Sometimes, if the stars align (if it's Tuesday
and I've got coverage for the wee ones), I just have to go. Regardless.
I wish I could come up with a clever name, or at
least something not stupid, but when I know the film I'm about to see is a dog,
I take solace in the fact that no matter what happens in the next two hours,
three things will make it all worthwhile: previews, popcorn and...peace.
Maybe I could call it Triple P.
---
Nah, that sounds f--king stupid.
 |
| Just breathe in all that awesome. |
While Triple X, (or XXX, I suppose) may not
exactly sound f--king stupid, it more or less is f--king stupid. Gloriously so,
in fact. xXx: Return of Xander Cage, the third film in a trilogy that no one
ever asked for, cranks the moronic action to eleven. It not only rips the knob
off, but takes a Mountain Dew flavored piss all over it, too. Take off your
(sleeveles) shirt, grab your balls, check your brain at the door cause it's
raining satellites, motherf--ker.
Wait, what?
Yeah, apparently some sort of doomsday device
known as Pandora's Box is in the dreaded WRONG HANDS, allowing its owner the
impossibly stupid power of raining down fiery death by, you guessed it, crashing
satellites into them. While maybe shooting that person in the face instead would be way
less EXTREME!, someone walking planet Earth decided that flaming garbage from outerspace was a better option. Oh.
And while the government and its
infinite resources should probably be able to track down the aforementioned
device (which looks like a case for the most futuristic dildo ever) without using a tattooed freak pushing fifty, they
instead happily recruit the long-lost legend known as Xander Cage, aka xXx. When this dude isn't barreling through the Brazillian rainforest on a dirtbike, unnecessarily backflipping the entire way, apparently he's a badass super-agent. But, get this. He plays by his own set of rules, motherf--ker. And rule number one? There are no rules.
Except his. And he doesn't have any.
