You keep running your piehole and you’re going to smell an asskicking.

Fast and Furious 6

(2013)

The retooling of the Fast & Furious franchise as a heist movie, ensemble take-down thing, rather than car racing, paid off big time with Fast Five. So if you have a new formula and it works, don’t fix it. The series may have newly defined its genre, but structurally it bears most resemblance to the Bond films; the plots are a loosely stringed together series of set pieces. And they go on and on and on. Not out of a desire to progress the narrative but due to a "longer means better" template. There’s also the small matter that there are so many regulars to cater for now that anything less than two hours would be unfeasible.

This time around Vin Diesel’s Dom is beckoned from retirement by Dwayne Johnson’s formerly antagonistic DSS agent. The goal; to bring down a crew led by Owen Shaw (Luke Evans). The MacGuffin is pure Bond; Shaw is attempting to build a Nightshade device, a “tech bomb” that can blind a country for 24 hours. Each robbery he pulls off is to secure a vital component. So that sets up the structure. What about the theme? Don’t worry, “We’re family” is a refrain repeated so often that you’ll be in no doubt about everyone’s motives.

Poor amnesiac Letty (Michelle Rodriguez) isn’t dead after all, but she’s working for Shaw. This provides Vin with a particularly strenuous acting challenge as he tries to imply he has feelings for Rodriguez (there’s more sexual tension during Paul Walker’s one platonic scene with Letty than in the numerous ones between Dom and her). Still, both the ladies in Dom’s life concur that, “He’s an amazing guy” (which he is, it’s no inconsiderable feat to leap from a car on a bridge, grab hold of your intended in midair, and land unscathed on the bonnet of another car on another bridge). Unlike most movies, the other halves are fully on board with this notional family, Jordana Brewster practically packing off husband and father of her child Paul Walker on the mission. You’d have thought she’d want him to stay at home and not be killed. But no. These guys have extraordinary, unflinching values; they even end the movie by saying grace!

What's most interesting is that four-times-helmer Justin Lin and writer Chris Morgan have pulled together the trappings of mythology and iconography from the thinnest of histories; with none of the character investment to make them fly, or any emotional depth, the reliance is purely on audience recognition. This succeeds up to a point, but it doesn't take long not to give much of a shit. Fatigue is inevitable.

There is a very democratic endowment of scenes to all the major players, but it's the comic banter of Tyrese Gibson’s Roman and Ludacris’ Tej that leaves a lasting impression. They have numerous amusing lines, and Gibson is a naturally very funny guy (the jokes about his “big-ass forehead” are especially chucklesome). But this is all on the same level as the movie itself; thrown together, rather than lovingly crafted. What is done is well done, but t’were well it were done wittily. Gibson is also involved in the film’s most amusing set piece, as it becomes refreshingly evident that he is no pugilist. Both he and Han (Sung Kang) take an arse-whooping from Jah (Joe Taslim) in the best movie scene set on the Tube since… Skyfall? It seemed like there was only An American Werewolf in London for years, and then two come along at once (speaking of which there are also good few London buses to behold).

Dwayne Johnson again shows he's a decent actor beneath those “Samoan Thor” muscles, but his character is perhaps the least interesting of the lot (which is really saying something). Still, he’s a guy who can turn a line like “You keep running your piehole and you’re going to smell an asskicking” into pure gold, so it’s a pleasure to have him in the ensemble.

The fella I wonder about it is Paul Walker, coasting on blockbuster cachet but even less able to attract a non F&F audience than Vin. He gets a significant enough plotline (going undercover in prison) because he’s one of the originals, but he leaves no impression. I’m sure Walker is a perfectly affable chap, but he must be counting himself very lucky that he has, by default, avoided the career wipe-out of Josh Hartnett.

Justin Lin handles the mayhem and car stunts in a superficially coherent manner (appropriate I suppose) but he is less certain with close-quarter fisticuffs. Rather than relying on the solid choreography he employs shuddery after-effects. Still, I can’t deny there’s enjoyment to be had with the gleeful bombast he brings to the car chases. An early one, through London as pursuing heroes find their cars shorting out, is only topped by the sheer excess of the aforementioned bridge sequence (“Somebody better do something. I got a tank on my ass”). Then there’s the finale, with the already much commented on interminable airport runway. That didn’t get me double-taking so much as the sight of Dom driving his car through the exploding nose of a plane. You go, Vin.

I suppose I should find the manufactured sincerity and the glib platitudes laced throughout the movie endearing (“What you found out is for you, what we do now is for her”; eh?) but they go to highlight how disposable these movies are. They aren’t going on to attain classic status, not with this kind of writing. I’ll be interested to see what James Wan’s debut on the series brings, but not overly. The script is still from Morgan, who has pared nothing down. The departees from Six, both regular (Gal Gadot, Kang) and one-off (Evans and Gina Carano, neither of whom make much impression) are replaced by a raft of faces, both familiar to the series (Lucas Black) and new (Kurt Russell, Tony Jaa, Djimon Hounsou). It looks like it will also takes a leaf out the Die Hard book; it will now be a revenge action heist movie, with the Stath surfacing at the end of Six to inflict furious wrath for the demise of little brother Evans. In a move of hilariously complex continuity that belies the Neanderthal nature of the series, the Stath is the guy who kills Han in Tokyo Drift, the actual Fast and Furious Six. I’m sure we’re all relieved that everything makes sense now.

***

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She writes Twilight fan fiction.

Vampire Academy (2014)
My willingness to give writer Daniel Waters some slack on the grounds of early glories sometimes pays off (Sex and Death 101) and sometimes, as with this messy and indistinct Young Adult adaptation, it doesn’t. If Vampire Academy plods along as a less than innovative smart-mouthed Buffy rip-off that might be because, if you added vampires to Heathers, you would probably get something not so far from the world of Joss Whedon. Unfortunately inspiration is a low ebb throughout, not helped any by tepid direction from Daniel’s sometimes-reliable brother Mark and a couple of hopelessly plankish leads who do their best to dampen down any wit that occasionally attempts to surface.

I can only presume there’s a never-ending pile of Young Adult fiction poised for big screen failure, all of it comprising multi-novel storylines just begging for a moment in the Sun. Every time an adaptation crashes and burns (and the odds are that they will) another one rises, hydra-like, hoping…

Prepare the Heathen’s Stand! By order of purification!

Apostle (2018)
(SPOILERS) Another week, another undercooked Netflix flick from an undeniably talented director. What’s up with their quality control? Do they have any? Are they so set on attracting an embarrassment of creatives, they give them carte blanche, to hell with whether the results are any good or not? Apostle's an ungainly folk-horror mashup of The Wicker Man (most obviously, but without the remotest trace of that screenplay's finesse) and any cult-centric Brit horror movie you’d care to think of (including Ben Wheatley's, himself an exponent of similar influences-on-sleeve filmmaking with Kill List), taking in tropes from Hammer, torture porn, and pagan lore but revealing nothing much that's different or original beyond them.

You can’t just outsource your entire life.

Tully (2018)
(SPOILERS) A major twist is revealed in the last fifteen minutes of Tully, one I'll happily admit not to have seen coming, but it says something about the movie that it failed to affect my misgivings over the picture up to that point either way. About the worst thing you can say about a twist is that it leaves you shrugging.

There's something wrong with the sky.

Hold the Dark (2018)
(SPOILERS) Hold the Dark, an adaptation of William Giraldi's 2014 novel, is big on atmosphere, as you'd expect from director Jeremy Saulnier (Blue Ruin, Green Room) and actor-now-director (I Don’t Want to Live in This World Anymore) pal Macon Blair (furnishing the screenplay and appearing in one scene), but contrastingly low on satisfying resolutions. Being wilfully oblique can be a winner if you’re entirely sure what you're trying to achieve, but the effect here is rather that it’s "for the sake of it" than purposeful.

No one understands the lonely perfection of my dreams.

Ridley Scott Ridders Ranked
During the '80s, I anticipated few filmmakers' movies more than Ridley Scott's; those of his fellow xenomorph wrangler James Cameron, perhaps. In both cases, that eagerness for something equalling their early efforts receded as they studiously managed to avoid the heights they had once reached. Cameron's output dropped off a cliff after he won an Oscar. Contrastingly, Scott's surged like never before when his film took home gold. Which at least meant he occasionally delivered something interesting, but sadly, it was mostly quantity over quality. Here are the movies Scott has directed in his career thus far - and with his rate of productivity, another 25 by the time he's 100 may well be feasible – ranked from worst to best.

Well, you did take advantage of a drunken sailor.

Tomb Raider (2018)
(SPOILERS) There's evidently an appetite out there for a decent Tomb Raider movie, given that the lousy 2001 incarnation was successful enough to spawn a (lousy) sequel, and that this lousier reboot, scarcely conceivably, may have attracted enough bums on seats to do likewise. If we're going to distinguish between order of demerits, we could characterise the Angelina Jolie movies as both pretty bad; Tomb Raider, in contrast, is unforgivably tedious.

If you want to have a staring contest with me, you will lose.

Phantom Thread (2017)
(SPOILERS) Perhaps surprisingly not the lowest grossing of last year's Best Picture Oscar nominees (that was Call Me by Your Name) but certainly the one with the least buzz as a genuine contender, subjected as Phantom Thread was to a range of views from masterpiece (the critics) to drudge (a fair selection of general viewers). The mixed reaction wasn’t so very far from Paul Thomas Anderson's earlier The Master, and one suspects the nomination was more to do with the golden glow of Daniel Day-Lewis in his first role in half a decade (and last ever, if he's to be believed) than mass Academy rapture with the picture. Which is ironic, as the relatively unknown Vicky Krieps steals the film from under him.

This is it. This is the moment of my death.

Fearless (1993)
Hollywood tends to make a hash of any exploration of existential or spiritual themes. The urge towards the simplistic, the treacly or the mawkishly uplifting, without appropriate filtering or insight, usually overpowers even the best intentions. Rarely, a movie comes along that makes good on its potential and then, more than likely, it gets completely ignored. Such a fate befell Fearless, Peter Weir’s plane crash survivor-angst film, despite roundly positive critical notices. For some reason audiences were willing to see a rubgy team turn cannibal in Alive, but this was a turn-off? Yet invariably anyone who has seen Fearless speaks of it in glowing terms, and rightly so.

Weir’s pictures are often thematically rich, more anchored by narrative than those of, say, Terrence Malick but similarly preoccupied with big ideas and their expression. He has a rare grasp of poetry, symbolism and the mythic. Weir also displays an acute grasp of the subjective mind-set, and possesses …

My name is Dr. King Schultz, this is my valet, Django, and these are our horses, Fritz, and Tony.

He mobilised the English language and sent it into battle.

Darkest Hour (2017)
(SPOILERS) Watching Joe Wright’s return to the rarefied plane of prestige – and heritage to boot – filmmaking following the execrable folly of the panned Pan, I was struck by the difference an engaged director, one who cares about his characters, makes to material. Only last week, Ridley Scott’s serviceable All the Money in the World made for a pointed illustration of strong material in the hands of someone with no such investment, unless they’re androids. Wright’s dedication to a relatable Winston Churchill ensures that, for the first hour-plus, Darkest Hour is a first-rate affair, a piece of myth-making that barely puts a foot wrong. It has that much in common with Wright’s earlier Word War II tale, Atonement. But then, like Atonement, it comes unstuck.

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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