| The ÔÔBourneÕÕ series makes for an unusual action franchise. All the movies are exhilarating, including the third installment, ÔÔThe Bourne Ultimatum,ÕÕ which opens tonight and leaves a bruise. Part of what makes them so good is that theyÕre all-inclusive. You could take your mother, your teenage kids, your mailman, your history professor, and your dog Ñ everybody goes home happy. The movies are smart Ñ smarter than you, but not in an off-putting way. Their basic appeal, especially this new one, is that Matt DamonÕs killing machine, Jason Bourne, is the cleverest man on earth. And we thrill to his sense of superiority. ThereÕs a great early sequence in ÔÔUltimatumÕÕ in which Bourne, fresh from avenging his girlfriendÕs death in the previous movie and now in LondonÕs crowded Waterloo Station, manipulates a meeting with a reporter in the know (Paddy Considine) whose top-level contacts have won the murderous attention of the CIA. Via cellphone, Bourne choreographs the guyÕs every move. These scenes are funny, suspenseful, and exquisitely shot and edited in a first for the movies: a pas de deux by remote control. BourneÕs memory is working again and, with the help of Julia StilesÕ conflicted CIA agent (her part is bigger now and her hair streakier), a mental picture of his exploiters is forming. As he gets closer to putting all the pieces together, heÕll have similar dances with David Strathairn and Joan Allen as the pair of feds increasingly at odds with each other over how to handle BourneÕs eventual descent upon their offices in Manhattan. The movie, written by Tony Gilroy, Scott Z. Burns, and George Nolfi, seems to be digging into our current surveillance and espionage quandaries. StrathairnÕs character spends half the movie dispatching skilled men to kill Bourne. TheyÕre called assets, and as the film trots the globe each city offers an asset whoÕs hilariously ethnically appropriate and model-handsome. ItÕs as if John Casablancas has started an assassins agency. These films are lean and swift. The violence comes in bursts but lasts as long as some musical numbers Ñ there are fights and chases here that would knock Bob Fosse into next week and make Bruce Lee break down in tears. The documentary transparency is characteristic of Paul Greengrass. He directed both this new installment and the previous one, 2004Õs ÔÔThe Bourne Supremacy,ÕÕ as well as the Sept. 11 drama ÔÔUnited 93.ÕÕ That transparent quality makes his ÔÔBourneÕÕ movies seem unadulterated and unalloyed. In other words: absurdly real, despite BourneÕs apparent indestructibility. The landed blows make you wince. So does the filmÕs score, which the movie is slathered with; the sound design is so percussively good that music seems redundant. Part of that realism extends to the movieÕs locations. Habitually, HollywoodÕs wanderlust is a bid to enrich the international box office. Here the globetrotting is functional. Greengrass and his crew tailor the chases and fights to each location. The rooftops and cul-de-sacs of Tangier completely recalibrate the typical breathless foot chase. Now the physical dimensions of everything seem smaller, tighter, intensified. That sequence climaxes with an instant-classic fight in a cramped apartment between Bourne and a Casablancas killer. ThereÕs also a car chase in New York City that is so brutally real it seems plain impossible or just magical. Crashes as spectacular as these would make the international news. With these ÔÔBourneÕÕ movies, we can all feel like weÕre getting what we want: unless what you desire is Matt Damon grinning. He cracks arms, legs, necks, but never a smile. ItÕs hard to think of an actor better suited to playing this stuff with a straight face and the streak of human feeling that Jean-Claude Van Damme, Jet Li, and Jason Statham are allergic to. Harrison Ford and Bruce Willis would feel remiss if they didnÕt wink. But Robert Ludlum, on whose books these movies are based, didnÕt write for the megaplex. He wrote to keep you charged up on the plane. ThereÕs no ÔÔYippee-Kay-YayÕÕ here. YouÕd have to go back to another Ford Ñ Glenn Ñ for DamonÕs professionalism. But Glenn Ford was scarcely the athlete Damon is. After three moviesÕ worth of running, jumping, and some electrifying hand-to-hand combat, Damon no longer seems bewildered by his physical skills. He seems content with action-figurehood. ThereÕs a whiff of sexual connection with Stiles, who seems downright European with all the staring her character does, but she just makes you miss the German actress Franke Potente, who played BourneÕs girlfriend in the first picture. Mostly, Damon looks understandably forlorn. IÕd like to see him in a comedy soon, if only to confirm that he still has all his teeth. ThatÕs how tough these movies are. Yet theyÕre naturally muscular where the average Hollywood blockbuster is on human growth hormone. Many of the sequence in ÔÔBourneÕÕ seem wildly, spontaneously choreographed. When Bourne does a running leap off one of those Tangier rooftops across an alley and into an apartment window, itÕs a familiar action-flick move. But the immediacy takes your breath away. You might be impressed, but the movie doesnÕt leave a second to pat itself on the back with a slow-motion shot or a lot of build-up. He jumps. He crashes in. He lands. And on we go. The intruded-upon residents are spooked, but youÕd have to be looking hard for their startled faces, since itÕs over for both them and us in a flash. If you need an awed reaction shot, bring date and watch his or her face. Wesley Morris can be reached at wmorris@globe.com. For more on movies, go to boston.com/ae/movies/blog. Boston Globe Published: 08/02/2007
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