Troy Duffy returns to the streets of Boston with a sequel to his 1999 cult hit despite such a follow-up being both unnecessary and unwarranted. And in the places that many found acceptably over the top and gratuitously stylish are hinted at and returned to unsubtly and ineffectively. I have not found a reason for the widespread appeal, at least for the target demographic, of the first film because I do not share the enthusiasm. Regardless, it is obvious with this film that many of the marks set by the first are erroneously duplicated to banal result and its presence more taints than supports its predecessor.
A copycat killer emerges thirsty for blood in Boston church and commits a crime with intended effect of rousting the Saints out of hiding in the Irish countryside where they are camouflaged in years of uncharted facial hair growth. The plan inevitably works as they arrive stateside to clear their name, commit some more gratuitous violence, and take on a misplaced and annoying-as-can-be sidekick whilst evading the FBI and law enforcement alike. The supporting cast of cheesy cops is so sophomorically written and pathetically conceived that it is difficult to decide whether dialogue or delivery is worse. It is matters not, however, as either way their placement is surely and clearly aimed but poorly and inaccurately fired.
Their dialogue, delivered like a bunch of junior high boys trying to get the attention of an older girl who deceptively feigned momentary interest, inevitably revolves around prison rape and the illustrious F word they are all so proud to mouth. Not even crime boss Judd Nelson, giving his best Al Pacino that is at times not half-bad, can save the deplorable wretches of supporting characters from the second ranks of b-filmdom. This is not to say that the leads are any great performers but that their supporters deserve more attention for their ungodliness.
The energetic and cinematic cocaine and amphetamine infused stylishness that was undoubtedly much of the appeal of the first film returns as both homage and star. Duffy could probably make an entire film out of two guys standing back to back with a pair of silenced handguns stretched out in front of them and firing in slow-motion. Unfortunately, the things that kind of worked the first time become old and even laborious the second time around. Duffy tries his hand at a short grindhouse-esque flash-forward that is shortly amusing and clearly fanboy intended. The fact that it doesn't turn out plot wise seems fitting for the afterthought appearance it takes. As does the lighting scheme in general where, regardless of location (Irish countryside farmhouse, penthouse suite, barroom murder scene) the lighting remains consistently flat and garish in delivery and anti-dramatic and comic in effect. Given the ten years of planning that Duffy had in the making, the visual style should be spot-on. In places it certainly works though; the explanatory flashbacks fuse seamlessly in staging and composition with the real-time source of their narration. And the symmetry and even sense of balance in much of the comic book influenced composition fairs well if one can ignore that lighting.
This film is not as much of an insult to predecessor as, say, Smokin’ Aces 2, which was a horrendous attempt to cash in on something that actually worked. The fact that the Saints still deliver their prayer before shooting their victims is as relevant and telling as it was ten years ago. And the short-lived return of…uh oh, giant spoiler that you totally didn’t see coming…Willem Dafoe is perhaps the only truly redeeming moment of the entire film. Unfortunately, not even an aged yet composed looking Peter Fonda can reclaim the overall disappointment of a film.
I actually quite recently saw the first one.
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