer taught me that a title should tell the audience what the book or movie is about. And yet, this title, I fear, will keep an audience away when this is one of the most enjoyable films I have seen this year.
For someone on the verge of unleashing a vast reservoir of wrath for public consumption, singer-songwriter Allison Moorer sounded downright chipper, much like Rayna James on the night last year when the fictitious country music star of Nashville swept the imaginary version of the CMA Awards.