This is the cinematic equivalent of staring at a fruit machine for two hours.
It is also almost impossible to critique. It follows a pretty rank formula; a scene or two of hackneyed, pungent gorgonzola take place off the track, followed by a sequence of headache-inducing eyescrewery taking place on it. And Repeat. Repeat. REPEAT.
Those race sequences really do represent a new low for contemporary Hollywood movie-making. When shots aren't cut into spastic, nonsensical visual slaps that last less than a second, the camera is quaking violently and zooming in and out furiously, as if being controlled by a well-caffeinated mute, trying desperately to let the director on the other end of the monitor know that his testicles have just caught fire.
At one point, following what appears to have been a gigantic car accident, Joan Allen (Joan Allen!) turns to a colleague and bellows, "What the hell just happened!?"
You tell me, love.
It is also almost impossible to critique. It follows a pretty rank formula; a scene or two of hackneyed, pungent gorgonzola take place off the track, followed by a sequence of headache-inducing eyescrewery taking place on it. And Repeat. Repeat. REPEAT.
Those race sequences really do represent a new low for contemporary Hollywood movie-making. When shots aren't cut into spastic, nonsensical visual slaps that last less than a second, the camera is quaking violently and zooming in and out furiously, as if being controlled by a well-caffeinated mute, trying desperately to let the director on the other end of the monitor know that his testicles have just caught fire.
At one point, following what appears to have been a gigantic car accident, Joan Allen (Joan Allen!) turns to a colleague and bellows, "What the hell just happened!?"
You tell me, love.