Come on folks, you know what you are going to get with a Jason 'Staffam' Statham movie and, in every regard imaginable, this is no different.
The plot: The Stath plays Arffa' Bishop, a hitman or 'Mechanic' called in by his contacts when a clean hit is essential.
He slips in, does what he needs to do and gets the hell out, leaving a corpse, sure, but a means of death that will ensure suspicions lie elsewhere.
When called upon to take out his long time mentor, Arffa' has to comply and, in so doing, sets in motion a sequence of events that will see him taking his mentor's son under his wing to train him in the art of being a 'Mechanic.'
And it's derivative as hell, with the requisite tit shots, intermittent explosions, gun-play, close quarters fisticuffs and general Uber-male activities that make us mere mortals shrink into our cinema seats in shame. I could actually feel the larger of my testicles shrivelling in embarrassment at all of the manliness on screen, emasculating me more and more with each passing scene so that I was left to shuffle out of the theatre as the credits rolled, shamed to the point of agonised, pitiful tears.
Staffam does what Staffam does, which is fine with us here at Smell the Cult HQ, and Ben Foster is OK as the trainee Mechanic.
It will pass an hour and a half, folks, but it is guff, really.
Average.
Very average.
3 out of 5
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