Nice mullet, Nic!

His pooch hairdo effectively takes attention away from his massively-developed arms and Kirk-body-oiled man-chest.

Written by Scott Rosenberg (complete with every stereotype known to Western Civilization: the twisted mastermind (John Malkovich), the quiet serial killer (Steve Buscemi), the Badd Mexx (Danny Trejo), the black guy (Ving Rhames), the gigantor redneck (M.C. Gainey), the gopher (Dave Chappelle), the sick con who is automatically regarded as “wrongfully jailed” simply because he’s sick and a friend of the Hero (Mykelti Washington), even the obligatory fruity gay guy); Simon West directs Con Air with the Michael Bay Handbook on his lap.

Convicts, led by an exceptionally-maladjusted Malkovich, overrun a prisoner transport plane and Elvis comes to the rescue in the form of morose Nicolas Cage, who eventually commandeers the craft to land it ostentatiously on the Vegas strip amidst traffic.

The great John Cusack is completely wasted as a Marshall pursuing the hijacked plane and bland Monica Potter has outdone herself - in a career of vapid, unconvincing roles, this is surely the best and blandest in her reel, as Nicolas Cage’s wife, awaiting him in desperate ambivalence with a daughter who looks like she was cast five minutes before cameras rolled.

Everyone pretends to be really Hard (even the winsome Dave Chappelle!) and there are lots and lots and lots and lots of pretty orange explosions and guys diving in slow motion while shooting big guns, but ultimately this movie is just another excuse to land Nicolas Cage in Las Vegas.

So bad I accidentally grew a mullet.


END