Chris At The Pictures

“All you do is shout at each other!” – the frustrated words of cyborg assassin Nebula (Karen Gillan) ring loud and true regarding Marvel’s dizzying and thunderous return to the stars. Following an incursion with a giant tentacle monster and gold-faced aliens, the Guardians of the Galaxy find themselves split in two. Peter Quill (Chris Pratt), Gamora (Zoe Saldana) and Drax (Dave Bautista) head off into the unknown on the trail of the living planet, Ego (Kurt Russell), while Rocket (Bradley Cooper) and Groot (now Borrowers-scale and voiced by a squeaky Vin Diesel) are left to fend for themselves against hordes of space pirates.

To call anything that comes from the Disney-Marvel slate “risky” seems a bit much, but I at least confess my admiration for an audacious opening set piece, which places the action itself in the background and distracts us with a three-minute dance number as the titles play out. My enjoyment even stretched to the use of ‘Mr Blue Sky’, a song which I freely admit detesting, largely thanks to its association with many awful British summer time TV adverts.

Accidentally going along with things that shouldn’t work is an experience that defined my time spent in the company of James Gunn’s new film. Whether snorting at Drax’ cacophony of trouser humour or wryly noting the onslaught of 80’s pop culture references (is there really an audience crossover between Marvel and Cheers?), I had a great time with this movie, make no mistake…even if said movie itself is far, far from great. Despite its bum-numbing length, largely inconsequential roster of side characters and one moment where it turns into Man of Steel (and not in a good way), Guardians 2 is infectiously fun. The cast are engaging, the music – both the new Awesome Mix and Tyler Bates’ score – is glorious and hearty, and it leaves the audience awash with smiles.

Only occasionally does the smile falter. Constant bickering between the bunch gets a bit much, hence my sympathies with Nebula as the Guardians’ prisoner. Pratt’s delivery is the main offender, bouncing back between soft aural honey and wide-eyed barking, with Cooper’s shrieking raccoon a close second. Mercifully, they’re usually cut off mid-rant by Bautista’s pin-precise comedic timing or a relatable glower from Saldana. Even the extensively-marketed baby Groot gags take a good while to start wearing thin, stuffed to the brim as the film is.

Like a sports car stuck in traffic, the movie wants to whip-pan from scene to scene, but is reined in by sequences that take an age to pass. There’s so much going on visually and referentially (gags about Mary Poppins, Pac-Man and an allusion to Hitchcock’s North by Northwest, to name but a few), crammed into a narrative that hops from one side of the universe to the other like there’s a hedgehog in its seat.

Here, Guardians 2 goes for the whole Empire Strikes Back deal (the gang are separated after an early conflict and familial ties are revealed), but with a modicum of the depth and none of the darkness. But that’s fine: in a film with the aesthetic of a Haribo factory on fire, anything too challenging or tonally murky would set the atmosphere askance.

In terms of the wider cinematic universe this is little more than a jaunty side-step from endless avenging; the filmic equivalent of a village fireworks display. It goes on longer than anyone really needs it to, but you stay the course and suffer the repetitive whizz-bangs because there’s free candy floss, your best mates have turned up and you’re all howling with laughter because the vicar just took a Catherine wheel to the crotch.

Fast & Furious 8 or, as I like to call it, Physics? Never heard of it!, opens with Dominic Toretto (Vin Diesel) racing a flaming car backwards down the busy streets of Cuba, and only becomes more bonkers from there. After this brief display of disregard for civilian life, Dom turns this callous attitude on his own family, betraying Hobbs (Dwayne Johnson), his wife Letty (Michelle Rodriguez) and the rest of the crew for reasons unknown. He’s allied with Cipher (Charlize Theron in dreadlocks that she just about gets away with), a God-like hacker who – despite her ability to unseat entire nations with the flick of a switch – needs Dom for one last job. His heartbroken team have no choice but to join forces with a young upshot agent played by Scott Eastwood (a desperate and failed attempt to fill the seat left by Paul Waker) and old enemy Deckard Shaw (Jason Statham) to bring their fallen leader to justice.

Yes, it’s all got a bit dark this time around. Or as dark as a film where Statham calls Johnson a wanker from behind bars can be, anyhow.  It’s the cars and calamity you’ve paid to see, and the film’s zealous delivery of conflagration and testosterone ensures you’re never distracted by the corny dialogue or questionable performances. For all the developments in digital technology the saga has grown into, the tools to make Vin Diesel emote anywhere in the realms between wry smile and concrete slab have not yet been invented.

Still, you’re not there to admire the cast's acting ability any more than they’re turning up to win Oscars: they’re here for the ride, and so are we. Want to see a six-way game of tug-of-war played with sports cars? They’ve got it. Fancy the sight of Tyrese Gibson ice-surfing on the severed door of a Lamborghini? Thought so. Ever wondered what happens when half of New York’s traffic piles down a single street? I’ll get the popcorn, shall I?

Everyone slides into their roles with the ease of slipping on well-worn shoes and the one-liners bounce around as harmlessly as their owner’s cars seem to do (although Gibson’s constant back-and-forth with the closest person/object/explosion is beginning to grate). Of course, it all starts to fall apart once anyone starts talking for longer than it takes for several showrooms worth of cars to blow up, but I’m willing to forgive Chris Morgan’s script purely because it gifts us the sight and sound of Dame Helen Mirren shouting “Devil’s bumhole”.

The exotic locales and apparently uncontested damage to property is highly reminiscent of the James Bond series and – while it’s more Die Another Day than Casino Royale – Fast & Furious is well on the way to overtaking the British spy franchise in terms of instalments, box office heft and pure brainless enjoyment. Its complete self-awareness, total aversion to any façade of prestige and willingness to embrace the modern blockbuster landscape is a winning formula.  I’ve even been moderately enthused by the series’ strive for diversity, but it needs to drop the needless ogling of women’s backsides before I embrace it wholeheartedly.

It’s honestly astonishing to see just how far a franchise that began as Point Break with street-racing has become. The original film’s grimy aesthetic and plucky band of believable characters now seems ludicrously understated compared to Fast 8, which involves set pieces where around 100 cars drop from the sky and Diesel attempts to outwit a heat-seeking missile. At this point I’m tempted to slam the brakes and take a moment to wonder how much further they can possibly go with this, but we’ve all been here before and know the answer: a lot. Fast & Furious (Deep Space) 9, anyone?