/ by Jared Jones

The rare Steven Seagal movie to open in American theaters, Contract To Kill is so crude and anti-cinematic—so fucking bad—that it becomes its own parody. It is a treasure, as are all of the god-awful movies put out by the onetime black belt with the help of his dedicated team of “whatever, sure” men. (This is writer-director Keoni Waxman’s third such film this year.) Seagal, in his triangular Bela-Lugosi-in-Dracula toupee and his clothes picked straight from a big-and-tall outlet store and his orange prescription Oakleys, walks stiffly and very slowly. It is possible that he never once bends at the waist. Most of the movie, he spends sitting down or walking (again, slowly) up and down flights of stairs. There is a love scene—and, Jesus, what a love scene. His fully dressed body is lowered over a naked woman like a drawbridge. He doesn’t take off his glasses. He never takes off his glasses. Also, he doesn’t drive, which is a shame, because it is a well-documented fact that Seagal is the worst fake driver in Hollywood; this might be the first time that green screen—really awful green screen—has been used to make it look like an actor is just sitting in a parked car. Overall, he gives the kind of performance traditionally associated with stars who died during filming. And yet, Seagal is in almost every scene.
Contract To Kill isn’t just bad—it’s Steven Seagal bad (via pablolf)
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