True Memoirs of an International Assassin (2016)

Netflix released this action comedy in November 2016, and the world has largely declined to remember it. Kevin James plays Sam Larson, a lonely aspiring novelist. His manuscript about a globe-trotting killer gets republished as nonfiction, which lands him in Venezuela, where assorted factions mistake him for the assassin he invented. The premise is sturdy farce. The execution is a shrug. The film assembles a genuinely international cast, then hands nearly all of the screen time to a white man from the suburbs learning to fire a gun. Diversity here is decorative, a backdrop of accents and uniforms behind the lead's journey of self-discovery.

Zulay Henao's DEA agent Rosa Bolivar is the most capable person on screen. She drives the plot, saves the hero repeatedly, and nurses a personal grudge against a drug lord. The film never bothers to build a thesis around her, which is its own quiet mercy. A moderate anti-establishment streak runs underneath. The villains are corrupt politicians and cartel bosses, plus, briefly, a publishing industry that turns a novel into a lie for sales. That is texture, not argument. The film has no interest in environmental ruin or body image. Neurodivergence does not come up. Neither do the interior lives of anyone who is not Kevin James. It has no interest in very much at all.

Critics gave it zero percent on Rotten Tomatoes, a number that suggests unanimity rare in any art form. The picture avoids objection largely because it refuses to lecture. It wants to be a silly spy romp and it is a silly spy romp, arriving with one small suitcase and no opinions. We can respect the restraint while still noting the emptiness. A film can avoid sermonizing and still have nothing to say, and this one demonstrates the distinction with unusual thoroughness.