The draft I have read is from 2019. I was told it was brilliant. I was told wrong. On the page, the first part zigzags between trite and decent ideas and yet it does grip—if anything because of some good dialogues and the meta cinematic element, which however trite in itself I still believe an exciting territory of exploration. From there on, the film throws any remaining trace of originality out of the window. In the mid section its already wobbly sense of comedy slips into the preposterous, establishing poor Cage and poorer Pedro Pascal as an unfunny couple of morons. ‘It’s grotesque,’ says the former at some point—yes it is. Leading to a happy ending that’s so dull to seem sad, the third atrociously long act could be that of any action blockbuster made in the last thirty years. And I don’t want to hear it was deliberately done so for the parodic spirit—it’s just bad.
When Javi’s oxygenated cousin invites him to join an impromptu Kellogg’s lunch, and we all know that besides being his first it could be his last, it reminded me of a very similar scene from The Irishman with Joe Pesci and Robert De Niro. I have grown rather allergic to homages when they represent the only effort a film does to shape its own personality.
Shame, because I always loved Nicolas Cage. His voice, his body language, and of course his acting often made me swallow some of the more disposable films he worked on. Not this time, but with one notable exception. From Brad Pitt in Inglourious Basterds to Jared Leto in House of Gucci, I have always had a soft spot for American actors mocking the Italian accent and mannerisms. The scene where hidden behind prosthetics Cage impersonates an Italian criminal is hilarious. His silly walk in silhouette to the rhythm of a perfectly chosen music is the only reason why after all I am not so annoyed to have given a few hours to this film. One last thing—I might not have cried or felt the desire to be a better person, though on Paddington 2 I completely agree.