The Fast and the Frenchiest

Like a coked up David Fincher or someone who learned subtlety from Sharon Stone, the (not really) newest film to flow from the pen of Luc Besson, District B-13, is a predictably good time with a tad too much purpose in its intent. Don't get me wrong, I will sing till the cows come home when it comes to the Transporter movies. I love me some stupid action. But to actually attempt at moral musings on genocide is a bit too much to ask of an action audience if you ask me. At least when it comes to the kind of spectacles that gloss over every opportune moment of Besson's canon.

In this case, the story doesn't work as well as some of his prior creations (Sadly underused here is Besson's absolutely fetishistic adoration of speedy automobiles). Too much exposition leads into a story about as flawed as stories come - which is all near coincidental if those pulse-racing moments of action mayhem deliver. The good news is, for the most part they do, and there's a bizarre amount of homosocial activity going on. Yet, as I have already mentioned, the amount of cause to the film just leaves a taste of ulterior motives that sober the intoxicated glee of something like Transporter 2. In the final act, a poor plot decision cripples the dramatic tension leaving the rest of a film a let rather than come down. Thank god for the French and their Bad musical taste, because, without Da. Octopuss' trashy meth-like score, I don't think the film would have been nearly as good.