Where does one even begin with a movie like this—a cinematic bag of potato chips that’s all salt, no flavor, and leaves you wondering why you even opened it? “Chief of Station” (2024)—let’s just pause and savor those quotation marks, because any film so adamant about being a “gem” should take a long, honest look in the mirror—stars the usually capable Aaron Eckhart as Ben Malloy, a man who, judging by his performance, seems to have signed on before reading anything past “Action/Thriller” at the top of the script.
Ah, a spy movie. The lights dim, the tensions rise, and then—like slipping on a banana peel in front of the Queen—the plot lands with a thunk. Ben’s wife is blown up during their wedding anniversary at a café. Because what is marriage, really, if not a dramatic prelude to explosive loss? This tragedy (ostensibly our entry ticket to Ben’s world of vengeance) unspools into a story so thick with dust that you can practically hear the plot creak as it lumbers along. Predictability isn’t even the right word; this movie’s twists are telegraphed with the subtlety of a marching band.
Let’s be tender now—about the acting, that is. Aaron Eckhart, who once could curdle milk with a glance and make anguish look artful, performs here as if he’s counting ceiling tiles just off camera. His Ben Malloy is a slab of wood who’s been given a few lines and plenty of leather jackets, but none of the grit. Olga Kurylenko floats through her scenes with the kind of wide-eyed bewilderment one reserves for tax season: you suspect she wandered onto the wrong set and decided to stick it out for the catering. The ensemble, in solidarity, cycle through blank stares and the thousand-yard gaze of actors who suspect the catering will be the highlight of their day. There’s a moment—a fleeting microexpression on Kurylenko’s face—that suggests she’s pondering how quickly this film can wrap. That makes two of us.
Action! Or rather, inert motion. Here the promised fireworks fizzle into a series of “intense” sequences shot with all the dynamism of your neighbor’s home movies—if your neighbor had a flair for uninspired brawls and a loose regard for basic physics. We’re treated to firefights where the odds are boisterously ignored (the art of missing your mark becomes a metaphysical pursuit). The pacing is glacial—if you blink, you’ll miss nothing at all, because the choreography seems to have been borrowed wholesale from security footage.
And the dialogue! Never have so many been struck by so much banality in so little time. Each line is an olympic leap into the abyss of the screenwriter’s cliché warehouse. If there were an Oscar for “Most Recycled Dialogue,” these folks would form a conga line to the podium. Someone, somewhere, must have had a quota for tired one-liners and the sort of spy jargon that feels assembled by a high-school drama club on their first rehearsal. There’s a moment when Ben nearly whips out “the latest tech”—which looks like a soda can with a straw. The only mystery here is how the screenwriting team managed to keep a straight face.
And so: with a small shudder and a generously sized eye-roll, we arrive at the end. “Chief of Station” is the kind of movie that reduces you to watch-checking; a test of endurance not because it’s deliciously bad (oh, to be so lucky), but because it’s inert—a thrill ride in name only. If you need a way to pass ninety minutes and want to marvel at how low the bar is set for contemporary spy movies, this will do the trick. But don’t say you weren’t warned: it’s less a guilty pleasure than a cinematic time-out. You’ll find yourself, in the afterglow, yearning for the brainless comfort of yesterday’s TV reruns—or perhaps just grateful your television has an “Off” button.
My advice: bring popcorn, but be prepared to toss it in the air in disbelief, or simply aim for the screen. Here’s to hoping the next “thriller” gives us more thrill, less filler, and—if we’re lucky—something resembling a pulse.
