After watching the trailer for “John Wick,” I knew the film would have to work pretty hard for me to dislike it. It would need stoic self-importance, à la “The Last Airbender,” the kind of joyless seriousness it’s impossible to even make fun of. Personally, I hoped that “John Wick” would have the same madcap tone of ridiculousness set by the trailer.
Not only was there ridiculousness, but “John Wick,” released Oct. 24, leaned into it. It leaned all the way in. It leaned so far in it merged with ridiculous, becoming a beacon for every high-octane action flick that’s thin on plot and high on awesome. From now on, when someone makes a movie with booming techno, guns with seemingly unlimited ammo, screeching car chases, exquisitely choreographed fight scenes and not much else, first they’ll have to light a candle for the patron saint, “John Wick.”
The first tonal clue for an over-the-top romp happens the moment John Leguizamo’s chop shop owner Aureilo calls Russian mob boss Viggo Tarasov (Michael Nyqvist) to tell him how badly his idiot son Iosef (Alfie Allen) messed up. “He stole John Wick’s car, sir, and killed his dog,” says Aureilo. A beat. Another beat. An answer from Viggo: “Oh.”
Viggo knows what happens next. And thanks to those deliciously schlocky pauses, we do too.
And truly, that’s all the exposition needed. It’s the entire premise: snot-nosed Russian mob brat kills retired assassin’s dog and steals his super sweet ‘69 Mustang. Retired assassin rampages. A slew of gory beat-downs ensue.
Sure, there’s more to the plot. John’s (Keanu Reeves) new puppy was a posthumous gift from his freshly buried wife. John left his hitman life for her, a life he so excelled at that the Russians — who owe their high status to the Herculean task Wick performed to get out of the thug life — call him Baba Yaga, subtitled “The Boogeyman” in multicolor.
These plot points are shared in snippets that go by so fast they put the “flash” in “flashback.” It’s quick, but comforting. The speedy backstory is a sign that the film knows its strengths. Yes, you need an emotional past for pathos and motivation and all that garbage, but it’s secondary to the action.
The blink-and-you’ll-miss-it philosophy is applied to the film as a whole, an excellent technique that heightens the frenetic motion. Barely any shots last longer than six seconds.
The longest shot, at nearly twenty seconds, involves a tense grapple where Wick forces a minion’s hands backward so that he stabs himself. Why? Because this is a film that knows when to linger. It’s designed to barrel forward at breakneck pace and take the audience along for the ride, so it doesn’t waste time on anything not combat-related.
Everything, and I mean everything, in “John Wick” is styled for maximum cool. Wick wearing the white T-shirt stained with his own blood? Cool. When he dons an impeccable three-piece suit to dispense vigilante justice? Cool. When he takes down scores of Russian henchmen in a manic dreamscape of a club, complete with themed floors, action-appropriate music and minimalistic neon lights? So cool.
Also cool is the way the film uses easily recognized actors as shorthand to save on narrative time. These are actors whose type and roles are already universally known, so less time is needed to establish character. There’s Dean Winters as the sneering lieutenant to the mob boss. Willem Dafoe — dialed to a level of menace almost reminiscent of “The Boondock Saints” — appears as a one-time colleague of Wick’s now contracted to eliminate him. Ian McShane pops up as the leader of the assassin hub, purring out lines in a Shatner-esque style any Bond villain would envy.
Best used is Allen as the smarmy Iosef, instigating the story with the fateful car theft. Between this and his role as Theon Greyjoy in “Game of Thrones,” it seems Allen will never escape the role of powerless son thirsting for status, but utterly unable to attain it. It’s a trope he excels at. His face exudes smug entitlement, so every punch he receives deserves a special cheer.
However, this is “John Wick.” And John Wick is, in every sense of that word, Keanu Reeves.
In his one, grand monologue, Wick says, “People keep asking if I’m back. Yeah, I’m thinking I’m back.” It’s true for Wick and Reeves. After the box office failure of his passion project “47 Ronin,” Reeves needed a comeback.
“John Wick” delivers, showcasing Reeves perfectly. His flat affect and minimum line delivery compliment the character. The gorgeous fight scenes — major props to fight coordinator Jonathan Eusebio, because the rapid-fire motions are exhilarating — spotlight Reeves’s long, lean form with beautiful results. Keanu Reeves, welcome back to the big screen. You’ve been missed.
Having this much fun watching something with this much murder might seem strange, but it’s not a new sensation. The level of glee “John Wick” offers is similar to a viewing of Quentin Tarantino’s films. Yes, the shootings and stabbings and bone breakages are gross, but they’re done so delightfully.
Tarantino’s films are always self-aware — winking to make sure everyone knows they are in on the joke. “John Wick” offers no such pretension. It’s an action film that lays everything on the table, offers itself bare and bleeding and exposed as the bit of silliness it is. It’s an irresistible level of vulnerability, and one that can’t help but succeed.
I couldn’t agree more! John Wick was a fantastical romp through beautifully choreographed silly vengeance.