- Muscles on muscles
It’s always amusing when people—men (boys)—come out swinging before a movie’s even released about how you shouldn’t make fun of it just because it’s the sixth sequel to something dumb, like do you hate fun and driving and The Rock like a monster or what? Had star Paul Walker not died in a high-speed car crash during the same time he was making Furious 7—his brothers fill in, seamlessly, as body doubles here—you can bet there would be no embarrassingly earnest essays about how these movies are a paragon of friendship, diversity and loyalty, and we would have all been spared Vin Diesel’s solemn voiceover and symbolic road-fork at the end. But that’s what we’re stuck with, along with stone-faced Jason Statham throwing grenades willy-nilly in order to avenge his brother, who the gang stuck in a mad coma in the last one. The Rock is out of commission for most of the movie, which leaves the heavy lifting to Diesel as Dom, Walker as Brian, already bored after being a dad for five minutes, and Michelle Rodriguez as Letty, who has amnesia/is a flashback machine. (An acting powerhouse, this cast is not.) Gleefully sexist (buttttttts!), stupefyingly loud and heart-hurtingly ridiculous, you at least can’t accuse Furious 7 of being boring. Or nuanced, or aware of the basic laws of science. But it sure is angry. So, mission accomplished?