Of course this movie is loud, bright, utterly unrealistic, disjointed, suffers from catastrophic plot holes and tests credulity at literally every turn. Of course it’s piled high with machismo and sweaty bulging musclemen and “heart” and Vin Diesel utterances largely concerning “revenge,” “loyalty,” and “family.” Of course it appears to have been penned by eight prepubescent boys crazy on scotchmallows and Sunny Delight. Of course it is, of course it has, of course it does. And if you’re walking into this film, you expect these things. You may even enjoy them. Car porn, ego, body oil, family values.
With context firmly established here, let me say that Furious 7 is rather good for what it is. It has its moments. Over the years this series has morphed from street racing fantasy into a curious action movie mashup of James Bond locations, special forces soldiers, made-up military hardware, chest-thumping bravado and, yes, body oil. It’s all so over the top and senseless and corny and nonstop and vapid for so much of its way-too-long runtime that you’d think it’d never work. But the whole is more than its parts — an experience, really.
It’s a noisy incredible mess, and has so very much wrong with it — but it does some important things right, and I forgive it. Most notably, Furious handles the well-publicized and unexpected death of Paul Walker in a technically interesting (CGI!) and, in the end, genuinely moving way — a rare moment when all Vin Diesel’s sappy schmaltziness actually hits home. We’re left with the distinct feeling that, for all its faults, this is the send-off Walker would have wanted. It’s actually beautiful in the end. Seriously. Now where’s my body oil.
Haus Verdict: Wild, senseless, over the top action — that, for a franchise famously untethered to reality, in the end gets real in a major way.
Furious 7 opens tomorrow, Friday April 3 everywhere.