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WARNING: REVIEW CONTAINS SLIGHT SPOILERS
There's a parallel universe out there where Gone In 60 Seconds is a dark, edgy, controversial independent movie. Unfortunately in this dimension Gone... is a flashy, vacuous, testosterone-fuelled moronfest starring Nicolas Cage.
For reasons not really worth getting into, he and his large number of cronies have four days to steal fifty expensive cars, only one of which has an alarm. This crew consists of the guy with the funny-shaped ears who's rumoured to be the new Superman; a guy who conducted electricity in The X-Files; an ex-professional footballer and two token black men.
Their enemies are cops, rival car thieves and Bilborough from Cracker, his Manchester accent suitably flattened and broadened for American audiences who are now used to that sort of thing since Daphne in Frasier. There's also Angelina Jolie, who gets no character; save to be a receptacle to men's sexual desires. She and Cage are supposed to be old flames, which is odd, as they never have anything approaching a normal conversation in all of the film's overlong 135m running time.
In fact, characterisation is so poor that whenever anyone has a "moment" a violin plays in the background to accentuate the "emotion". It's no spoiler to reveal that Vinnie Jones (who recreates his famous Paul Gasgoine "hand ball" manoeuvre and is quite menacing when silent) only gets one line; not because his inability to speak is integral to the plot but because his eloquent summing up of the film's dubious morality after appearing mute the whole way through is funny. Allegedly. After he struggles through it in his "not-quite-acting-but-it'll-do" London drawl, Cage quips "I always thought you were from Long Island". My ribs, as you might imagine, were well and truly tickled.
In fact humour is the most undeveloped aspect, from the tactless comedy policeman to the two token black characters. This sees the biggest aspect of Hollywood take hold; why is it that a black man cannot appear in a major motion picture without being constantly aware of his skin tone and endlessly refer to it? The younger man, who, like the elder, jive-talks for the whole duration, proclaims: "us black people don't like the cold ... we're tropical people". He then goes on to express an urge to smoke a joint and watch Roots. He is, of course, parodying the image of black people, but how funny is that? His older counterpart cannot speak without referring to himself, and thereby his colour, in third person. "My black ass" this, "my black ass" that. Does anyone know any black people who actually speak like that? Thought not.
The film's soundtrack is played almost non-stop and with increasing volume, some of the tracks - especially Apollo 440's "Don't Stop The Rock" - so loud they're actually more audible than the sound effects and dialogue. The surroundsound system even separates the two to such a degree that it makes them sound like two different films running together. No background music concept here, it's the aural equivalent of trying to watch a film while someone at the back of the cinema has their stereo turned up full blast. "Keep that music down, young man!"
This isn't the worst film in the world and in many ways I enjoyed it. It's just that it's predictable, lazy and witless, with minimal effort in its construction. Apparently box office expectations are considerably down for this movie. After being force-fed junk for several years it appears the general public are starting to wake up to the fact.


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