Fast cars, furious action, comatose plot

Rating: 3/10 (27 February 2002)

"The Fast and The Furious," directed by Rob Cohen and based on a magazine article about street racing, was undoubtedly one of the "in" movies during the summer of 2001, grossing over $140 million.
To label it a "surprise hit" was erroneous. "Furious" was going to succeed no matter what, because, to put it bluntly, it was a dual-gratification film. The girls were aroused at its pretty-boy hunk stars, and the guys likewise at the four-wheeled penile extensions  I mean the gaudy, overgarnished import cars.
And after finally seeing it almost a year later, I wholeheartedly agree that it was "in," all right: inept, inane, insipid, and inferior.
The plot has undercover cop Brian O'Conner (Paul Walker) infiltrating a street-racing gang suspected of stealing and fencing electronic equipment. They spend the money on modifications to their rice burners, such as blowing $10,000 on speed-increasing nitrous oxide tanks. As Brian is accepted into the criminal fraternity by the gang leader, Dominic Toretto (Vin Diesel), he also finds himself falling for Dom's sister, Mia (Jordana Brewster). Sure enough  you guessed it  Brian is increasingly hesitant to apprehend Dom for the thefts as their friendship grows over time. It sounds just as bad as it plays.
I knew the script for "Furious" would be embarrassing, considering that it plays second banana to moving hunks of glass and steel, and I wasn't disappointed. I've read better dialogue on a cereal box. I mean, how can you beat lines like "Damn, that guy's fast!" and "Hey, bro, you got a bathroom?"
It's obvious the male leads were cast for their looks. Beach bum-looking Walker is hardly believable as a police officer or a street racer. Most of his close-ups show him staring at his co-stars with a blank half-grin. His attempt at sounding cool consists of, "Check it out, it's like this." If he wins the film's opening race, then he'll "get the money and the respect." (A telltale sign that he's a cop: he's the only driver in the entire movie who bothers to wear a seatbelt.)
I must've been on another planet when it was decided that Diesel was the next big star in the making. Whatever the case may be, his popularity certainly isn't due to his acting. Here, he is emotionless when speaking lines that don't require him to scream, and as a result he sounds like he's reading off a teleprompter. He is victimized by poor dialogue as much as Walker; at one point, when Dom wistfully says to Brian, "I live my life a quarter mile at a time," I wanted to spray the screen with Airwick.
Early in the film, Dom and his buddies refer to Brian as "the buster." Does anyone even use that term anymore?
Incredibly enough, both Walker and Diesel are outdone by Michelle Rodriguez in her unintentionally hysterical role of Dom's girlfriend. She performs the most grueling duty of the picture: standing around for ninety minutes with a permanent pout on her face. Then again, if I had lines like "Why don't you skate before I leave treadmarks on your face?" my lower lip would be protruding like a diving platform.
Save for Brewster as Mia, the script prevents viewers from sympathizing with the poorly developed characters. As a result, any expressions of sentimentality come off as artificial. We don't feel sorry for characters who get shot at while stuck on an 18-wheeler, suffer a horrific car crash, or are gunned down in a drive-by shooting.
The other type of race figures prominently in "Furious," and the script gives it the finger by playing up stereotypes to the hilt. All the Mexican men wear khaki shorts and tall socks; one cracks racist jokes and "has a last name but can't pronounce it." Dom and Brian are harassed by motorcycle-riding, machine gun-toting Asians led by Johnny Tran (Rick Yune). Meanwhile, the Black crowd is so well-represented by Ja Rule in a spellbinding performance. (If you couldn't sense the sarcasm here, then you shouldn't be reading this.) When he talks, he sounds like he needs a Breathe-Right strip. Not surprisingly, he is the source of the film's only "F" word during his mercifully brief screen time.
Big shock  the women are portrayed as nothing more than scantily-clad armpieces in short skirts. Their sole purpose is to stand around while the cameras pan up from their ankles. The extras at the first race all cheer and jeer right on cue like Pavlov's dogs as Dom rambles about car parts. Perhaps they were amazed at his usage of big words.
However, not everything is the fault of the actors. Much of "Furious" is just outright nonsense.
For starters, I've hardly ever seen any cars that are covered in all those psychedelic graphics. The race and chase sequences suffer greatly at the hands of a combination of choppy editing and an overbearing rap soundtrack. Plus, what part of Los Angeles is deserted both day and night, and where does such a huge stretch of road exist on which four cars can race side-by-side while going over 140 miles an hour (that's over two miles per minute; I doubt that nearly eight miles of a city street can be illegally blocked off by spectators)? Are there always so many lead changes in such a short race? How can the characters afford these cars? Can someone go flipping and flying about in a '69 Charger, crash and then walk away with barely a scratch? How can Brian burn out his engine after hitting 140 and then drive away an instant later, or take his eyes off the road for long stretches of time during a race in order to operate not one, but two laptop computers?
If I was a cop who was incompetent enough to let my prime suspect get away ("I owe you a ten-second car," Brian tells Dom before forking over the keys), my career would soon be in cinders after I was terminated for assisting in a criminal's escape.
"The Fast and The Furious" would have fared better had the script been as eye-popping as the cars. This movie does remain true to the essence of its subject matter in one aspect: it's one hell of a drag. 3/10