With his complementary buzz cut, hard-body profile and hyperbolic masculinity, McKenna turns out to be a capable if overly reckless sidekick and a rather adorable Mini Me for Bishop in what soon starts to resemble something of a hit-man hookup.
Action flicks often bristle with the love that dare not speak its name, as men express themselves through eroticized violence and the usual expressive grunting and grappling, body slamming, inevitable spasms of death and climactic explosions. When Bishop and McKenna begin firing off their guns in tandem, it certainly looks like the start of a beautiful friendship. Yet while the two come across as Mr. and Mr. Smith of the action-flick set, Bishop and McKenna can’t really go the distance, of course, in the don’t ask, don’t tell movie world.
Uh…nope. When at a loss for authentic subtext I suppose one solution is to create your own, but something tells me this isn’t the sort of thing that’ll convince the hoi polloi to start seeking out elite reviews of populist cinema.
Notice to Readers: The American Spectator and Spectator World are marks used by independent publishing companies that are not affiliated in any way. If you are looking for The Spectator World please click on the following link: https://thespectator.com/world.