By 1987, Charles Bronson was no longer the grim reaper of Death Wish—he was more like a grumpy grandfather with a license to kill and a nap schedule to respect. Assassination pairs him with his real-life wife, Jill Ireland, in a government-protection action thriller that plays out like a retirement home field trip accidentally directed by someone who thinks car chases can be shot in slow motion… by default.
The plot? If you’ve ever fallen asleep while flipping through an episode of MacGyver and dreamed about the First Lady being hunted by guys in sunglasses, congratulations—you’ve seen Assassination. Bronson plays Jay Killian (subtle, right?), a Secret Service agent assigned to protect the First Lady, played by Ireland, who’s apparently in constant danger for reasons as vague as the dialogue.
The Geritol Hitman
Let’s be clear: Bronson is old here. Like, “grunts when he sits down” old. The kind of old where you’re not worried about him killing bad guys—you’re worried he’ll trip over a curb and dislocate a hip. Watching him in shootouts is like watching your uncle try to shovel snow too fast—he might get it done, but you’re bracing for a pulled muscle and a trip to urgent care.
He moves like he’s underwater. Every scene has this funereal pace, as if Bronson’s stunt double had to stop halfway through to check his blood pressure. There’s supposed to be tension, but instead, you get Charles shuffling around with a pistol, half-asleep, mumbling one-liners like he’s annoyed someone interrupted his soup.
Jill Ireland, First Lady of Limp Dialogue
Jill Ireland’s performance is… well, let’s call it serene. She’s less a character and more of a department store mannequin occasionally programmed to blink and deliver lines like, “You’re not my bodyguard!” with the intensity of someone reading her grocery list. It’s not entirely her fault. The script gives her little to do except argue with Bronson, get chased, and change outfits between assassination attempts.
The chemistry between the two? It’s got all the romantic sizzle of a tax audit. You can practically hear the director off-screen yelling, “Pretend you still love each other!” while Bronson squints like he’s trying to read cue cards without bifocals.
Action? Sort of.
The film’s big selling point is supposed to be its action. But the chases are slow, the explosions are tame, and the shootouts look like they were filmed during a lunch break behind a strip mall. There’s a car chase that feels like two golf carts politely racing to the early-bird buffet.
One scene has Bronson firing at bad guys while dangling off a helicopter. This should be thrilling. Instead, it feels like an AARP ad with better lighting. Even when people are shot, they fall like they just remembered they left the stove on—no urgency, no drama, just plop.
The Real Villain: The 1980s
Assassination is less a movie and more of a hostage situation where the ’80s held filmmaking at gunpoint. The score is a synth-drenched time capsule that screams “corporate training video.” The fashion is Reagan-era nonsense—padded shoulders, trench coats, the kind of sunglasses only people named Chuck wear unironically.
It’s like watching your teachers try to be cool at the school dance. You want to laugh, but you also feel a twinge of pity.
Final Verdict: Shoot Me, But Make It Quick
Assassination is a movie that asks the question, “What if Charles Bronson, age 65, had to save the First Lady with a bad attitude and worse knees?” And then it spends 88 minutes slowly answering it with a resounding, “Meh.”
There’s no tension, no urgency, and barely any fun. It’s two aging leads trudging through a plot held together by expired duct tape and sheer nostalgia. If you’re a Bronson die-hard, maybe you’ll find a few scraps of joy here. But for the rest of us? It’s a slog through cinematic oatmeal.
Rating: 1.5 out of 5 Presidential Motorcades — powered by prune juice and disappointment.
