|
 There’s
an amazing thing that happens if you go to see Transporter movies in the
theatre. All the films are packed with their standard over-the-top car
chases and crashes galore, loads of martial arts mayhem and guns, guns,
guns, the stuff usually reserved for male gratification. What makes
Transporter films such a rare and unique phenomena is the fact that the
majority of the yelps and howls of approval for the rock-em, sock-em
action manly-man action are elicited from the fairer sex, who turn out
in droves for these movies.
Mayhaps it’s because of the
inclusion of the fittest man in England, Jason Statham, as the series’
star. Knowing better than perhaps even the movie studios, director
Olivier Megaton (- who
will henceforth be called Megatron)
features plenty of shots of Statham’s perfectly sculpted, fuzzy torso
appearing at all sorts of unexpected moments. Whether he’s using his
shirt to get out of a badly outnumbered dispute or doing a striptease to
finagle his precious car keys away from an overheated hostage, clearly
the motivations of any scene in Transporter 3 is “Show more of Jason’s
pecs.” Well, if you really must …
Really unnecessary rundown: In
this third outing of the franchise, Frank Martin is still a very
expensive delivery boy. He runs his high-speed courier act at his
leisure, choosy with his clientele. Sometimes there are jobs you can’t
quite get away from and one such refused opportunity literally comes
crashing through his front wall. A job passed over to a colleague has
gone terribly wrong and a powerful cadre of evildoers that wants it
completed. Cue exploding bracelets! Yes, here’s your big Survivor
Challenge ripped straight off the screen from Our favourite ode to
nihilism, Battle Royale, if Frank or his hostage steps out of range of
the baddies’ GPS tracker or 100 feet away from Frank’s supercharged
Audi, they go boom. There’s also some noise about political manoeuvring
and the environment and such, but whatever, it’s all about Jason and the
car.
Funny how many of James Bond’s
leftovers the Transporter series has claimed. The humour gone from the
now terribly dire 007 is here, the signature car (-
the Aston Martin does return in Quantum of Solace, though with none of
the cool tricks Frank Martin’s Audi performs),
and there’s even a “Q” of sorts, a technophile mad scientist employed by
Frank to remove the boom-boom-bling.
Of course as in every Bond film,
there’s the girl. This year’s model has got me reconsidering the merits
of Porcelana. Spangled in more dots than a Dalmatian convention, the
extreme freckle-age of Natalya Rudakova is a fashion statement of its
own. Pity this would be one instance where the series is less in the
mode of the current Bond; this chapter’s ornament is no less irritating
than her predecessor from the original Transporter. This Eurotrash
nitwit seems to never grasp that her life is in jeopardy and takes up
precious time either tripping on Ecstacy, moping about how she and Frank
are going to die, urinating on convenience store floors (-
don’t ask),
or trying to get Frank to have sex with her. Now I can’t hate on the
girl for that last bit, but even so, she’s choke-worthy and their
chemistry together exists only in the writer’s fevered imagination (-
I have my theories
about that convenience store scene, Luc Besson.).
Just as with Transporter 1, the
girl is the package Frank’s meant to deliver, though it takes him ages
to realise it. Hey, looking that good, I can forgive Frank for being a
little slow on the uptake. Once again, Frank’s fudging of his own set
of iron clad (- ha!)
rules gets him into trouble. If he’d only delivered the obnoxious girl
into the hands of the bad guys he’d be fine and free of any exploding
bracelets. But no, Frank’s gotta stick his lovely nose in and not only
save the life of the exasperating bint, but the whole world as well,
when that environmental MacGuffin I mentioned earlier plays out. (- Exactly how many
environmental MacGuffins have there been in the movies this year?) Also, there’s the
whole you didn’t ask him nicely thing that rubs Frank the wrong way
about the entire operation. Personally, I’d be more cheesed about that
than concerned for saving the annoying girl, although the bad guy did
stick Frank with her in the first place, so he’s to blame for that,
too. Man, that’s low.
However, besides the utter
irritation of the dumb chippy, my other gripe is strongly against a
technique that rates in the cinematic sewers alongside shakycam abuse:
If you’ve heard me whinge about it once, you’ve heard it a thousand
times. Back that thing up, camera people! For serious, why does any
director or cinematographer think you want to see quick, choppy cuts
during a fight scene? Bless dear Statham for not only looking deadly in
a suit, but actually seeming to have trained well enough to be quite
believable in his fight sequences; always a key component to any
Transporter film (- and lately any Jason Statham film, check out The Bank Job for some
perfunctory, tacked-on bum-kicking).
I mean if it was a Steven Segal movie, where they’re trying to convince
us the man is a lethal weapon while he moves with all the speed of a
beached whale, I could understand. Jason Statham is not Orca; he’s got
moves and seems to be able to handle the pace. Also, Megatron has hired
Corey Yuen (- who
directed Transporter 1)
to choreograph his fight scenes. Why bring in the man who directed both
Jet Li and Jackie Chan, if you’re not going to shoot his work properly?
If Yuen’s not insulted, I am! Really, non-Asian directors, you won’t
lose the audience if they can actually see what’s going on during the
fight scene. Trust.
Even with these gnats of
irritation flying around, Transporter 3 is a raucous good time. Check
your intellect at the door and prepare for some loud, boisterous movie
fun. If only the seats in the movie theatre had shaken with the action,
I’d say it was just like being in a video game like Grand Theft Auto or
some such. Even without the motion sickness-inducing furniture,
Transporter 3 is a great ride. The car chases are a thing of beauty and
the oh-no-he-didn’t climax onboard a train will illicit those feminine
yowls I mentioned earlier (-
not only from the women).
Toned to perfection and dressed sharp as a tack, Jason Statham once
again proves why he’s the last action hero left and his utterly British
deadpan charm and rough and tumble alpha male swagger show he’s loving
every minute of it. So am I.
~ The Lady Miz Diva
November 26th,
2008
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