I would love to say there's an okay movie buried in here that's just choking under the weight of a rancid Travolta performance. "Lick my bunghole, motherfucker!" I mean, geeeezus. But it also feels deadly uninspired from a Tony Scott stance. Where are the moody textures and focused composition of The Fan? The camera is always moving here, obnoxious ticky zooms, HORRIBLE strobe editing, horrible techno score, gratuitous barrel-roll car crashes, gratuitous key light reflecting off Denzel's glasses, gratuitous Denzel-calls-his-wife-we-just-met-over-the-phone-for-no-reason plot mechanic.
How are we suppose to buy into someone as childishly dimwitted and unhinged as Travolta's criminal as being threatening or remotely convincing? He literally doesn't have a plan other than flying by the seat of his bunghole and yelling at the mayor of New York City about licking his bunghole. And the F-bombs. Oh my god, I've never hated the F-word more than in this movie.