Look, academically I can absolutely appreciate it’s the worst one. It’s awful. The plot is a re-tread of that film with Dustin Hoffman and a monkey and, all things considered, it’s the monkey who makes it out with the most artistic integrity. It’s a shiny, soulless, cynical morass. It’s a mess of explody, car-flipping, gun toting clichés, and Tom Cruise’s ridiculously flippy hairstyle was rejected from a Pantene advert for being unconvincingly shiny. It makes MI:1 look like a cross between Shakespeare and a 1970’s BBC Play for Today in its restraint. If #1 was the dignified uncle, #3 was the serious dad and #4 was the cool older brother, then #2 is the adolescent everyone would really rather forget.
But I don’t care. It’s my favourite. Ladies and gentleman, I present my case as follows: Continue reading →
There is absolutely no reason why I should enjoy this film, let alone own a copy. I am scared, properly unenjoyably terrified, by horror films. I dislike movies which glorify the armed forces. I hate gore, and suspense, and being made to guess in which order the whole cast are going to die and in which inventive way the next person is going to snuff it. I especially hate films which have an all-male cast running round casually toting enormous guns with a token female in a vest top thrown in as an afterthought.
So as you can imagine it’s quite a relief to find I must not be quite the Grinch-y, bitter, humourless scaredy-cat I affect to be most of the time, because I adore Dog Soldiers. At last count it’s one of only two horror films in my collection (hold out for 28 Days Later at some point), and on a rewatch I believe the reason why can be attributed to one thing alone: It’s all down to the Geordies.
The Transporter films are unashamedly marketed with the tastes, sophistication, and attention spans of teenage boys in mind. You know exactly what you’re getting going in – which is a million flashy car stunts, at least three overly choreographed and inexplicably topless fight scenes, a throwaway hot girl and a pointless task for world weary, granite jawed guy-who-transports-stuff Jason Statham to take on armed with his trusty product placed car and the only facial expression he knows (Constipated Grit™).
Except that none of this goes towards explaining how Transporter 3 turned out to be a sweeping, talky romance between two damaged souls with a bit of car stuff thrown in as an afterthought. I think one of the reasons I’m so fond of this dubious film is that it’s just so delightful to think they managed to slip this past the eleventy billion teenage boys who went to see it (The film made $108m). Continue reading →