Misspelling “argyle” should have been the tip-off.
Filled with so many unnecessary elements, “Argylle” is hardly the fantastic spy thriller it aspires to be. Blessed with a great cast, the film nevertheless falls apart several times, just from the heft of its production.
This isn’t another “Kingsman,” “Lost City” or James Bond. It’s a hodgepodge of ideas that never quite weave into coherence.
Bryce Dallas Howard stars as Elly Conway, a best-selling spy novelist who dreams up whole new worlds from the comfort of her home. She’s accompanied by a cat, Alfie, who seems oblivious to the perks writing has afforded.
On a train to see her mother (Catherine O’Hara), Elly meets a fan (Sam Rockwell) who shares a bit of information about Argylle, the spy she has created. Played by Henry Cavill in what looks like a Vanilla Ice get-up, he goes where others won’t, winks when he should stare and, basically, emerges as a character who shouldn’t fuel a bestseller.
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Naturally, the idea that there really is a man named Argylle is fascinating. But when Elly is told she has been divulging secrets about his cases, this gets a little dicey.
She’s pulled into a caper and it looks like the film is going to get somewhere. Sadly, it doesn’t. Its start/stop frequency makes it more than two hours long (a crime that should have been investigated) and a victim of cheap sets.
Directed by Matthew Vaughn, it’s hardly worthy of Bryan Cranston, Dua Lipa and the “new” Beatles song. Yet, they’re here, too.
If this is someone’s attempt to introduce artificial intelligence to the screenwriting process, it clearly doesn’t work.
Before those two hours pass, “Argylle” has managed to touch on wine, figure skating, hidden rooms and some “Romancing the Stone” stuff that makes you wonder if this isn’t a fever dream.
Howard does what she can with a role that no one should have taken, and Rockwell is jaunty enough to make you want to see him. But when O’Hara dips into her “Schitt’s Creek” accent and Cranston tries a little “Breaking Bad” posturing you know everyone was spitballing throughout.
Worse, poor Alfie doesn’t get much to do. Imprisoned in a backpack, he seems ready to leave and go into another room. Instead, he trots along with Howard until she sets him down for what we’d consider a reasonable nap.
Because “Argylle” poses so many questions, its post-credits sequence (if you stick around for it) makes even less sense than the film it tries to tee up.
Before Samuel L. Jackson even gets in the picture, you realize Rockwell, Cavill, O’Hara and Cranston would be wise to wipe this from their resumes.
Patterned after nothing we want to see, “Argylle” is cut from a fabric worse than polyester.