The Mechanic

The Mechanic has got to be one of the most macho films I’ve ever seen.

How macho is it?

It’s so macho, it makes Rambo seem like Steel Magnolias.

It’s so macho, it’s just like the Charles Bronson original—only macho-er.

It’s so macho, one of the characters carries a Chihuahua on a pink leash—and it’s still macho.

Okay, you get the point.

Jason Statham, a popular B-movie action star I simply don’t get (he’s like Bruce Willis with 5 percent more facial hair and 80 percent less charm) plays Arthur Bishop, a stealth hitman, aka, a mechanic. The shady guy he works for (Tony Goldwyn, professional shady-guy-portrayer) manages to convince Arthur that his mentor Harry (Donald Sutherland) betrayed the company. So Arthur kills Harry. But he feels bad about it. At least I think he does. Statham maybe blinks a little harder than usual after he does it.

Anyway, Harry has a n’er do well son named Steve (Ben Foster, better than this), who has a lot of pent up rage and wants to follow in dear old dad’s footsteps. Arthur takes in Steve, who doesn’t know that his new roomie is responsible for his father’s death, and teaches him the ropes.

What follows is lots of cool guy posturing. Lots of Ben Foster in tweed caps, smoking and looking pensive, and Jason Statham in fabulous knitwear looking equally pensive. Lots of beat downs. Lots of gun fights. At least one outrageously homophobic sequence that I’d rather not get into (that’s where the Chihuahua comes in).

The young men in my audience couldn’t get enough of this kill-fest—they were oof-ing! and yes-ing! as if on cue. The fact that I was dying for a mani-pedi and a Sex and the City marathon when it was all over, should in no way deter its target audience from seeing it.