Starring Jason Statham, Annabelle Wallis, Roland Møller, Adrian Lester. Screenplay by Lindsay Michel and J.P. Davis. Directed by Jean-François Richet. Rated R. 95 minutes. In theaters.
There’s so little variation in what Jason Statham does onscreen, it can be tempting to say that his movies are all the same. Especially since he makes so many of them. The snarling, former competitive diver and male model from Derbyshire has been in a bad mood in nearly 50 films over this past quarter-century, yet much like that myth about Alaskans having hundreds of words for snow, there are endless permutations of the Statham movie. For example, there are the Guy Ritchie ones where he wears designer suits when he kicks the shit out of people, and also ones where he wears denim jackets and trucker hats whilst whupping ass. Some of these films have much larger budgets than others, and they’ve gotten increasingly cheaper-looking as the R-rated action market has shifted mostly to home video. Now that Statham is pushing 60, we’re well into the ones where he doesn’t have to run as much.
As someone who grew up watching Clint Eastwood and Charles Bronson movies the way other kids watched Saturday morning cartoons, inexpressive men causing mayhem have always been foundational to my appreciation of the cinematic arts. (Though even as a child I could tell that Chuck Norris films kinda sucked.) I’ve also got a soft spot for modestly ambitioned time-killers, a B-picture ghetto Statham has made virtually no effort to transcend over these past 25 years. There’s a low ceiling to his movies and pretty variable floor. I tend to prefer the ones that play up the absurdity of his scowly, killing machine persona, rather than more dour exercises like last year’s grim, Stallone-penned “A Working Man.” The “Crank” pictures are probably my favorites, and that first hour or so of “The Beekeeper” really hit the sweet spot before spinning out into David Ayer QA-nonsense.