The weather was superior on the coast.
I lazed on the back lawn, my feet in the wading pool, my niece scoring occasional hits with her squirt gun (it shoots a magic potion, ingredients and effects unknown. The wife is keeping a weather eye out for any unusual changes in my deportment).
Our evening decision to watch the 'perfect movie' drew us into the vortex of Con Air, a cinematic Everest it takes a well supported team to conquer. Happily we were well fortified and up to the challenge.
I'm pretty sure they cast it by throwing handfuls of darts at a wall of head shots and calling the people they missed. The music sounded like it was jacked from an 80's arcade game, Contra or something, all squealing hair band wah-wah guitar.
I know they got their script by tossing random pages of dialog from the top 50 grossing action films of all time into a blender and hitting 'puree'. And it was clearly plotted by a room full of speed freaks, all fiendishly intent on one-upping each others deranged coincidences and contrivances (over Vegas and low on fuel? fuck the desert, land it on THE STRIP!)
Miraculously, the whole is vastly greater than the sum of its misshapen parts.
It's as if a semi hauling a double load of propane crashed into a bus load of nuns after being rear-ended by a dumptruck and the wreckage formed an exact replica of Michelangelo's David in the middle of the 101.
Bravo, Simon West, Bravo.
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