Nietzsche said, when you stare at the abyss long enough, the abyss stares back at you. You better fuggin’ believe the abyss is staring back at you in this movie—an empty, nihilistic void that swallows all art, brain and motor function in its every sequence. There’s Kristin Kreuk (of Smallville fame), who was nine times more Asian as a little girl but has grown just hot as a vigilante in her twenties. There’s the backstory which is too meaningless to get into in this tight space, but safe to say you’re better off not knowing. There’s Neal McDonough, that blue-eyed heathen with a deranged albino’s suave, doing his damndest to prove his solid work on Band of Brothers was a fluke. And then, Christ—there’s Chris Klein. He’s the Bangkok police officer Charlie Nash who is existentially inexplicable in this world. He admires the little things, like that some of Bangkok’s most notorious toughs were licked in straight sets by this no-longer-Asian superstar, Chun-Li. Nash likes women, and he likes justice, or at least that what we’re supposed to . . . yawn . . . what was I saying? Forget the handheld balls of fire and suspended slo-mo fight shots, the only joy in this film is seeing Michael Clarke Duncan’s diabolical pleasure in blowing shit up. One only wishes he’d have thought of it in pre-production.