What began almost quaintly small-scale in the first film-drag racing SoCal rough riders who stage nighttime raids on freight trucks-has ballooned into a never-ending global melee. We’ll get to the serious stuff, but first let’s appreciate what a dopey, joyous wonder this film franchise has become. But it doesn’t overwhelm- Furious 7 is respectful, even solemn, when it needs to be, but is still, thank God, plenty of crazy fun. The latest film, which opens Friday, can’t help but take on some deeper meaning, as the death of main cast member Paul Walker, killed in a car accident in late 2013, looms large throughout. (All that vroom-vroom, all that shake-shake, all that flex-flex? Come on!) Until Furious 7, that is. ( Vin Diesel’s character loves to gravel on about the importance of family.) But they’ve never really had any poignancy to them, have never provoked much emotion beyond a giddy feeling of excitement and, let’s be honest, no small amount of arousal. And, muscled-up and oafishly macho as they may be-grunting with almost Dada levels of male performance-the films, beginning with The Fast and the Furious in 2001, have never been afraid of a little tough-guy heart. Fast and Furious movies have always had a charming, cheesy bravado.
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