pointbreakI have memories of things that didn’t happen. For example, I remember as a five-year old taking my trike to the top of the stairs, climbing aboard, and launching myself Evel Knievil style from the upstairs to the downstairs. It’s a rich, vivid memory that I absolutely know didn’t happen, mainly because I have never owned a trike. Now, I’m aware I don’t get to choose which memories are real and which are false, but if at all possible, and really as soon as is convenient, I’d like to remember the two hours I spent watching the reboot of Point Break as time I spent doing something even vaguely more enjoyable. Like throwing myself down a flight of stairs.

Johnny Utah, played abysmally by Luke Bracey, feels responsible for his best friend (bro) Jeff dying in a ridiculous motorbike accident during the opening sequence. Jeff gets off lightly. Blaming himself (quite rightly) he turns his back on his old life and decides to join the FBI where he’s immediately on the hunt for a gang of other extreme sport guys who are inexplicably partnering their extreme sport shenanigans with daredevil heists and distributing their wealth to the poor, all because they’re chasing some mystical 8 Ordeals of the Bro that leads a bro to nirvana. Brovana, if you will.

“I believe that like me, the people behind these robberies are extreme athletes, using their skills to disrupt the international financial market,” says Johnny Utah and no one laughs.

For 113 minutes, which is a long time, these heavily tattooed, man-bunned extreme sports fans say similarly stupid things to each other in indecipherable accents, things that would be funny if the movie didn’t take itself so seriously, all in support of a plot that makes no sense. When not conversing with these idiots, the only black character Utah talks to is an angry FBI boss. The only female character he talks to is a ditzy new-age hippy type who, immediately after having a depressing conversation about dead parents and things worse than ideas, wants to sleep with him. Oh, how far we’ve come since 1991. It’s enough to make Bigelow blush.

Okay, so it’s not a movie that depends too much on narrative drive then. It’s all about the stunts, right? Well, yes and no. The problem when we start picking at that hopeful thread is that, with the exception of a rock climbing piece in Venezuela — a sequence that while exhilarating literally makes no sense in terms of the plot — the action is duller than everyone’s second game of bowling. It’s like someone’s drunk a six pack of Red Bull, taken an extreme version of SportsCenter and tried to stitch a movie out of it.

No amount of dramatic music can make these scenes dramatic. No amount of tie-fighter noises during the squirrel suit sequence (far too many, by the way) makes it interesting. No amount of bored Ray Winston makes you less bored.Seriously. Jeff got off lightly.

The only point of interest during the entire affair was trying to spot the moments where profanity was toned down in the post-production pursuit of a PG-13 rating. You guys are funny assholes, was my favourite even though the more believable intent was lost in the toned down version.

Okay, false memory. I’m ready. Even something with James Franco will do. Please. Do it now.

Advertisements