A few nights ago, I had the pleasure of watching a movie that fired on all cylinders; it was that rare bird that I expect achieved everything and more, from all involved, that it set out to be in its original imagining. This waste of 2 hours is its absolute inverse. The script is banal even for a popcorn flick, the humour, such as it is, flat to the point of feeling uncomfortable for the actors tasked to recite them, the characters cartoonish - even for what is at best a live action cartoon in and of itself - and the acting nightmarishly awful; even the usually reliable William Macy coasts on what could only be a self-referential parody of the milquetoast persona he knows the public expects of him by now. Travolta's input is particularly atrocious - one would think the man had never acted outside a high school play, though with the pablum substituting for dialog he was given to recite, perhaps he just decided it wasn't worth the effort. It's not a movie at all, in fact, just a series of flat, unrewarding, pedestrian skits strung together like nuggets of cheap costume jewellery along a slim thread of 2nd unit director establishing, stunt and scenery inserts - mostly (surprise) of 4 guys riding motorcycles. And even with its limited prospects overall, the climax and resolution could not have been more of an eye-rolling, impotently abortive cop-out. Just an abysmal waste of human and technical capital.
