There’s a lot to love about a train movie. Though planes and boats are inherently more cinematic from the exterior (and why would they not be?), trains have a few key things that make them worthwhile. For one, their journeys are longer, even if it’s a runaway train, but still propulsive. They’re segmented into cars, each with its unique environment, which is a far cry from the static nature of the passenger plane’s interior. They derail real nice, as well: Their crashes are insanely chaotic, which rocks when you need a big third-act setpiece. And, finally, as James Bond learned at the hands of Robert Shaw, you can actually have a stand-up knock-down fight on a train. Hence, David Leitch’s Bullet Train, which is an overlong and overly convoluted action thriller with a garbage sense of humor, a great cast, and some occasionally fun setpieces. Leitch’s film makes decent use of all four of those attributes – there’s a time-clock on the train’s destination (Kyoto), with one-minute stops at each platform along the way, and the aesthetics of the setting are nicely represented (an anime-themed kids’ car, a quiet car complete with electronic multi-language signs, dimly-lit bathrooms and a single-seat engine, complete with stylish windows), the thump-boom go nice, and, hey, each fight has a different color palette. But it is still an action movie from the dude who brought us Atomic Blonde and Fast and Furious Presents: Hobbs & Shaw, all of which read like slam-dunks on paper but proved to be, in practice, Shaq free-throws.
Perhaps in some parallel universe, there’s a version of Bullet Train in which the film hones in on its single-best storyline: That of Ladybug (Brad Pitt), a wetworks assassin trying to have a spiritual awakening but is best on all turns by really shitty luck. He’s tasked with riding the Kyoto-bound train from Tokyo for a single stop – just enough time to steal a pivotal briefcase that his bosses want – but everything goes tits up with a man with a grudge in a blood-and-wine-stained tuxedo shows up at the next stop. It’s at that point that he begins to discover his circumstances: he’s trapped on board the train with other assassins – a pair of English brothers (Aaron Taylor-Johnson and Bryan Tyree Henry) guarding a Russian crime lord’s son (Logan Lerman), a deadbeat dad and Yakuza scion whose son is being held hostage by the hired goons of a precocious English hitwoman (Joey King) to work as her personal meat puppet, a mystery poisoner known as The Hornet, and even more coming on at each stop. Everybody wants that case, and they’re gonna kill anybody who stands in their way. In this version, Pitt’s character acts as a sort of Jack Burton character, trapped among warring factions with few friends in Big Trouble in Huge Japan, and there are moments where that seems like it might be the direction the film’s taking. But Leitch’s sprawl means that every character has to have an expository backstory, complete with winking flashbacks, where the momentum is halted so that we can learn about each character’s origins in depth. One can practically feel the “Chapter One: I Am Born” rolling across the screen during each of these sequences, and it’d be a much slicker and smoother ride without the stops.
If Bullet Train feels familiar, well, it’s not without precedent, contrary to Sony’s attempts to sell it as brand-new IP (still based on a novel, of course). Joe Carnahan’s Smokin’ Aces is the aptest comparison, given its multi-character narrative and focus on mob-related matters obscured by a veil of secrecy and subterfuge to those caught in its web, but any number of modern-day “assassins vs. assassins” flicks have some manner of influence in the film’s construction. Even something like The Gray Man feels similar, and though this is a genuinely better film, that’s not exactly a high bar to clear. Leitch still struggles with staging action without the presence of Chad Stalahaski (who has proved himself in absentia to be the brains and brawn behind the John Wick franchise and its success, rather than his co-director) or a central gimmick, like the tracking-shot staircase fight in Atomic Blonde. There’s a weird feeling of sluggishness to the one-on-one fights, and though they’re amusing in practice (the idea behind Pitt’s fight with Bad Bunny, in which the former gets bailed out by his horrible luck at every corner, is a fun one), they’re not nearly as intense nor as funny as they are intended to be. But what he is decent at compared to, say, the Russos, is managing large-scale chaos, such as the nutty sequence of events that comprises the film’s finale: Yakuza getting power-bombed through skylights into power-lines, pivotal water bottles getting lengthy introductions and exposition, and the entire circumstance surrounding a slow-motion sequence featuring Pitt’s character that puts a number of similar ones to shame. It’s a lot of fun, done with an amusing puckishness that feels close in spirit to the best aspects of Leitch’s work on Deadpool 2.
However, beyond natural story progression (climaxes often are the most stirring parts of a film for a reason, and Aristotle will whack you over the head with a sandal if you doubt him), the reason Bullet Train’s finale is its most memorable moment is that it’s almost entirely free of banter. The fusion of Whedonist quippage and witless Tarantino imitation here is a lot like accidentally dropping some acid to bleach: it can, and often does, suffocate. Hence, we’re forced to sit through fifteen hundred variations on a single Thomas the Tank Engine gag, none of which get funnier as the film goes on simply because of how often they’re deployed. It’s enough to almost entirely sink Taylor Johnson and Henry’s plotline, though both actors are charismatic enough to keep it from fully going under, and it’s almost as if the writers were making a stew and somehow lost the ability to taste salt, adding tons and tons and tons of pinches after each sip of a spoon, leaving it unpalatable to anyone else who tastes it.
Pitt, like Gosling in The Gray Man, is mostly unharmed by the script, though he gets to toss out a “shitballs” every now and then (which is made even more ironic by a third-act cameo), but his laconic stoner-guru vibes are always compelling, with this being a chance to stretch his comedic legs – uncommon after in his filmography after, say, Burn After Reading. But one still gets the sense that so many actors are fighting against the screenplays at the heart of these productions, pitted against what writers think audiences want from humor (and it’s hard not to blame them, given the fat stacks of cash similar films have made). The gags that do land have little to do with the writing and more with the casting: Pitt’s vibe, Taylor-Johnson’s Caine-like accent, and a deeply amusing cameo (which the writers had the restraint to somehow only call back to once or twice). Alas, the shittiest jokes win out because them’s the brakes, at least currently. Let’s hope someone notices the wear soon enough and the train’s taken off the tracks for repairs before it derails.