Shower Karaoke, or, xXx: Return of Chatty Cathy

returnofxandercage

The name of the mirror somebody somewhere is looking in, I’m sure.

Watching. xXx: Return of Xander Cage is not unlike listening to a kid who doesn’t understand acoustics sing in the shower. It’s like sneaking a peak at someone practicing witty repartee in the mirror. It is a cinematic synapse connecting an admittedly juvenile delusion of ultimate, unattainable cool with the real world in which those so easily-rehearsed feats of effortless poise prove so difficult to execute.

Among his many, many areas of proficiency Xander Cage is an expert skateboarder, jungle-skier, fur-coat-model and ocean-biker. He is also quite possibly the quippiest smart-ass that has ever walked the earth. Though his extreme athleticism is put front and center in the film’s promotional materials, it is his uncanny ability, or perhaps curse, to have some sort of B-movie retort locked and loaded to spray with the reckless abandon of a dragon’s breath shotgun at anyone gutsy enough to open their mouths that proves to be his most impressive power. Xander Cage is the type of character that will leave you believing you are watching the interactions of a man with the ability to pause, rewind and relive time to ensure maximum dopeness be squeezed from every possible second of his own existence.

Cage is not the paragon of cool I aspire to. Bor Gullet is the paragon of cool I aspire to be. But Cage is undoubtedly the paragon of cool that someone is aspiring to be, and seeing an avatar of easy nonchalance stick the landing on every preposterous quip and stunt has, if nothing else, the charm of overhearing an uninhibited kid belting out their personal anthem in the shower.

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