"Ah Ritchie's made another gangster film with Statham" thought the average fan, expecting another Snatch/Lock Stock; expecting perhaps a couple of temporal shifts, but none too hard for "me and the lads" to swallow after a few beers.
Ah, pay attention, you do need to watch this film. No cups of tea, no extra diet cokes from the counter, no "keep it running" shouts as you nip to the fridge - watch the film! No laughs other than those you may make yourself from the considerable violence (and if that floats your boat, so be it) but sharp solid direction, excellent dialogue, and great performances.
My favourite - Big Pussy from The Sopranos, always a reliable hood.

The world is facing imminent destruction and a suicide mission is sent to the Sun to avert catastrophe by firing a bomb into its fiery heart: yes, it's Solar Crisis, aka Crisis 2050, which burned up a huge chunk of change that's never apparent on screen back in 1990 and returned barely enough to buy a Happy Meal for each of the cast in Japan before going straight to video (remember them?) in a re-edited version credited to one Alan Smithee. The plot hook's pretty much the same as Sunshine - suicide mission to the Sun, saboteur on board, logic cast adrift - except that this time they're not trying to reignite the sun but to prematurely detonate a solar flare before it can reach Earth. With a talking bomb. Voiced by Paul Williams. Who wants to be promoted so the crew will take him more seriously Given that the cast also includes Jack Palance at his most dementedly OTT, Charlton Heston at his most rigid, top-liner Tim Matheson at his most anonymous, the original Hills Have Eyes' unforgettable Michael Berryman (you may not remember the name, but you DO remember that face) and Peter Boyle as the industrialist out to sabotage the mission because, er, if it succeeds the world will be saved but his share price will go down, you'd expect if not a laugh-a-minute at least a laugh every reel. No joy. This is the worst kind of bad movie: a boring one. The fate of the world may be hanging in the balance but the whole film is shot with a complete lack of urgency or momentum at the same unvarying deadly slow pace. There's low-key and there's walking through it, but here the cast don't even do that. Instead, they just stand still looking at screens in near darkness for most of the time. You keep on hoping for Paul Williams' talking bomb to suffer an existential crisis, but instead the film just... stands there, doing next to nothing. Literally. This is one of the most inert movies ever made  so inert that if Clive Owen had been cast, he'd almost have looked lively by comparison. Even a poorly explained suicidal repair attempt fails to raise a fritter of interest since it mostly involves, yep, the cast just standing still looking at screens in near darkness. Even when the bomb prematurely goes into countdown before being launched they deal with the new crisis by standing still looking at screens in near darkness as if they had all the time in the world. Merchant-Ivory films have better action scenes.
Things aren't much livelier down on Earth where the movie spends most of it's running time with Matheson's son/Chuck's grandson Corin Nemec trying to hitch a ride to the spaceport across an arid landscape with Palance's insane desert artist "looking for that note out there while the chicks still dig me" while waylaid by rejects from a Mad Max ripoff and evil corporate suits who track him down so they can release him on a nice beach. Just don't expect logic, if you haven't already guessed that much. Best moment? A ditzy girl in a bar describing Jack Palance as "An old guy with white hair and a face like rotting leather," though Chucky Baby taking out the villain's aircraft with a bazooka fired from the hip from an office window or beating up a barfly who likes his beret are welcome morsels of camp in a film that for 99% of it's running time offers a whole lot of nuttin'. Richard C. Sarafian's slightly longer original cut that played in Japan offers an additional six minutes but cries out to be cut down to a more manageable 17 minutes: the director of Vanishing Point must have thanked his lucky stars when the re-edit gave him an excuse to take his name off the film. A film so bad it's not good, and painfully unfunny with it