Trashtacular

There is a kind of filmic purgatory, a cinema of stalled ambition and aesthetic vacancy, where the only thing more oppressive than the endless hours of tedium is the lingering sense of money misspent. Armor is not just another addition to the b-movie landfill, it’s the sound of late-career legacy clanging hollowly on the asphalt of a bridge, the celluloid equivalent of watching Sylvester Stallone doze in real time, bracketed by echoes of his own mythos and, faintly, the dying whinny of a studio accountant’s last desperate crackle.

I went into "Largo Winch: The Price of Money" anticipating it would be a disaster, especially considering how lousy Largo Winch II was. However, I found myself fueled by curiosity and a hint of skepticism, secretly hoping it wouldn’t be as bad as I feared.

Largo Winch 2, the sequel that dared to follow in the footsteps of the moderately successful first installment, Largo Winch - The Heir Apparent. Directed by Jérôme Salle and starring Tomer Sisley and the ever-so-struggling Sharon Stone, this film attempted to realign itself within the action-thriller genre, but it quickly became an exercise in cinematic masochism instead.

As a professional assassin's retirement goes south thanks to an injured young woman, I walked into this film with trepidation, hoping to see a riveting tale unfold. What I received instead felt like a poorly executed school project, showcasing huge gaps in the storyline and timelines so inconsistent they rival the plot twists in a daytime soap opera.

Dirty Angels, the cinematic masterpiece directed by Martin Campbell, featuring an ensemble cast that includes the likes of Eva Green, Ruby Rose, and Maria Bakalova. You would think with a lineup like that, we were about to experience a blockbuster renaissance. Instead, what we received is more akin to a late-night infomercial for a "bargain bin" action flick. As I settled in, I half-expected a free gift with my ticket purchase just for enduring this spectacular failure.

This action thriller graces our screens full of ambition but leaves behind an air of disappointment thicker than a teenager's layer of acne cream. I approached this film with the hope of seeing something fresh from Alba after a five-year hiatus—but I swear, the only thing I found refreshing was the air outside my living room—thankfully, my window was open or I might have suffocated in the fumes of disappointment.