Says someone who is subjectively wrong. Instinctually, F9 is easily a 3.5/4, if not a 4/4 movie. It is not “good cinema,” it is “excellent entertainment.” And the fact that someone could voluntarily enter a theater to see a film in the Fast and Furious film franchise, then leave the theater with an evaluation raring to go, astounds me. These movies are not meant to be rated, they are meant to be consumed like fast food — furiously. The level of immersion experienced is of that same level: you should never eat fast food in the candlelight of an evening cruise because you should never deceive yourself. However, you should point at the screen and shout Corona when a character pulls out a Corona from either an ice bucket or fridge because the overt ad placement is targeted at you and you have the freedom to recognize it and acknowledge them breaking the fourth wall to promote a beer that you now consider purchasing at your next backyard barbecue, presuming you have a backyard at all. Much of the enjoyment from these movies comes from this sensation: the acknowledgement of celebrity and consumer culture, sanctioned by the church and notably the US military. In the past two weeks, I have watched almost every single Fast and Furious movie and have grown incredibly attached to Dom Toretto’s family. Dare I say that I now think of myself as part of his family, that my fondness for this franchise and individual consumer power protect Dom Toretto’s family from unspeakable tragedy and even bring them back from the dead? I fantasize, but the parasocial relationships to both brands and celebrities specific to this franchise are entertaining to me and break the fourth wall in ways the filmmakers likely didn’t intend.
I love product placement because I know the nebulous “they” are selling me something that I have zero interest in. When Lelouch in Code Geass ate the gooey cheese off a Pizza Hut pizza, I had no interest in the pizza but it did add an interesting character trait that I never expected from a “revolutionary” leader: brand loyalty. Likewise, after The Fast and The Furious introduced Corona as the exclusive beer of choice for our main characters, I knew that they also experienced brand loyalty, and this made them relatable because they too exist in the consumer-identity hell that is capitalism. The obviousness of this example and its connection to the franchise are thus forever paired in my brain: if the movie is in the Fast and Furious franchise, then it must feature Corona; it must feature Dom gripping the body of the bottle in his muscleman hand.
More notable than Corona is the 1970’s Dodge Charger, which is featured and destroyed in almost every single movie. Last summer, I purchased a used 2017 Subaru Impreza for a little over $20k including taxes and fees, which I sometimes drive when my brother doesn’t. After witnessing Dom Toretto tear up the streets with his bonafide American Muscle, only to have it barrel down a scenic ravine in some country in the global south, I began wondering if my purchase from last summer should have been a Dodge Charger. On the other hand, however, is the Nissan Skyline driven by the other patriarch of the franchise, Brian O’Connor, Dom Toretto’s former fed turned criminal comrade brother. While not as iconic as the Dodge Charger, they are both, nonetheless, featured products in the film franchise tied to the institution of family. And thus, brand loyalty turns into brand competition, displayed literally in an argument between Dom and Brian at the end of the 6th movie about which car Brian’s son will drive when he’s physically capable of driving. I now have to consider that, if I were to start a family, what kind of patriarch would I become: the Dodge Charger or the Nissan Skyline? Every time these cars appear on screen, they are now tied to the consumerism of the nuclear family, despite Dom’s family being anything but nuclear. And I as a consumer have to reckon with this new dimension of my own consumer identity.
The nature of celebrity is that of idolatry, of immortality. And what is immortality but a continued physicality beyond that of a grave? Humans are not gravestones, are not memories, are not stories. Idols are merely the objectification of the above, known for their feats as sung by the fickle force that is popular culture. To be immortalized in the canon of popular culture is to be objectified, dehumanized. The celebrity is not remembered for their being so much as their image and feats associated with it. When Dom’s father, during a flashback scene, said something along the lines of, “The 1970’s Dodge Charger was built to last 100 years. Like family, it is immortal,” and Roman, played by Tyrese Gibson, muses to Tej, played by Ludacris, about the uncanniness of their survival, hinting at their possible immortality, they make an allusion not only to the possibility of a surreal science fiction twist later in the series, not only to the simple idea of plot armor or the theme of family, but also to that of the conflation between celebrities, brands and the Fast and Furious franchise. Put simply, there exists a feedback loop between the idol (celebrity or brand) and the scripture (franchise), where the scripture reinforces the immortality of the idol while the idol gives reputation to the scripture, and to eliminate one from the loop would disturb the other. Hence, why Paul Walker hasn’t died in the franchise yet.
However, realizing this, the strategy then becomes: how many idols can we fit in this scripture to preserve it for as long as possible? The franchise has become so big that the idols involved are no longer included to exist solely within, but to draw from other pre-existing scriptures. It is for this reason that I can say Tej or Ludacris interchangeably; Paul Walker or Pauly Wally, instead of Brian O’Connor; Gal Gadot Wonderwoman instead of Gisele; Vinny D instead of Dominic Toretto; Dwayne the Hobbs Johnson; Jason Statham; Charlize Theron as a white lady with dreads and now a bowl cut; that dwarf from the Hobbit (he was actually a barbarian person from Game of Thrones); and recently in F9, John Cena instead of Dominic Toretto’s younger brother, whose name escapes me at the time of writing. What sets this apart from the other movie franchise that has now forever changed pop culture, likely for the worse, is that the other movie franchise sought to merge celebrity with the pre-existing idols derived from the superhero lexicon. Thus, when the viewer looks at the screen, they don’t see Tom Holland, they see Tom Holland Spiderman. His image as Spiderman in the movie affects his celebrity image outside of it.
Curiously, Fast and Furious doesn’t create this association at all. If I see Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson in another action movie requiring his awesome build, I will not think to myself, “Oh, that’s Luke Hobbs from Fast and Furious,” I will think, “That’s Dwayne the Rock Johnson.” Likewise, when I see John Cena, starring as Dominic Toretto’s younger brother, I don’t think, “That’s Dominic Toretto’s little brother,” I think, “That’s John Cena,” and then I think, “Is he gonna do some John Cena thing?” And then, when he’s on top of a moving truck, fighting a huge eastern European guy, and he pins the guy down as if he’s in a wrestling ring, I think, “There’s that John Cena thing.” And I sit in the theatre, smug about my vast knowledge of popular culture.
The last effect of the crumbling fourth wall that is the Fast and Furious franchise is the self-reference to itself as a series via the scenarios that typically crop up in it. This manifests in an excessive amount of broken glass and interior walls, the hyper-sexualization of women, fast cars being launched even faster, and now vehicular weapons funded and provided by the U.S. military, among other things. In Fast Five, Dominic Toretto and Luke Hobbs fight in Dom’s garage. During this fight, they break through two walls, two large windows, and two pieces of furniture. The sheer amount of broken glass and interior walls in this single fight alone only escalated as the movies progressed. In Fast & Furious 6, Roman and Han fight the sergeant from The Raid in the London metro. They are hopelessly outclassed, and during the fight, they break an entire wall of glass as bystanders stare, entranced. In the next movie, Jason Statham and Dwayne the Rock Johnson tango in Dwayne’s office whose walls are made entirely of glass. By the end of the scene, almost every single breakable pane has been shattered by either a body crashing through, a bullet, or an explosive of some kind. Whenever some precisely designed interior is completely demolished via hand-to-hand combat, I realize that I am watching a Fast and Furious movie. Similarly, with every single street race, there must be crowds of women in short skirts and dresses dancing and mingling about to display that street racing is for heterosexuals. Whenever I am reminded of the heterosexual objectification of a woman’s body parallel to the capitalist excess that is a luxury sports car made to race in the streets, I realize that I am watching a Fast and Furious movie. As fast cars get faster and faster, so do their trajectories when thrust into the air, or preferably, into each other. Growing up in a society where car accidents are fairly common, seeing any car roll immediately triggers the thought, “whoever’s in there is dead,” or, “that car’s broken now.” In the Fast and Furious franchise, this is not a guarantee. As long as the car is not engulfed in fire, crumpled like a paper mache model, or dismembered, it will drive and its driver will most likely be okay. When I see a car roll and the driver crawl out, with full mobility of all their limbs, I realize that I am watching a Fast and Furious movie. Lately, and this only started around Fast Five, I have become attuned to the series’ penchant for military and surveillance technology. They show U.S. military vehicles to be completely bulletproof, with more muscle than Dom’s 1970’s Dodge Charger. They regard concrete barriers about as much as they regard civilian casualties and foreign sovereignty. They often come with weapons attached that, when used, hose down foreign infrastructure and enemy combatants with shocking efficacy. When introduced, these vehicles will have one character listing off its specs like the viewer is a member of the Raytheon executive board. When this happens, I realize that I am watching a Fast and Furious movie.
This all sets the stage for F9, a densely packed, fourth-wall breaking experience. The movie opens with a flashback to Dom’s father’s death on the racetrack. Dom in the flashback is not played by Vin Diesel, but instead an actor cast for the role. Immediately, I wonder if I’m watching a Fast and Furious movie. Dom stares in horror as his father is jettisoned into the air, then set aflame by the car’s combusting fuel tank. His face crumbles into an anguished scream; I am watching an oscar-worthy performance. Then, we cut to Vin Diesel’s Dominic Toretto repairing a tractor with his son in the serene countryside. Letty joins them. Then, an SUV drives in from the horizon. The child hides. Dom and Letty grab weapons. Dom wields a shotgun. Relief, I am watching a Fast and Furious movie. Roman appears with Ramsey and Tej. They show him a video of Kurt Russell in an airplane crash on a tablet. They ask for Dom’s help. Dom dismisses them. Later, Dom’s child, Brian, asks, “Where’s God?” Apart from saying Grace, the Fast and Furious series has never posed any other theological question. Am I watching a Fast and Furious movie? Dom answers, “God is in your heart.” This satisfies little Brian Toretto. Letty motorcycles off into the night to join the others. Dom questions himself whether or not he wants to join them. He watches Kurt Russell in an airplane crash on the tablet. In the next scene, they are at the airport. It is the morning after. Dom is not there. They decide to go on without him. Suddenly an engine roars in the distance. A Dodge Charger pulls into the screen, driven by Vin Diesel. Where did his child go? Who cares, I am watching a Fast and Furious movie.
This gets juicier later in the film. Dom is in England searching for his brother, John Cena, who I now remember is named Jacob Toretto. In pursuit of him, he gets Helen Mirren to drive him to the manor where John’s held. Outside the manor, a large fountain is surrounded by expensive looking cars, and those cars are surrounded by crowds of women in short, white dresses, all shot in slow motion to show off both the financial and the sexual assets on hand. The movie has become imperceivably fast and furious. F9 cost a quarter billion dollars to make. Judging by the sheer number of luxury cars and attractive women, that single scene likely cost more money than I will probably make in my lifetime. Dom enters the manor and confronts John Cena. They tussle. Later on, they will destroy an apartment in Edinburgh with their muscles — drywall and windows and coffee tables galore. But for now they simply tussle. Dom is escorted out by a SWAT team of sorts. In the van, the SWAT team removes their masks and helmets. Cardi B is revealed to be their leader. She talks as if she’s familiar, even friendly, with Dominic Toretto. I am fully present in this moment. I am watching a Fast and Furious movie.
Understand that I have barely touched the surface of the multitude of moments in this movie that remind me that it’s a Fast and Furious movie. It is a sensation I have not experienced to the same extent with any other franchise of media. It’s unique in this, drenched in military propaganda, and wholly unapologetic in its execution of such. So it begs the question: how would one possibly rate the whiplash between Dom pulling down an entire concrete catwalk structure by dangling chains with his American Muscle, and a surreal dream sequence where he remembers his family’s looming debt hidden by his father, the collaboration between his father and brother to erase that debt, and a visage of his own child, seamlessly flowing together with a fascinating manipulation of effects, camera movement, set design, and sound mixing? Apparently, as a 3/10.
