T's Take on RUSH HOUR

M: Oh... Oh wait. T, is this... Was that guy in The Fifth Element?

T: He may have been, yes.

M: Oh God...

Okay. This is it. M and I are hunkering down for the big one: our first marathon. She does not yet know it, but marathons will yet frequent this blog. Most movie franchises that extend beyond a sequel are not good at all, so the best thing we can do is break the ice with the worst set of filth I could possible muster. From the darkest recesses of the black pit that is my adolescent viewing experience, I bring to you Rush Hour, one the most base level racially charged "he fall down make funny" pieces of shit ever devoured by the populace at large. May its disgusting dregs numb us to future cinematic horror. Huzza!

You know what? Listen. I'm not going to bore you by going on about racial stereotypes, I'm sure M will do quite enough of that on her own. This movie is meant to be taken at face value, for what it is. By allowing ourselves to get riled up we're playing right into Rush Hour's hands. It wants us to either get swept away with the fun or grant it free press by belaboring its largely harmless thoughtlessness. I'm not sure which is worse, but giggling at titty jokes feels better than righteous indignation at this juncture.

So it seems that the criminal underworld is limited to less than thirty people, and they all happen to know and owe supercop James Carter, who for all his tricks and ability still manages to be the laughing stock of the LAPD. There are too many plotholes to mention, and again, I won't beat a dead horse by belaboring them, but getting to see adorable kung-fu killing machine Jackie Chan say "What's up my nigger?" fully two times immediately followed by a seven-man action sequence was worth it all. Watching Jackie beat dudes up just never gets old. I like that about him.

As far as I'm concerned, Chris Tucker can cash in on his ethnicity all he wants. I don't feel degraded. I'd hate to have to think how many hours he spent weeping in his camper between takes, but it's all well and good so long as the music doesn't stop until I'm done dancing along. Whatever. I'm not positive Chris Tucker is possessed of enough humanity to understand or care what he's actually doing here, but-

No, we're not doing this. I promised myself I wouldn't do this. Racial humor is okay as long as the person making the jokes is African American.

Nevermind! Look! Something blew up! And someone's getting berated for a trivial misstep!

Wicked.

Don't watch Rush Hour.