Frank Martin puts the driving gloves on to deliver Valentina, the kidnapped daughter of a Ukranian government official, from Marseilles to Odessa on the Black Sea. En route, he has to contend with thugs who want to intercept Valentina's safe delivery and not let his personal feelings get in the way of his dangerous objective.
Mei, a young girl whose memory holds a priceless numerical code, finds herself pursued by the Triads, the Russian mob, and corrupt NYC cops. Coming to her aid is an ex-cage fighter whose life was destroyed by the gangsters on Mei's trail.
Ex-con Jensen Ames is forced by the warden of a notorious prison to compete in our post-industrial world's most popular sport: a car race in which inmates must brutalize and kill one another on the road to victory.
When his mentor is taken captive by a disgraced Arab sheik, a killer-for-hire is forced into action. His mission: kill three members of Britain's elite Special Air Service responsible for the death of his sons.
A thief with a unique code of professional ethics is double-crossed by his crew and left for dead. Assuming a new disguise and forming an unlikely alliance with a woman on the inside, he looks to hijack the score of the crew's latest heist.
Martine offers Terry a lead on a foolproof bank hit on London's Baker Street. She targets a roomful of safe deposit boxes worth millions in cash and jewelry. But Terry and his crew don't realize the boxes also contain a treasure trove of dirty secrets - secrets that will thrust them into a deadly web of corruption and illicit scandal.
Stephen Campbell Moore
Chev Chelios survives a fall from the sky, sort of. He's in an unknown location, sedated, while various Chinese are harvesting his organs. His heart is gone, in an ice chest; a temporary in its place. Chev escapes, knowing only the name of the guy with the ice chest. He calls Doc Miles, an unlicensed cardiologist, who tells him there's only an hour's life in the artificial heart: keep it charged. Chev needs to find his own heart and get to Doc for a transplant. He starts his time-limited pursuit of shadowy figures, the ice chest, and his heart aided by Eve, Rei, and Venus - a stripper, a prostitute, and a pal with Tourette's - constantly needing an electric charge to keep going. Written by
When Chev breaks the battery pack to his artificial heart towards the beginning of the movie, the circuit board shown is from a USB hub. See more »
At the Strip Please club: The girl bartender is killed by a head-shot but a few seconds later, the same girl can be seen standing at the bar in the background with the forehead wound already in place. See more »
In a story so bizarre I can scarcely believe the event I'm reporting, and yet corroborated by at least a dozen eye witnesses. A white male apparently fell from the sky above downtown Los Angeles today, landed in the middle of a busy intersection, destroying one vehicle and hospitalising its elderly driver,and then was removed from the scene even before emergency personnel could respond. Without a body the police have yet to piece together the events of the day.It can only be ...
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During the production credits, there was a sequence with Doc Miles giving Chev his heart operation with Dark Chocolate assisting him and Eve looking on while surgery is being done. When the heart was put in, Doc Miles tried to revive Chev with a defibrillator only for him to flat-line. Doc Miles takes Eve away and right when the production credits end, the camera closes in on Chev's burned and bandaged body and his eyes pop open, showing that he is still alive. See more »
Crank 2: High Voltage practically begs to be passionately loathed by absolutely everyone, with the notable exception of antisocial teenage boys. Its rank, nihilistic tone is relentless and exhausting. The misogyny is benchmark horrendous. The acts of violence are brutal, frequent and often blatantly homoerotic. Its flippant. Its homophobic. Its vulgar. And it feels as much seething contempt for its own narrative coherence as it does for its few prominent female characters.
But there is something bracingly brilliant about it. Films this fearlessly unhinged simply do not get made any more, and thirty years ago this would've played, late at night, to packed houses for years on end, perhaps aptly bundled with the likes of John Water's Pink Flamingoes.
One fact that was suggested by the first Crank is set heroically in stone barely five minutes into its sequel - that directors Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor appear to be completely obsessed with pornography. There is a truly jaw-dropping amount of flesh on constant display, and the film's only female speaking parts belong to a prostitute and a stripper. This lends the film an air of uncomfortable, almost lavatorial sleaziness, until a bunch of actual porn stars turn up in the middle of a scene, starring as a bunch of disgruntled porn stars striking for better pay. Although it hardly passes as satire, it does seem like a sly dig in the direction of the producers that populate the Hollywood mainstream, who'd surely relish the opportunity to make films like this if only the bastard machine would let them. Balls-out exploitation it may be, but if any film lives up to cinema's ancient adage of providing its audience with relentless sex and violence, its this one.
The second half of the film is where it really flies, and chooses to disregard not only its own plot, but any care for the patience or expectations of its audience. It goes, essentially, mad. And for something that was clearly deranged in the first place, it'd be foolish for me not to offer up the only advice that will enable you to see exactly what I mean.
Go and see it.
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