A fair amount happened before that Russian denouement, although the crucial sequence began twenty-two minutes in, with a hilariously arch greeting between old friends. “Hey!” the F.B.I. agent Stan Beeman says, cheerfully, to his neighbors, Philip and Elizabeth and their daughter Paige, as they enter a parking garage, preparing to flee the country. “Hi, Paige!” “What. . .what are you doing here?” sputters Philip to Stan, as if they’d all conveniently bumped into one another running errands. Stan holds one finger up and says, calmly, “That’s a great question.”
It was the last moment that Stan would be in control, during a clash of perspectives that should have, by all narrative logic, led straight to prison or, if not, to a shootout, a car chase, or something worse. Instead, ten minutes later, the Jennings were coolly driving away to freedom, as Stan stood by silently, as if paralyzed, watching them go. How did they pull that off?
Six seasons of sharing a beer at the end of the day, that’s how. Thanksgiving together; conversations during Stan’s divorce; watching one another’s children grow up. “The Americans” has always been a show about intimacy, not simply as a human need but as a dangerous vulnerability, the crack that lets the light in.[…]
“The Americans” would be a romantic story if they weren’t such murderous sociopaths.
In the garage with Stan, Paige, who is only a novice spy, improvises a cover story, which falls apart. Stan gets angry, brandishing his gun. “We had a job to do,” Philip said, acknowledging the truth at last. “We had a job to do.” And then Stan makes his great mistake. “You were my best friend,” he says to Philip, wounded, unable to believe that their relationship wasn’t real. He offers a bridge that Philip crosses. And Philip, who is a master at such moments, transforms, like a werewolf, his eyes softening, into the most powerful form of himself: the tender, honest, authentic, connected Philip—the sensitive modern man, hurt and confused, a persona that he uses to damage others. (Philip might have been sincerely seeking help when he went to the self-help seminar est, but he only ended up sharpening his tools.) He quickly creates, for Stan’s sake, the illusion of an authentic surrender—and he begins to tell the truth. He’s like the world’s best crisis negotiator, except that he’s trying to get the other man to jump.
When Stan tells him that their friendship has made his life into a joke, Philip mirrors the emotion back, “My life was the joke, not yours.” And then the gaslighting begins in earnest, as they negotiate what was real and what was not: Was Matthew, Stan’s son, ever part of the scam? What about all those people whom the Jenningses killed? At the mention of murder—a crime that Philip knows Stan won’t accept, which would burst the illusion of trust—Philip grimaces, establishing the first big lie: that the Jenningses are idealists who never, ever killed anyone, let alone left two parents bleeding to death in front of their own child. Philip’s daughter nearly ruins this scheme, apologizing, saying, “I’m sorry—” “We don’t kill people! Jesus,” her mother cuts her off, briskly. “We wouldn’t,” Philip says.
It’s too late for Stan anyway, who has lost his ability to read such nuances, and who opens the door for Philip to deliver the aria of a con man: a confession that lets Stan move toward what he really wants, to feel closer to his friend, then help him escape. “I kept doing it, telling myself it was important,” Philip tells Stan about the horror of his job. He shows regret, and then self-disgust, at who he’s finally become: “I’m just a shitty, failing travel agent.” Matthew Rhys runs through all of his most effective facial expressions: the wince, the frown, the toothy half-smile flashed beneath guilty-dog eyes. It’s an act of domination that’s camouflaged as an act of submission. Only Elizabeth knows Philip well enough to admire his craft.
Stan swallows every sedative, especially the mention of Henry, the Jennings’s innocent son, whom Stan desperately wants to protect. Finally, improvising, Philip finds the wedge that works: he tells Stan about the Jennings’s scheme to expose the enemies of Gorbachev, which offers Stan the opportunity to see them not as enemies but as allies. Philip tells enough of the truth for Stan to buy the lie.[…]
There was nothing especially flashy about the sequence, which was mostly a set of closeups, with Philip and Stan rarely in the same frame.[…]
The power is in the performance: “You should hate me—you should,” Philip says, pleadingly. “You should probably shoot me.” And then, after that escapist fantasy of violence, a moment of near-hypnosis: “But we’re getting in that car. And we’re driving away.” Then, after a deep sigh, he adds a manipulative kicker. “I wish you’d stayed with me in est,” Philip tells Stan. “You might know what to do here.”
I laughed out loud at the line, cruel as it was. Without lifting a finger or pulling a gun, Philip used his legendary eagerness to talk, the emo dampness that often drove his wife crazy, his sincerity, his New Man charisma, to undermine this lonely macho G-Man entirely—a cop who spent many years undercover himself, who should have known all about nurturing the needs of one’s asset. At the line about est, Elizabeth shoots Stan a flabbergasted side-eye. “You have to take care of Henry,” Paige says, as they leave. “He loves you, Stan,” Philip says, his eyes ringed in red, overwhelmed, for real, at losing his son. “Tell him the truth.”
Then, just before he gets into the car, Philip tosses off a comment that only a best friend could make—the one that would destroy Stan’s life. “I don’t know how to say this, but I think there’s a chance Renee might be one of us”—Stan’s wife, he was implying, might be a Russian spy. Or maybe not. Philip shrugs, then blurs it further: “I’m not sure.” In seventeen words, he saves his marriage and ruins Stan’s. Now Stan has no one whom he can trust: his best friend is leaving, he can never tell his co-workers that he let the Jenningses escape, and Stan’s own wife, Renee, will be a stranger to him, forever. The lovely final shot shows Stan receding, growing smaller, and finally shadowed only in silhouette, as his destroyers drive toward freedom. When we see Stan again, he’s moving through the altered world (his office, where he no longer belongs) in shock, as Dire Straits’s “Brothers In Arms” plays, a song about friendship in wartime.