“11 million? Sounds like a whole lotta vaginal activity to me.” –Roman (Tyrese Gibson), and others…
I’ve gotten behind most of the Fast & Furious movies because they’ve been packed with thrillingly staged action and peopled with protagonists who walk that bad-boy line cagily enough to make rooting for them a guilty pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless. But something is off in Fast Five. There’s something deeply unpleasant about this latest flick that prevented me from enjoying all the stuff blowing up real good.
Vin Diesel and The Rock in the same movie? Is that even legal?
We know how it is: You’d like to go to the movies this weekend, except the apocalypse has arrived, and you’ll be busy protecting your books from rampaging hoards of desperate readers. But you can have a multiplex-like experience at home with a collection of the right DVDs. And when someone asks you on Monday, … more…
Damn if there ain’t enough street racing in this here street racing movie.
Take a break from work: watch a trailer… “A lot has changed”? Nothing has changed! It’s the same movie over and over again — they even recycled the title this time! Is dropping the thes really enough to make sure people don’t confuse this with the first movie… or is keeping the title almost identical … more…
I found myself sorta not hating it, and sorta fascinated by it, for about 45 minutes or so. Alas that the movie’s about 90 minutes long.
So I’m sitting there in the dark with my little reporter notebook, diligently taking notes and formulating theses to support my contention that *The Pacifier* fails as a film, and I think it was during a burst of abject whimpering from the very famous critic sitting next to me, whom I guarantee you’ve seen on TV, that I suddenly and finally realized the futility of life, the ubiquitousness of pain, and the infinite emptiness of the universe that we puny humans on our puny planet in our puny corner of the cosmos cannot hope to ameliorate.
I approached my parked car after the screening, I found myself wishing it was something a little zippier than a poky little Saturn, and boy I bet a Saturn would be pretty cool tricked out for street racing. And as I drove home, I found myself wondering if those buttons on either side of the steering wheel would ignite the tanks of nitrous oxide under the backseat. (No — they were still for the horn.)
And that realistic attitude is a big part of what makes Boiler Room so refreshing: Younger doesn’t offer any pat, happy endings, doesn’t have all his characters wrap things up by kissing and making nice. The film ends on such an abrupt note — and such a perfect one — that I gasped with unexpected delight.