‘Olympus Has Fallen’

1.5 stars

Starring: Gerard Butler, Aaron Eckhart, Morgan Freeman, Rick Yune, Angela Bassett, Melissa Leo, Finley Jacobsen, Ashley Judd, Radha Mitchell, Dylan McDermott

Rating: R, for strong violence and plenty of profanity

Terrorism ‘thriller’ is loud, vicious and offensively stupid

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

An “exhortation to tweet,” handed to patrons who attended Tuesday evening’s preview screening of this film, asked if we all were ready for a “heart-pounding, nonstop, action-packed thrill ride?”

Hey, you bet; I’m always up for that much entertainment.

But having now seen the film, I’m still waiting.

“Olympus Has Fallen” isn’t a thrill ride; it’s a thoroughly unpleasant, mean-spirited, jingoistic slice of propaganda disguised as a mainstream movie. It’s also insufferably and unforgivably stupid, laced with characters who spout laughably trite dialogue while behaving, for the most part, like cowardly morons.

If our heads of state truly responded like the idiots depicted here in Creighton Rothenberger and Katrin Benedikt’s offensively brainless script, we’d deserve to be invaded by terrorists.

Attempting to position this bomb as a “thrill ride” also implies at least a certain degree of fun, and you’ll find none of that here. What you will find, under Antoine Fuqua’s hammer-handed direction, is a first act that lovingly depicts the mass slaughter of hundreds, if not thousands, with most victims gorily shredded by high-powered gunfire. The bloodbath goes on and on and on and on. Long past the point of necessity.

Then, for good measure — and to rev up our patriotic fury, donchaknow — we watch the Washington Monument destroyed in a manner uncomfortably similar to the 9/11 shattering of the twin towers. And then Fuqua lays waste to the White House.

Uh-huh. Jolly good fun.

This is the sort of turgid melodrama that forces an actor of Morgan Freeman’s stature — playing the Speaker of the House of Representatives, fergawdsake — to intone the immortal line, “They’ve opened up the gates of hell!” To a melodramatic crescendo from Trevor Morris’ bombastic score, of course.

Our hero is Mike Banning (Gerard Butler), once a star Secret Service agent in charge of protecting President Benjamin Asher (Aaron Eckhart), now assigned to desk duty in the Treasury Department, in the wake of events in a rather cruel prologue. That’s typical of the overkill approach Rothenberger and Benedikt take to all elements of their script: no need for credibility or reasonable psychological subtlety, when a sledgehammer will do.

Anyway, things have been heating up on the Korean Peninsula — a rather unsettling bit of real-world serendipity that this film’s financial backers probably regard as “good publicity” — and so President Asher has agreed to a meeting with the South Korean prime minister. Ah, but unknown to all concerned, the prime minister’s entourage is laced with North Korean terrorist infiltrators under deep, deep cover.

Meanwhile, a slow, lumbering AC130 transport plane — which probably couldn’t outrun a toddler on a tricycle, and would have been blown out of the sky long before it got within 50 miles of land — quite improbably invades D.C. airspace. This interloper quickly dispatches the two insignificant jet fighters that obligingly swing close enough to be destroyed; it then circles and strafes the White House grounds and surrounding streets. Suicide bombers and weaponized garbage trucks simultaneously clear a path up to the White House’s front door, at which point 40 terrorist commandos charge in.

Secret Service agents hustle the president into the fortified sub-basement command bunker, with Asher insisting that the South Korean prime minister and his staff be allowed to come along. (Ah … not likely.) At which point things go pear-shaped down there, as well, when those “polite” staff members haul out guns (!!) and kill lotsa folks, as the megalomaniacal Kang (Rick Yune) leers with satisfaction.

Aside from President Asher, Kang’s high-profile prisoners include Vice President Charlie Rodriguez (Phil Austin) and Secretary of Defense Ruth McMillan (Melissa Leo). This group has been hand-picked to include all three individuals with access codes to a last-ditch computer program dubbed Cerebus, the details of which Kang begins to demand from each, one by one.

Actually, very little threat proves necessary, since Asher’s such a wimp that he orders each person to surrender his code, insisting that — as the holder of the final third — he’ll never talk.

I’m sorry, but what?!?!

The appropriate response, at this moment, is for each person to spit in Kang’s eye and say nothing. Any reasonably credible script demands that reaction. If gruesome death follows, so be it. If other people are threatened with dismemberment — or worse — that’s the way it goes. Hey, it comes with the job; the idea is to stand up to terrorist threats, not cave the moment somebody gets kicked around a bit.

Elsewhere, in the still secure War Room, Trumbull has been granted presidential authority, where he’s ordered — by Kang — to withdraw the Seventh Fleet and all ground troops from the Korean Peninsula. And, naturally, because this is such a dumb script, Trumbull actually wrestles with this demand, rather than — all together, class — spitting in Kang’s eye (well, at the monitor screen, anyway) and cheerfully telling him to do his worst.

While Trumbull weighs his options, he also gets into shouting matches with the hawkish Gen. Edward Clegg (Robert Forster), who’s both stupid and insubordinate, while Secret Service Director Lynn Jacobs (Angela Bassett) attempts to calm these troubled waters. Jacobs has reason for optimism, because gung-ho Banning has managed to infiltrate what’s left of the White House, without being noticed by Kang and his minions.

Hey, I don’t doubt that a slick and suspenseful script could be written around the scenario of holding our president hostage; we’ve already seen far superior results in similar thrillers such as 1997’s “Air Force One.”

But only talentless hack writers make their bad guys (Kang) seem brilliant solely because the forces of U.S. virtue (Asher, Trumbull, Clegg) are so stupid. Thank God for Leo’s spirited performance as the secretary of defense; at least she’s got some balls.

Butler certainly is persuasive as an action hero, even if his blend of luck and battlefield skills make him less a human being and more an avatar of John Rambo. This much, at least, is familiar territory … and yes, it is cathartic to watch Banning prowl the darkened White House hallways, seeking fresh North Korean terrorists to execute. (I guess we shouldn’t be surprised by Banning’s stupendous awesomeness, since Butler is one of the film’s 13 producers.)

Production designer Derek R. Hill deserves considerable credit for recreating the White House and surrounding D.C. monuments, and then blowing everything to bits, and a veritable army of art department techs and special effects wizards certainly kept busy. No doubt about it: A lot of money was thrown onto the screen. Too bad the end result is so unpalatable … up to and including a final shot of the good ol’ American flag, which punctuates a concluding nationalistic speech that drew audible snickers Tuesday evening.

I should mention, just in passing, that this film’s U.S. distributor, FilmDistrict, has been taking increasingly public heat for insisting that all journalists sign a “confidentiality agreement” promising not to reveal any “plot points, twists or character developments and/or any other information from or related to the film,” prior to the day before national release. Yep, I received and signed the pledge: no real problem, since I wouldn’t have published these words before today anyway.

But I can’t help feeling, having now seen “Olympus Has Fallen,” that FilmDistrict knew bloody well that it had a stinker on its hands, and wanted to take all possible measures — included the confidentiality agreement’s laughably vague threat of “injunctive relief,” should its terms be violated — to maximize the chance of a strong opening weekend.

Well, good luck with that. I have a feeling people are gonna jeer this reprehensible pile of trash for months to come.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at http://derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

4.5 stars

Starring: Jessica Chastain, Jason Clarke, Kyle Chandler, Jennifer Ehle, Mark Strong, Joel Edgerton, Chris Pratt, James Gandolfini

Rating: R, for considerable violence, torture and profanity

Strong acting highlights this fact-based account of the CIA’s search for Osama bin Laden

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

Osama bin Laden was executed on May 2, 2011. Given the realities of Hollywood development time, production and post-production work, this film’s arrival in the waning days of 2012 is nothing short of remarkable.

That the result is this riveting, is icing on the cake.

It’s easy to understand why director Kathryn Bigelow and writer Mark Boal would select this project as a follow-up to their Oscar-laden triumph with 2008’s “The Hurt Locker.” Although lacking that film’s nail-biting intensity, “Zero Dark Thirty” carries the same suspenseful atmosphere of docu-drama verisimilitude. Given the topic, American audiences also can’t help experiencing more than a little cathartic exhilaration.

Despite the perception that fact-based, politics-laden procedural thrillers are box-office poison, we’ve recently been gifted with two crackling efforts: this one and “Argo.” Both manage the impressive feat of generating tension and building to exciting climaxes, despite our knowing the respective stories’ outcomes long before entering the theater.

That’s no small thing. Scripter William Goldman’s handling of 1976’s “All the President’s Men” remains the superlative template for depicting dull-as-dirt research work in a manner that becomes not just fascinating, but downright compelling; Boal obviously took its lessons to heart. “Zero Dark Thirty” spends a great deal of time watching a lone CIA analyst beat her head against a vague investigative wall, yet these efforts never seem dull or repetitive.

In part, that’s because we know the stakes involved from recent history, and we’re genuinely curious to learn more about what went into this impressively successful covert operation: how the key pieces of information were determined and then properly analyzed. And if Boal takes some dramatic license along the way, well, that’s fine; cinema places its own unique requirements on narrative flow, not the least of which is building our emotional involvement with these characters.

Which brings us to the best weapon in Bigelow’s capable filmmaking arsenal: star Jessica Chastain. As the CIA analyst in question, she drives this story with — by turns — calm intelligence and righteous fury. She’s never less than wholly persuasive, whether cycling grimly through surveillance footage or standing up to overly cautious superiors too concerned about their political reputations.

The story begins in the aftermath of 9/11, as Chastain’s Maya, a CIA analyst and “targeter,” arrives in Pakistan on assignment from D.C. She joins Dan (Jason Clarke), a CIA interrogator trying to extract worthwhile information — by any means necessary — from a hostile detainee (Reda Kateb, as Ammar, in a harrowing, soul-snuffing performance).

The depth of Chastain’s performance emerges immediately here: Although clearly not wishing to be present — Maya’s face actually turns grey — she dare not display weakness in front of her new colleague. At the same time, she’s intrigued, in a clinical way, by what is taking place, and whether such torture is likely to produce useful results.

Maya’s strength lies in psychological evaluation; it’s the primary reason she was sent from the States. It’s therefore telling that when Ammar finally does open up, it’s through guile, rather than physical humiliation. Score one for Maya.

She needs the credibility, having joined a cluster of somewhat condescending agents under the command of Islamabad Station Chief Joseph Bradley (Kyle Chandler). They’ve been at this for a while; they think they know how to distinguish good information from outright lies. Maya immediately gets into a subtle pissing match with Jessica (Jennifer Ehle), who represents the CIA’s “old school,” Cold War-based methods of seeking leads.

Maya soon hones in on a name: Abu Ahmed al-Kuwaiti, identified as some sort of al-Qaeda message courier. Over time, this shadowy individual is cited by several detainees, but the context varies: People claim to know him but never have seen him; he’s a “disappeared person” or even dead and buried. But Maya senses something significant.

Not that anybody believes her.

Years pass; little — if any — progress is made. Other successful terrorist attacks take place in London and at the Islamabad Marriott Hotel, where — conveniently, for the purposes of this story — Maya and Jessica have met for a drink. The personal danger becomes too great; Maya is shipped back to Langley, where she now reports directly to George (Mark Strong), head of the Afghanistan and Pakistan Divisions of the CIA Counter Terrorism Center.

But she has left a surveillance operation behind, having persuaded Islamabad colleagues that — maybe, perhaps — there really is something to the Abu Ahmed al-Kuwaiti lead.

By this point, Chastain’s Maya has become a figure of dour, angry determination, no longer able to endure the condescending “wait and see” stonewalling of colleagues and superiors who lack her conviction. We’ve already seen her uncork one helluva tantrum with Bradley, back in Islamabad; now in Langley, in the closest we get to a genuinely amusing running gag, she furiously notates the days passed, with no activity, in red marker pen on George’s office window.

Production designer Jeremy Hindle deserves considerable credit for this film’s aura of authenticity, from the ambitious Abbottabad compound to the cramped corner desk where Maya does most of her initial work in Islamabad. Alexandre Desplat contributes a minimalist score that most often works subconsciously, as a means to increase anxiety, and then builds to throbbing intensity during the nighttime SEAL raid. (“Zero Dark Thirty,” in passing, is military jargon for the dark of night, and also the moment — 12:30 a.m. — when the SEALS first set foot in the compound.)

Boal and Bigelow worked rigorously to adhere, as much as possible, to established fact (and whatever classified information Boal reportedly obtained during chats with undisclosed CIA contacts). Maya’s character is based on an actual CIA analyst; the same is true of Jessica’s character. Joseph Bradley’s “outing” by elements of the Pakistani spy agency ISI references the December 2010 criminal complaint filed against a supposed American CIA section chief identified as Jonathan Banks, in connection with a U.S. drone attack that killed innocent civilians. At all times, in every respect, these events look, sound and feel authentic.

Which brings us to the sticky matter of the “enhanced interrogation” session that opens this film. This rising controversy, involving much beating of chests and high-level denials, threatens to overshadow the great work that Bigelow and her team have wrought … which is just plain silly.

First, and most crucially, who can really say? The folks possibly involved in such activity sure as hell won’t talk. Only a naïve fool would imagine that such lengths haven’t been taken, in the pursuit of information under extreme circumstances. Blaming a movie for supposedly “sullying” American ideals is no more than cheap political theater.

Second, it is a movie. However accurate the extensive underpinnings, we’re dealing with drama here … not a documentary. Chris Terrio’s screenplay for “Argo” takes huge liberties with the third-act escape sequence, which wasn’t anywhere near that suspenseful in real life, but I don’t see Ben Affleck getting raked over the coals for this “betrayal of truth.”

At the end of the day, we should judge “Zero Dark Thirty” solely on its ability to entertain, enlighten and hold our attention. And in those respects, it’s quite impressive.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at http://derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

“Alex Cross”

2 stars

Starring: Tyler Perry, Matthew Fox, Edward Burns, Rachel Nichols, Cicely Tyson, Carmen Ejogo, John C. McGinley, Jean Reno

Rating: PG-13, and somewhat generously, for considerable nasty violence, disturbing images, profanity, sexual content, drug references and nudity

Popular book series is ill-served by vicious, noisy action flick

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

I realize James Patterson writes trashy airport novels, but he still doesn’t deserve this sleaze-wallow.

Director Rob Cohen signals his intentions right from the start, with a prologue that finds our hero and his Detroit Police Department colleagues pursuing a perp through a dilapidated slum building: ear-splitting gunshots, battered-down doors, pell-mell chases, smash-cut editing and cockeyed camera angles.

Forget all about the thoughtful profiler and methodical, imperturbable Alex Cross played so well by Morgan Freeman in 1997’s “Kiss the Girls” and 2001’s “Along Came a Spider.” That Alex Cross doesn’t exist anymore; as re-imagined by Cohen, scripters Marc Moss and Kerry Williamson, and star Tyler Perry, our man of science and sociology has morphed into John Shaft.

The results aren’t pretty.

Cohen made his rep on noisy, brain-dead action thrillers such as “The Fast and the Furious” and “xXx”: unapologetic eye-candy that reveled in audacious stunts and testosterone-fueled characters who traded dialogue in words of one syllable. Nothing wrong with that, of course, since we viewers understood that such films are the live-action equivalent of Road Runner cartoons.

But Cross exists in the real world — at least to some degree — and Perry tries to play him (during the rare quieter moments) as devoted husband, loving father and loyal partner. But those fitful efforts at emotional authenticity are wholly at odds with the nasty, brutal story line into which Cross gets dumped in this film: a kitchen-sink amalgam of elements more or less suggested by Patterson’s “Cross,” the 12th novel in his ongoing series (19 thus far, with No. 20 due next year).

Thing is, I can’t imagine Patterson’s fans will be happy with this film. Names and relationships have been altered, behavior and motivation are wholly different … often for no reason. Why, for example, would Moss and Williamson change the name of Cross’ childhood best friend from John Sampson to Tommy Kane (played here by Edward Burns)? Is it that important to leave clumsy screenwriter footprints all over Patterson’s original story?

The biggest change, however, concerns the depraved serial killer whom Cross faces: the Butcher (actually Michael Sullivan) in Patterson’s book, here re-christened Picasso (!) and played with chilling, scary-eyed credibility by Matthew Fox, late of TV’s “Lost.”

I’ll give Cohen credit for drawing such a memorable performance from Fox, who dropped 35 pounds in order to play this gaunt, heavily tattooed, bone-and-sinew pain freak. Fox’s Picasso is the stuff of nightmares: a believably unstoppable force who derives shuddery erotic pleasure from — as one example — snipping off a woman’s fingers with pruning shears.

“Cross” is, to a degree, the character’s origin story; Patterson’s novel begins with an extended flashback that depicts our hero’s early days as a Detroit police detective/psychologist, long before he becomes an FBI profiler. This glimpse into the past explains many of the details given as basic character background in the earlier Alex Cross books.

Moss and Williamson take that flashback as this film’s starting point; we meet Cross, his wife (Carmen Ejogo) and two children, and their feisty “Nana Mama” (Cicely Tyson), whose word is law in the attractive suburban home they share. At the precinct, Cross is teamed with Kane and Monica Ashe (Rachel Nichols), the latter a young detective looking to earn her department rep.

As the core story line begins, Cross and his team catch a multiple homicide at the home of a wealthy, hedonistic Asian woman whose carnal pleasures include betting on mixed martial arts cage matches. Her three bodyguards are dead; she’s also dead and missing her fingers. Cross studies the scene and labels this carnage the work of a single methodical and ferociously intelligent killer, albeit one with a few screws loose. (This would be Picasso.)

Somehow — and the frequently sloppy script never makes this clear — this woman is tied to German corporate bigwig Erich Nunemacher (Werner Daehn), who in turn is allied with multi-national industrialist Leon Mercier (Jean Reno), who has a bold vision for transforming downtown Detroit into a city of the future.

For reasons unknown, the shadowy Picasso is working his way up the food chain, with Mercier as his ultimate goal. Cross and his team are assigned by their precinct captain (John C. McGinley) to ensure that doesn’t happen.

Things … don’t go as planned. (Are you surprised?)

Longtime Patterson fans who worried about whether Perry could handle this role — he is, after all, best known for cross-dressing comic turns in the likes of “Madea’s Big Happy Family” — can rest easy; he’s eminently credible … at least, initially. Perry displays both a no-nonsense investigative manner and a sweet, sensitive side; he and Ejogo share a pleasant, easy chemistry as a couple.

Burns is properly laid back as the laconic Kane, who functions as Cross’ walking conscience: the longtime bro’ who often challenges his partner to be a better version of himself. Burns and Perry also do well at trading this script’s few quips: mordant commentary and gallows humor, which is appropriate, given the circumstances.

Nichols never successfully inhabits her character, mostly because she lacks the necessary acting chops; it’s impossible to get a sense of who Ashe is. McGinley is wasted in a one-dimensional, take-charge role that the screenwriters manipulate to ludicrous extremes; Brookwell’s “command decision” in the third act is too stupid for words.

But, then, “too stupid for words” is pretty common in this inept screenplay. The reason for Picasso’s name is specious at best, and a detail quickly abandoned. One prominent character’s off-camera death is so sudden — and so inexplicably forgotten, from that point forward — that I couldn’t help wondering if some key exposition scenes had been left behind.

Cohen’s bombastic directorial flourishes are irritating throughout, and the jumpy editing — by Matt Diezel and Thom Noble — is equally exasperating. This isn’t a film to relax and watch; it’s something to be endured. Everything builds to a silly, pell-mell climax in Detroit’s former Michigan Theater, now (sadly) transformed into a three-story parking lot with its ornate 1920s plasterwork ceiling hanging mostly intact 60 feet above the cars.

One gets the impression — from the way Cohen stages this scene, and cinematographer Ricardo Della Rosa shoots it — that the setting is far more important than the characters battling within in. And that, I think, says it all.

Patterson is one of 12 (!) producers credited on this mess. Clearly, he should have held out for a better jury.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

Three stars

Starring: Liam Neeson, Maggie Grace, Famke Janssen, Rade Serbedzija, Luke Grimes, Leland Orser, Jon Gries, D.B. Sweeney

Case in point: “Taken 2,” which became inevitable after its 2008 predecessor turned into a surprise hit that earned $224 million in worldwide box office.

This new entry isn’t a bad film, per se; it’s simply unnecessary. It covers no new ground, except to soften the long-estranged relationships between Bryan Mills (Liam Neeson) and his ex-wife, Lenore (Famke Janssen), and their outrageously spoiled teenage daughter, Kim (Maggie Grace).

But that’s not the meat of director Olivier Megaton’s amped-up action thriller, which exists mostly so that Bryan can meticulously execute dozens of anonymous tough guys, who clearly flunked out of Thug School. Rarely have we seen such a careless, sloppy and unskilled collection of ruffians; even with automatic weapons, they couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. They dishonor the tattoo that marks their clan.

In fairness, contrivance and coincidence also played a major role in the first “Taken,” but we weren’t quite as distracted by narrative implausibility; it was fun to see Neeson emerge as an unlikely but persuasively competent black-ops veteran. Mostly, Neeson’s Bryan was mesmerizing because of his shrewd and almost uncanny intelligence. Sure, he kicked plenty of ass, but mostly he out-thought his opponents. The concept felt fresh.

Yes, “Taken 2” finds a way to further explore Bryan’s smarts; scripters Luc Besson and Robert Mark Kamen are savvy enough not to mess with success. But that’s the point; they also haven’t expanded upon that formula. In some ways, “Taken 2” feels less like a sequel and more like a remake; it suffers badly from a sense of sameness.

But to cases:

Things have indeed improved between Bryan and Lenore, in part because Stuart, her second husband — never seen and only referenced; I guess Xander Berkeley wasn’t available to reprise the role — has been exposed as a louse. Bryan still monitors Kim too closely, although most parents could forgive his paranoia; after all, she was kidnapped and almost sold into white slavery.

When Stuart bails on a planned family vacation, Bryan offers a trip to Istanbul; he has a bodyguarding assignment, and would be happy to share that exotic city with Lenore and Kim.

Ah, but Bryan doesn’t know about Murad Krasniqi (Rade Serbedzija), a Balkan whose son was one of many killed by our hero in the first film. Murad vows vengeance, both for his son and for all the other young villagers who were executed by this American; the fact that all these “sons, brothers and grandsons” were violent scum who kidnapped young women seems not to be an issue. Parents forgive all sins, I guess.

The plan involves a three-person snatch, but Murad’s goons are only partially successful; Kim manages to slip through the net. Even more conveniently, Bryan isn’t searched properly, and thus is able to call his daughter via a nifty little gadget concealed in one sock. For a time, then, the narrative comes to life as the cosseted Kim rallies and becomes an incredibly resourceful — and lucky — amateur operative.

Emphasis on lucky. Even though Besson and Kamen attempt to set up a logical means by which Bryan can remotely help Kim orchestrate a family reunion, the necessary suspension of disbelief will be beyond many viewers. The degree to which Kim successfully navigates her way through a wholly unfamiliar and quite confusing city — and so quickly! — won’t merely raise eyebrows; they’ll literally leap off your forehead.

Okay, fine; credibility never has been an issue with Besson, who I’m convinced is responsible for half the movies made in France these days. The writer/director/producer has a marvelous talent for marrying engaging actors with high-concept action storylines, going all the way back to 1990’s “La Femme Nikita,” which begat a film and TV franchise that hasn’t quit to this day.

Since then, Besson helped make a star of Jason Statham, with the “Transporter” series (three entries, and counting); he also paired Gary Oldman with young Natalie Portman in 1994’s marvelous “The Professional”; and dabbled in science-fiction (“The Fifth Element”) and children’s fantasies (“Arthur and the Invisibles” and its two sequels).

Besson is most at home with sizzling, high-octane — and highly improbable — thrillers such as “District B13” and, yes, “Taken.” And while Megaton may claim credit as director here — having also filled that chair with Besson’s “Transporter 3” and “Colombiana” — “Taken 2” feels every inch like a film Besson directed himself: lots of flash, plenty of explosions and gunfire, and a primal urgency fed, in this case, by a man’s devotion to his daughter and ex-wife. How can we not relate?

Neeson continues to be cool, calm and capable, always rising to the demand of a given crisis. He gives Bryan the emotional grace of a bull in a china shop, but that’s the nature of the character; this isn’t a guy who’s comfortable with his feminine side. Most crucially, he really sells the material; when he utters the fateful statement, during a key phone call with his daughter — “Kim, your mother and I are going to be taken” — we can’t help feeling the thrill.

As iconic statements go, with its variant well remembered from the first film, it’s a corker.

Janssen, happily, shows a softer side this time out; she badly overplayed the bitch card in the first film. Unfortunately, “softer” quickly morphs into “helpless,” which is rather insulting for entirely different reasons. It’s also weird how Bryan keeps charging off at key moments, leaving her “safely” behind, when in fact she’s anything but safe. Like I’ve been saying, stupid and contrived.

Grace, never an actress with much range, steps up reasonably well to her greater challenges this time out. One does tire, however, of hearing her squeal “I can’t!” every time her father tells her to drive faster, faster, faster, during the aforementioned car chase.

“What are you going to do?” Kim later wails.

“What I do best,” her father replies.

But that’s actually the problem: What Bryan Mills does best, this second time around, isn’t that interesting. His blindfolded navigation skills aren’t nearly as captivating as, say, Jason Statham’s dynamic physicality; Bryan only shoots and kills, shoots and kills. He never misses; his adversaries always miss. Pretty thin gruel for a sequel.

And what could be next? Will Bryan turn commando again when somebody snatches the family dog?

Really, Luc, you should have let this concept go with just one successful shot in the barrel.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at http://derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com