In my discussion of 2013’s Fast 6, I commented on how unabashedly genuine the film felt. It didn’t feel cobbled together by marketing execs to maximize merchandise sales; it trusted that we would embrace its multiethnic characters for their rebellion as well as their heroics. I compared it to that summer’s Marvel blockbuster, Iron Man 3, and noted that above any means of comparison, Fast 6 was simply more fun.
I still stand by those comments. However, I must acknowledge the fact that the Fast franchise is, by all extents except the technical absence of a comic book upon which it is based, now a comic book franchise. In 17 days, Furious 7 eclipsed $1 billion dollars at the box office -- faster than any other movie in history. Its saga of characters and events are now woven together so tightly that it can’t help but echo Marvel’s shared cinematic universe. Also not unlike Marvel’s universe, each entry in the Fast franchise takes on a slightly different tone -- from illegal racing rings to drug trafficking syndicates to international heist escapades -- the Fast franchise has learned to evolve with the changing times. It’s continually adapted itself to stay relevant without sacrificing its core characters, motives, and values. That is not meant to sound facetious; it’s actually quite a compliment.
For all intents and purposes, the Fast & Furious franchise has blossomed into a strange amalgam of Marvel, James Bond, and Transformers. It’s interesting to consider the Fast franchise in comparison to these franchises, ones that continually glorify fast cars, loud explosions, slim women, and even slimmer narratives. Yet, rarely do I feel as viscerally satisfied after watching these franchises as I do after a Fast movie. Sure, The Avengers was fun, but how badly could you really fuck up a movie with not one, but four top-tier superheroes? This isn’t meant to minimize Whedon’s work on The Avengers, merely to point out the imbalance of bankable characters stuffed into that movie as opposed to the Fast movies. Dom Toretto and Brian O'Connor and Letty Ortiz didn't require their own standalone movies in order to ramp into the giant ensembles of Fast 5 or Fast 6. When you have a team made up of Pro-Bowlers, you are expected to win and win big.
But perhaps what the biggest difference between the Fast franchise and the others lies in its past. The Fast franchise was never truly meant to become this behemoth it is today; it started as a B-grade actioner about an undercover cop infiltrating an illegal street racing ring. Cue bright cars, hot chicks, a tepid bromance, and a surprising box-office return. But after spawning two largely forgettable sequels, everyone more or less relegated the franchise to the straight-to-DVD bargain bin, content to let the franchise collect dust. But then something curious happened -- the franchise brought back Vin Diesel and Paul Walker, retconned the events in prior stories, injected the films with outrageous set-pieces, and embraced its blazen over-the-topness so fast and so furiously that… we began liking it?
This stands in direct contrast to the Marvel and Transformers models, franchises that from day one, were created as and came with the expectations of massive blockbusters. They were fed nearly unlimited budgets to wow audiences with sheer scale and destruction, emphasizing visual spectacles and merchandise tie-ins over anything else. Their intentions seemed geared towards promoting brand recognition through toys, clothing, and Happy Meals; the Fast franchise never had such intentions. This is not to imply the Fast & Furious movies offer anything substantially more philosophical or nutritious than Transformers, merely that its existence doesn’t stem from such a blatantly capitalistic and shamelessly empty place. Intent often doesn’t matter in the ultimate product -- many movies begin with great ambition only to falter, and some movies end up greater than the sum of their parts -- but in this case, I can’t help but view the Fast series as the little brother who finally grew up to hang with the big boys. If the series needs a theme, Drake surely has the sentiment covered.
And that’s what sets this franchise apart from others: Its unwavering belief in its ability to succeed. This audacity even extends to its outrageous disregard for logic, pacing, or the laws of physics. Physics are to the Fast & Furious franchise what nutrition fact labels are to Joey Chestnut: they exist, but are largely ignored and often, outright refused. But if there was any doubt as to where the franchise gets its iron-willed conviction, just look to its lead actor and producer, Vin Diesel. A man whose exterior armor belies a soft heart -- really, let’s never forget that he did this -- Diesel perfectly encapsulates the franchise’s ideals of loyalty, commitment, and family. How else could he predict an Oscar for Best Picture with a straight face? His wooden monotony would be grating if it wasn’t so genuinely affecting in a strange way. Subtlety? Subtext? Screw it, Vin Diesel doesn’t believe in those things. He’s too busy earnestly nailing one-liners that prompt as many laughs as eye-rolls -- a feat that sounds easier than it is.
In many ways, it is Diesel’s tenacity that willed this movie to the finish line after Paul Walker’s sudden passing. Furious 7 ends with Diesel’s Dom Toretto delivering an impassioned speech about Walker’s Brian O’Connor and the nature of their brotherhood. Within the film’s context, this speech makes little sense, as O’Connor is actually alive and well. But somehow, someway, the sequence resonants far more than it has any right to. Against all odds, Diesel makes it work. Maybe it’s time I stop doubting him.
