Sheehan of the CBS in LA
how's the whoring?
Moulin Rouge is "a terrific treat!"
In What's the
Worst That Could Happen "the laughs are big!"
Randy Shandis Enterprises. All rights fucking reserved.
The Fast and the Furious
"Gentlemen, start your dicks!"
I fucked up last year when I gave Gone in Sixty Seconds
Two Fingers. I must have fucked up because I want to give The
Fast and the Furious two, and it's about a zillion times
better than Jerry Bruckheimer's lazy, self-satisfied turd. So,
I belatedly reduce Gone in Sixty Seconds to The Finger,
and declare The Fast and the Furious the street-fighting
champ, a better racing movie that will get the highest rating
from crank-addled losers in their thirties who still live with
their moms and ride bare-shirted around the suburbs on BMX bikes.
It's also a fantastic movie for men who like big cars because
they have small dicks, and young boys who just got their licenses
and were waiting for Hollywood's permission to drive too fast
Here is an example of how intelligent The Fast and the
Furious is: one character says racing is "not about
how you stand by your car. It's about how you drive your car."
Well, holy fuck! No wonder I never enjoy the Indianapolis 500.
The Fast and the Furious is so fucking male, it's got
more spare testosterone than a polyorchid man. You'll see more
ego-driven acts of mindless machismo than if you yelled "Fags!"
at a thousand meatheads wearing wife-beaters and behind on Camaro
payments. But where Gone in Sixty Seconds fell in love
with itself and was far too interested in parading its big-budget
stars around like walking, talking Hormel buttshanks, Fast
treats its actors and plot like a teenage boy treats his mother:
as an annoying device to get him from point A to B. This movie
is about racing, and for better or worse, absolutely nothing
else it does amounts to shit.
I hope you'll forgive me for not remembering any of the characters'
names. They really don't matter. Best I can recall, there's a
Vin, Dom, Mia, Hector, Spreidel, Trixie and Racer X. The nominal
plot is some shit about Vin Diesel being a "mysterious"
leader of a gang of street racers. Newcomer Paul Walker is an
undercover cop who infiltrates the gang and, of course, falls
in love with Diesel's sister Jordanna Brewster. She'd look pretty
fucking hot if someone would tell her to wipe those two caterpillars
off her forehead. There's a whole bunch of racing around while
Walker tries to discover who is hijacking trucks loaded with
But never mind the story, because if you do you'll quickly
figure out that the screenwriters didn't. The half-baked plot
makes no more sense than one of my retarded cousin Larry's squirrel
stories. Besides, those of us who like "stories" are
doomed to ask how one character squeezes two full nights and
days into 36 hours. We're stuck wondering why one rival car gang
stuffed its mechanic's garage full of "legally-purchased"
DVD players. We're left waiting for an explanation about why
one character's middle-aged father would have a hot-rodded Jetta.
Most importantly, us movie-goers who aren't preoccupied with
whether someone is stealing their new chrome-moly handlebars
are stuck asking why we're supposed to root for a tremendously
bad criminal and what turns out to be an incompetent, over-emotional
cop with bad judgment.
Ultimately, the story is like the drivers, a machine that
goes as fast as it can with no care for where it's headed or
how it will stop. And it ends up crashing, a bloody horrific
mess where the bad guys win, and the subplots are strewn across
the highway like the limbs of unbuckled children after a bus
And don't pay attention to the acting, because anyone does
watches a cheap imitation of the occasionally-retarded Giovanni
Ribisi stutter his way through the thankless role of a car-whiz
who "should be going to MIT and shit." They see bad-ass
Michelle Rodriguez shipped in to do nothing but snarl a few times
in a feeble attempt to make this movie more than about men and
their dick-surrogate street racers. Undercover cop Walker is
probably considered good-looking, but he has the kind of boring
good looks and flat personality that only gets a guy laid by
fat, drunk secretaries after TGI Friday's Happy Hours. He isn't
asked to do much but stare off blankly while wearing tight T-shirts,
and he delivers. The only actor who's fun to watch is Vin Diesel.
He's like a tolerable version of Sylvester Stallone, all lumpy
with muscles and thick-tongued but also reasonably intelligent.
He is so fucking serious, so straight ahead, that he almost convinces
you not to laugh when he says garbage like "I live my life
ten seconds at a time." Almost.
But do watch the racing because it's pretty fucking good.
It's silly, sure, but it delivers what those guys on the BMX
bikes demand: lots of shit smashing and loads of cars going fast.
Stuff blows up real good and often. Wisely, director Rob Cohen
has all sorts of excuses to disrupt the weak plot for angry men
to hop into lowered Japanese cars and go very fast. For good
measure, he sometimes doesn't even bother with pretense and cuts
straight to racing. He also comes up with a clever way to get
around the fact that drag races only last ten seconds over a
quarter mile: he makes them last minutes and miles and assumes
we're too stupid to know the difference.
So, Two Fingers for The Fast and the Furious.
Give it credit for admitting it's just dumb fun, but not too
to tell Filthy something?