Diary of a Hitman showed up at exactly the wrong time and with the wrong attitude. This isn’t the clean, rain-slicked noir revival of the late ‘80s, and it’s not the neurotic, self-aware post-Tarantino 90s hitman boom of Grosse Point Blank and The Big Hit. It’s stuck in between – too slow for action junkies, too straightforward for the indie crowd that was about to fall in love with ironic detachment.
The movie, like its stage play roots, is claustrophobic, dialogue-heavy, and runs on pure character work, but if you’re patient, it delivers the goods. Whitaker’s performance alone is low-key incredible: his brand of twitchy regret and professional numbness plays subtly to the front row. You can feel him rotting from the inside.
Roy London directed it like he was allergic to flash, and that might’ve cost the movie some love at the time. But it’s exactly what makes it durable now. There’s no dated stylistic safety net. No retroactive nostalgia. This is an actor’s movie. Its the sort of moody late night rental you’d find hiding in plain sight somewhere between Talk Radio or Light Sleeper.