You don’t go to these movies for plot, or for total coherence all the way to the end. It all culminates in a big final action sequence, complete with a drone destroying much of downtown Los Angeles, that is, alas, too cluttered, too inarticulate (it doesn’t help that it’s at night) to really register the way the earlier spectaculars do. And, obviously, there’s Dwayne Johnson’s muscle-man Agent Hobbs, on hand to bat cleanup. There’s also some sort of dangerous surveillance technology dreamed up by a kidnapped hacker ( Game of Thrones's Nathalie Emmanuel, who is of course stunningly beautiful, in bikini and in evening gown) that Dom and company have to get their hands on, all the while evading Djimon Hounsou’s dogged terrorist, and getting some help from a secret-ops fed played with old-guy flair by Kurt Russell. A Terminator-like Jason Statham is relentlessly stalking the crew to get revenge for his brother ( Luke Evans), hobbled in a run-in with the gang in an earlier film. Plot-wise, Furious 7 is, as one might expect, a jumbled MacGuffin game that makes very little sense.
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A friend has a wonderful story about going to see the first movie at a theater in tony suburban Connecticut, and then, in the parking lot afterward, seeing a bunch of teenage boys burn rubber in their parents’ Volvo station wagons.)
(The posturing it has inspired in its rabid audiences is always a little of both. The movies’ insane macho posturing has become something endearing, instead of, y’know, embarrassing. These mad operas of motor and metal are thrilling, gleeful, laugh-out-loud ridiculous, and always knowing. Turning these people and their roaring machines into impossibly acrobatic angels of destruction, the films have found a riotous sense of invention, a whirring imagination that dreams up one wildly staged action sequence after another.
It’s such sublime absurdity that it’s easy to overlook, or slyly enjoy, all the clunky writing, to embrace the series’s odd conservatism, forgive all its sleazy leering. Around Fast Five, when the crew became immune to the laws of physics, invincible to innumerable car crashes and severe beatings (among other traumas), these movies transcended to a plane of delirious nonsense. Which, really, is when they began to soar. The F&F movies long ago skipped the realm of plausibility, or reason. Why a gang of gearheads from the wilds of Los Angeles would be so routinely involved in, and capable of navigating, such high-stakes adventures isn’t worth thinking about. Diesel’s Dominic Toretto and his crew, which includes Walker’s Brian O’Conner and Michelle Rodriguez’s Letty Ortiz, among many others, have become international mercenaries of a sort, a family that works for itself but is inevitably swept up in some kind of larger intrigue. What began almost quaintly small-scale in the first film-drag racing SoCal rough riders who stage nighttime raids on freight trucks-has ballooned into a never-ending global melee. We’ll get to the serious stuff, but first let’s appreciate what a dopey, joyous wonder this film franchise has become. But it doesn’t overwhelm- Furious 7 is respectful, even solemn, when it needs to be, but is still, thank God, plenty of crazy fun. The latest film, which opens Friday, can’t help but take on some deeper meaning, as the death of main cast member Paul Walker, killed in a car accident in late 2013, looms large throughout. (All that vroom-vroom, all that shake-shake, all that flex-flex? Come on!) Until Furious 7, that is. ( Vin Diesel’s character loves to gravel on about the importance of family.) But they’ve never really had any poignancy to them, have never provoked much emotion beyond a giddy feeling of excitement and, let’s be honest, no small amount of arousal. And, muscled-up and oafishly macho as they may be-grunting with almost Dada levels of male performance-the films, beginning with The Fast and the Furious in 2001, have never been afraid of a little tough-guy heart. Fast and Furious movies have always had a charming, cheesy bravado.
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