At one point in his career, the director has had a hard-on from explosions. I can tell. It was unbelievable how this film piles cliffhanger on another cliffhanger, we were practically left to stir in our seats while trying to sleep off the entire ride. The film feels like the wrong predicament in a glorious day, like an itch on a stitched wound. One could think of this film as a story about missed bullets (and I mean, an entire storage room of bullets), cosmetics, immortality. What we usually overlook in these kinds of films are the financial estimates of the damages: two speedboats, glass windows (by the hundreds), an offshore oil platform, the window of a red sports car, church pews, vases sitting behind John Travolta and/or Nicolas Cage, an FBI chief, office supplies, a bedside lampshade, an entire security system with computers and buttons, a flask of sulfur peroxide shot in the air, handlebars, a hospital bed pushed to the elevator, EST paraphernalia, mirrors (one of which is broken by heavy-lidded rage through LSD and/or other drugs, but most of them are casualties during surprise attacks, robberies), a queen-sized bed, chandeliers, barrels, a character named Dubov, a staircase, a vast hangar smashed by an airplane, twenty bottles of alcohol (a rough estimate), railings of a mezzanine, an orange urn.