LEON (1994), dir. Luc Besson

Bullets will Fly; Hearts will Swoon

Luc Besson is known for having style to burn, and in his 1994 action-drama "Leon," some of his storytelling choices leave an indelible impression, even when they defy conventional logic.

In the opening sequence, a professional hitman leads a one-man assault on a gang of heavily-armed drug dealers holed up in a New York City penthouse. At one point, the main heavy gets separated from his bodyguards by a storm curtain, which falls across a balcony door. Despite blasting enough holes in the barrier to make it resemble swiss cheese, the assassin manages to survive. We can see his eye peer in through one of the bullet holes in the curtain.

The heavy panics, runs down a nearby corridor to grab his cell phone. His back to the shadows, he does not see the hitman reappear behind him until the knife is at his throat. Considering that the assassin was last seen outside what should have been an impenetrable fortress of an apartment, it seems impossible that, in the span of mere seconds, he is now on the inside. But that’s okay, because the hired killer, with his black coat, mustache and beard, tinted shades and cool demeanor, looks awesome. He is Leon, and given the worldwide popularity of the movie which bears his namesake, he might be the paradigm of what the coolest hitman on the planet would look like.

But Besson fools us with his opening salvo of stylish sound and fury into thinking "Leon" is just another action movie. Instead, the pyrotechnics punctuate an unexpectedly touching drama about the relationship between a young girl, played by Natalie Portman, and Jean Reno’s angel of death, whose life she falls into. Her arrival is preceded by the murder of her entire family by Stansfield (Gary Oldman), a volatile, pill-popping DEA agent who leads a squad of drug-pushing cops. The angel of death becomes an angel of mercy, too. He teaches the waif Mathilda the art of "cleaning" (a euphemism for killing), but also shows her kindness and affection, which she has been missing all her life.

Initially, Leon agrees to shelter and train Mathilda out of a sense of responsibility. However, when Mathilda learns that teacher cannot read, the young charge begins to offer more than just apartment-cleaning services. Ultimately, they become partnered as assassins as well. Though always enamored with the tall, aloof figure of Leon, Mathilda gradually falls in love with him. This causes Leon no small amount of discomfort, given their age difference. While their relationship never becomes sexual, it would be fair to classify "Leon" a romance. Leon and Mathilda share many quiet, happy moments that wouldn’t seem out of place in a more adult drama.

There is a risk inherent to any story where an ingenue bonds with a much older man. Ever since Nabokov’s Lolita, the mere suggestion of such a relationship conjures up unwholesome images of middle-aged men preying on sexually-curious young girls. But the creep factor never comes into play in "Leon." Credit goes to Besson’s screenplay, which cleverly inverts the expected formula. Now Mathilda plays the worldly pursuer, while Leon is the inexperienced love object.

Throughout the training of his new charge, Leon does not suspect that his manner of interacting with Mathilda, which he construes as teacher/student, is interpreted by her as romantic interest. Observe the scene where he waits inside his "contractor’s" restaurant. Through the glass door, Leon sees a strange-looking young man trying to chat Mathilda up. He intervenes, gives Mathilda the obligatory warning about taking cigarettes from strangers. But after he goes back into the restaurant, she looks happier than we have ever seen her. She interprets, perhaps rightfully, that Leon’s behavior reflects jealousy, fear that another man could steal her away. Now she knows his heart belongs to her, and the knowledge leaves her practically breathless.

Jean Reno’s cool hitman speaks through action, not words. After Mathilda goes back to her slain family’s apartment, and digs up $20,000 in cash her father kept hidden in the floorboards, she offers it to Leon in exchange for hits on Stansfield and his men. But drug dealers are one thing; cops make for complicated targets. That, we reason, is why Leon turns Mathilda down. Not until the end do we infer another possibility: Leon knows that, if he takes out the men who killed Mathilda’s family, she will have no reason to continue staying with him. After all, what is the purpose of continuing to train for revenge, if the objects of one’s hatred have been wiped off the face of the Earth?

But love means letting the object of our affection go free, and it is only a matter of time before Leon realizes how much he loves Mathilda. He chooses to sacrifice himself for that love, to risk bringing the cops down upon his head, and to risk her leaving him. In deciding his fate, Leon becomes a man. He insinuates as much to Mathilda, when she asks him why he is going on this particular mission without her.

"I need to do some growing up," he says.

Why are complicated emotions, such as love, so difficult for Leon to come to grips with? Perhaps the secret lies in his way of life. "When you kill someone," he warns Mathilda, "nothing is ever the same." Not true. Leon’s daily existence is always the same. He trains all morning, never leaves the city, sleeps with one eye open. Until Mathilda arrived on his doorstep, nobody had a chance to get close. Mathilda, on the contrary, manages to keep blood off her hands to the end. That allows her to walk away from a life of violence, death, and "cleaning."

"Leon" is a classic; the action set pieces are at the service of a careful study of two most sympathetic characters.

Overall rating: **** (out of ****)