xXx: Review By B. Alan Orange

Code Orange Alert #38427: xXx

A bottle of King Cobra malt liquor mixed with any coconut-flavored wine cooler is not a classy drink, but it sure delivers one hell of a kick. A little something off the bottom shelf, its contents equal the weight of Triple X. A coarse concoction that will knock you around the room, give you a bloody nose, and shuck all the ether out of your chest cavity until you're passed out in bouts of black. Call it the King of Headaches; I don't advise devouring either one on a Sunday, especially before school or work. Sure, both are festive achievements, but that doesn't mean they're good for you. Heck, a bottle of Night Train mixed with raw Kool-Aid powder might be better on your blackened lungs. Taking both Coconut Cobra and X, late at night, might render you powerless for days. Yes, xXx is dumb fun, straight out the bottom of a bottomless bottle. You can't really pick on it, it's liable to jump off the table and elbow you in the esophagus. That's exactly what it did to me.

I was a doubter; I wanted to see Spy Kids 2. I didn't want to see this. But I had no choice. I buttoned up my petticoat, straightened my captain's hat, and stood ready to take control of the Hate Boat. I've been given no obvious reason to jump on the Vin Diesel bandwagon. The guy sitting next to me sighed, "He's so cool." Like a lost loverboy headed for a grease cruise. I don't see it. Vin's fine, I've got no problem with the man, but I don't get the hype. Are we so desperate as to jump on any flavor of the month? Diesel's a serviceable actor, but he mumbles his words as though he can barely get them past his teeth. It's a slight speech impediment usually reserved for those who've had their tongue pierced one too many times. His is not an elegant affair. Give me the grace and suave nature of a Pierce Brosnan any day.

Vin is a product of our "gotta have it" lifestyle and climate which has quickly consumed Hollywood. He's fast food served hot and cheap. His three headliners have all been rip-offs of better movies. Pitch Black was a lesser Aliens. The Fast and the Furious is a Point Break remake suffering from premature ejaculation. And this, here? This Triple X is nothing more than James Bond done in a clumsy, awkward, deafening shamble to the left. Still, it's wound tight. Pulled back through a heavy clicking of teeth, this beast shoots forward in sparks of heat.

I sat there watching it, not exactly liking what I saw, but by no means hating it. It's the stunts that kept me in constant awe. You can obviously tell that these aren't computer animated mock-ups risking life and cybernetic limb. These are real people. One man even gave his life for the film while shooting the climatic submarine jump as Vin's character parachutes under a bridge. It's my duty to tell you to see this movie for one reason alone: The snowboard avalanche scene. From start to finish, this jaw-dropping act of stupidity not only silenced a rowdy crowd who could only stare on in horror, it also raised the bar extremely high for the unavoidable seed sure to be sewn into this franchise-in-the-waiting. This is going to be a hard one to top, and I doubt they will succeed. It's one huge, unavoidable moment that's worth our price of admission alone.

The rest of the movie I'm not so sure about. There are lulls when people actually start talking just to drift up some sort of lame plot about biochemical warfare. Snooze. Often times, I found myself spacing out waiting for the next exciting action set piece to take my breath away; my stance was locked in a kung fu grip. xXx sets itself up as a joke, pure like unfiltered green tea. The opening is a blatant stab at broad comedy that goes over the top. It's five inexplicable minutes that play like some obscure German Expressionist film. Rammstein beats out an ear-bleeding Octoberfest death-core lullaby while a Tuxedoed James Bond double gets shot, killed, and tossed around a mosh pit. You expect the camera to pull back and reveal the joke. Maybe Sam Jackson is watching this in his private home theater. Nope. You see; there's no reason for this spy to be at a Rammstein concert dress in a tuxedo. Who the f*ck would do that? No, this gruff bitch of a popcorn flick is stepping over itself by literally killing off James Bond in its first few seconds. They even go as far as to call 007 a mouse. How rude. What did Ian Fleming ever do to these guys? They don't need to kill off James Bond just to get their point across. At my dinner table, both beer and wine are always welcome.

This film is a dick.

Also utterly unexplainable is why one of Vin's first training sessions takes place in the very same diner that ends Pulp Fiction. Diesel turns around, and you literally expect to find Jules sitting there. Wrong again; its NSA Agent Gibbons, a Jules spin-off that could easily be a second cousin. Gibbon's even looks over at the booth Jules shared with Vince Vega, as if he's about to spill some of that 'Preacher Man' vibe on poor Diesel's droggy head. Sadly, we never receive that obvious nod. There's not one mention or wink thrown to that highly superior film. It's done without reason or intent; a pointless tribute that seems odd in nature.

Then Vin gets shot with a tranquilizer dart. He pulls it out and studies it; I'll be damned if it's not the same dart Obi-Wan takes to that Space Dinner in Episode II. I can hear that digitized Mel-slug of a cook in my head; "It's a Kamino saber dart." After doing a bit of a search, I found that, in fact, there is a reason for this particular Xeroxed idea: Gavin Bocquet served as a Production Designer on both films. Go figure.

Should I even mention?

The girls? This movie needs more of them. Eve, she's only in it for two seconds. That alone comes as a sad note. Then, the only other girl is Asia Argento, Dario's daughter. Sure, she's enough woman for one film alone, but if you're going to knock 007 off the block, you've got to come with a dozen honeys tied to the boat. No, I'm not forgetting the Bed Bitch, but in an obvious bid to earn that PG-13 rating, her naughty bits have been left on the cutting room floor. I've only got one word for such a lame move, "Boo!" A lot of Triple X plays like a gay porno tape without the butt sex. I was both surprised and happy when Vin finally gave in to his female counterpart. For a very long time, it looks as if they're going to buck that concept for some strictly celibate spy play.

If anything, xXx plays pretty close to the core concept of this year's earlier film, The Scorpion King. Both are mind numbing exercises that pummel, and kick, and spit, and scream until you're black, blue, deaf, and crippled. At least it's got that going for it. Vin Diesel and The Rock are inseparable in their roles as 'jerks with hearts'. They've got a niche going with a wide gap between them. This thing is going to bring in the bucks; there's no doubt or question about that. I'd gladly give money like blood for some of the action scenes alone. It certainly has a certain redneck saloon panache. This has been made with sawdust on the floor.

The rest of Triple X is strictly ballroom musk. You'll take it, I'll leave it, and we can all live happily ever after. Until next Wednesday.

Why Wednesday? Cause that's when I'm going to kill all y'all.

Just kidding.

"No? You shut up."