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Unapologetic Appeal of Cinematic Junk Food
Let’s be honest—no matter how refined your cinematic taste may be, even the most curated viewing schedule benefits from a heaping dose of good old-fashioned movie junk food now and then. It’s not a crime to crave explosions, swagger, and a plot that doesn’t require a whiteboard to follow. Sure, in a perfect world, every blockbuster would rise to the operatic heights of Mad Max: Fury Road, or deliver the tight, pulse-pounding rhythm of a classic Tony Scott thriller. But we don’t live in that utopia—and maybe that’s for the best. In today’s world, where just getting people to show up at the theater is a miracle, there’s definitely no room for some zero-nutritional-value entertainment that hits like a double bacon cheeseburger. Into this wonderfully messy ecosystem stomps A Working Man, the latest collaboration between the gravel-voiced British bruiser Jason Statham and director David Ayer.
If the names sound familiar together, that’s because they were the ones responsible for the utterly unhinged B-movie chaos that was The Beekeeper. That film wasn’t trying to be deep—it just wanted to entertain the hell out of you, and it largely succeeded. Now, they’re back for another round, doubling down on the gimmick, the grit, and the glorious absurdity. It’s another high-octane, bullet-spraying thrill ride that feels like it was forged in a vat of testosterone and Red Bull. This time around, the gimmick is construction work instead of beekeeping—but don’t worry, the body count and catchphrases are still very much intact.
Statham, Forever the Everyman
Once again, Jason Statham plays the role he was born to play: the rough-edged, blue-collar ex-military loner who’s just trying to live a quiet life. Of course, in this universe, the quiet life only lasts until the villains come knocking—or rather, until they threaten the one person they should have left alone. That’s when all hell breaks loose, and Statham unleashes his particular set of skills with the kind of kinetic fury that has become his calling card. Sure, no one’s going to confuse him with a method actor or a chameleon who disappears into roles. But there’s something weirdly delightful about watching Hollywood pretend that Jason “Human Chinstrap” Statham is just another working stiff in a hard hat who happens to be a walking death machine. It’s like casting The Rock as an underpaid accountant—it makes no sense, but it works anyway.
From the moment the opening credits hit, the film practically screams its intentions. Subtlety? That left the chat 15 seconds in. The credits roll over a montage so drenched in patriotic firepower it could give a bald eagle heartburn. We’re talking faceless soldiers bleeding across muddy battlefields, flags—both American and British—dramatically waving in slow motion while engulfed in literal flames, and yes, cement trucks with supersized grenade fixtures where the mixers should be. It’s not a metaphor. Not ironic. It’s just there—loud, proud, and begging to be taken at face value. The entire sequence plays like the result of feeding a high school film student ten energy drinks and locking them in an editing room with military stock footage.
Punches, Pacing, and Patriotism
What makes it work, oddly enough, is the film’s total lack of shame. A Working Man knows exactly what kind of movie it is, and it refuses to apologize for it. The plot is simple, the stakes are personal, and the action beats are spaced out just enough to keep the audience’s heart rate up. There’s something almost nostalgic about a film that leans so hard into formula without winking at the audience. It doesn’t try to deconstruct the genre or elevate it—it just lives in it, like a dude in muddy boots who kicks down the door and says, “Let’s go.” And for those who can suspend their disbelief long enough to accept that Jason Statham could be mistaken for any kind of “ordinary guy,” it offers a certain charm that’s hard to resist.
Everything in A Working Man is turned up to eleven. The punches hit harder, the shootouts last longer, and the dialogue is full of that gruff, growling bravado that makes every line sound like a one-liner, even when it’s just ordering lunch. The pacing never slows down long enough for you to question the logic—why would it? The film’s job isn’t to make sense; it’s to entertain, and on that front, it delivers with mechanical precision. Every narrative beat is exactly where you expect it to be, from the reluctant return to violence to the final slo-mo shot of Statham walking away from an explosion with a bloodied smirk and a catchphrase hanging in the air like gun smoke.
Low Stakes, High Fun
Is it groundbreaking cinema? Absolutely not. Is it smart? Not in the traditional sense. But does it scratch that primal, popcorn-munching itch that only comes from watching a man take down an army of thugs using construction tools and a glare that could level a building? Yes. And sometimes, that’s all you need. In an era filled with sprawling franchise fatigue and Oscar-bait exhaustion, a movie like A Working Man serves a vital purpose: reminding us that dumb fun still has its place. It doesn’t ask for much. Just your attention, your disbelief suspended, and maybe a jumbo soda to wash it all down.
Despite boasting all the right ingredients for a high-calorie, no-nutritional-value action feast, A Working Man never quite earns its place at the top of the cinematic junk food pyramid. The setup seems ripe for glorious absurdity, especially when you consider this is the follow-up pairing of Jason Statham and David Ayer, the same duo who gave us the gloriously ridiculous The Beekeeper. That earlier film knew what it was and leaned all the way in—armed with an outrageous premise, a tongue-in-cheek tone, and a relentless pace. This time around, though, lightning refuses to strike twice. Their latest outing fights to recapture that over-the-top magic but ends up delivering a far more uneven and undercooked product. It has moments of spark, but far fewer explosions than promised.
An Overly Familiar Formula
Based on Chuck Dixon’s gritty vigilante novel Levon’s Trade, the film takes the core framework of a working-class man pushed too far and tries to retrofit it into the mold of Ayer’s rough-edged direction and Statham’s brooding, brawler persona. But instead of fusing into something powerful, the result feels oddly patched together. The bones of a satisfying revenge thriller are there anger, loss, moral clarity, but the film struggles to decide whether it wants to be stripped down realism or glossy action spectacle. This confusion bleeds into the plot, which somehow manages to be both oddly linear and pointlessly convoluted at the same time. The narrative sets out to be brutal and direct, but often trips over itself trying to get there. It swings for the sleek style of John Wick, but the final product can’t even match the clarity or punch of Statham’s own Transporter days.
If you’ve watched even a single Jason Statham movie, you’ll instantly recognize the structure at play here. The formula is worn like a favorite pair of gloves. We first meet Levon Cade, an ex-military man now working quietly as a construction foreman, giving a speech on job site safety that’s delivered with surprising sincerity. He’s tough but calm, clearly respected, and trying to live a quiet, ordinary life. Around him are familiar types: his boss Joe Garcia (played by the always watchable but tragically underused Michael Peña), whose weary attempts to keep the business running make him more comedic background than actual character; and Joe’s teenage daughter Jenny (Arianna Rivas), a clever and energetic teen angling for some weekend cash to party with her friends.
Family, Fragility, and Flashpoints
Levon, for his part, is quietly shouldering a much heavier emotional load. We learn that he’s a widower still grappling with PTSD, and he’s also locked in a legal fight with his late wife’s father over the custody of his daughter, Merry (Isla Gie). All this is played subtly, with Statham bringing just enough restraint to suggest buried trauma beneath the surface. The domestic scenes are light and breezy—banter over breakfast, smiles exchanged on site—but there’s an ever-present tension that suggests something darker is always lurking just outside the frame. And sure enough, that tension erupts the moment Jenny is violently abducted. The suddenness of the kidnapping shatters any illusion of safety and immediately alters the film’s pace and tone. What was once an uneasy domestic drama now morphs into a bruising tale of retribution.
Levon initially resists the urge to dive back into the life he clearly tried so hard to leave behind. But that hesitation doesn’t last long—maybe ninety seconds, tops. One heart-to-heart with his old war buddy Gunny Lefferty is all it takes to relight the fuse. Gunny, played by David Harbour in classic grizzled-veteran mode, serves as both sounding board and trigger. His blunt, no-nonsense advice is laced with affection and a clear understanding of what Levon’s capable of. The conversation is brief but powerful, cutting through all pretense and reminding Levon—and us—that some men aren’t built for peace, especially when the people they love are in danger. From that moment on, the gears shift, and Levon turns into a one-man wrecking crew, bulldozing his way through a ring of human traffickers who have no idea what kind of fury they’ve unleashed.
Heavy Hands, Light Impact
And yet for all the buildup, the action doesn’t quite deliver the consistent thrills you’d expect. It’s strangely restrained for a film built around vengeance. The fight choreography feels subdued, the tension diluted by an inconsistent tone, and the violence, while brutal in spots, never reaches the expected highs you’d want from a film like this. It holds back too much, too often—until the final act, when the movie suddenly remembers it’s supposed to entertain and lets loose with the kind of gritty, high-body-count chaos the trailer promised. But by that point, it feels a little too late. The slow-burn approach might have worked better if the emotional core had more weight or if the characters surrounding Levon weren’t painted in such broad strokes. But because the story and side characters remain undercooked, the final payoff—though satisfying in flashes—lacks the emotional punch it desperately needs.
At this point in action cinema, any film attempting to break into the genre must contend with the looming shadow of John Wick. That franchise didn’t just redefine modern action—it redrew the entire map. So, when a movie like A Working Man comes along, hoping to earn its stripes within the same brutal, choreographed world, the comparisons are inevitable and, unfortunately, often unfavorable. Even if it’s unfair to measure every gritty revenge flick against Keanu Reeves’ masterclass in controlled chaos, A Working Man almost insists upon the comparison. From its earliest scenes, it practically reaches for Wick’s coattails. Whether it’s the use of shadowy criminal networks, moody color grading, or highly stylized action, the film tries to echo what came before—but without the same precision or innovation.
A Murky Descent
One of the most jarring elements in A Working Man is how it blends its rough, blue-collar aesthetic with gear and tactics that feel far too polished. Levon Cade, a construction foreman by day, suddenly taps into a strange arsenal of sleek surveillance tools, military-grade tracking software, and tactical gadgets that feel like they were pulled straight from a spy thriller. This stark contrast is never fully reconciled. While the film wants us to believe Levon is a humble, grounded man pushed too far, it simultaneously equips him with enough resources to make Ethan Hunt jealous. The high-tech touch might have been forgivable if the story integrated it more naturally into his backstory or skillset, but instead, it sticks out like a sledgehammer at a scalpel convention.
As the plot unfolds, Levon descends deeper and deeper into a criminal web supposedly woven beneath the streets of Chicago. His mission to track down the missing Jenny leads him through a series of shady characters, seedy hideouts, and increasingly theatrical encounters. But here’s the strange part—none of it really adds up. The film never actually explains how Levon makes the mental leap from Point A to Point B. How he follows Jenny’s trail with such uncanny accuracy remains vague. He finds the alley she was taken from with a detective’s ease, then immediately zeroes in on the correct suspects. There’s no sense of struggle, no major investigative roadblock—just a few brief scenes of staring at screens, and suddenly he’s face-to-face with the next bad guy.
One Villain After Another
Even as the action ramps up, the structure becomes formulaic. For every supposed “big bad” Levon defeats, another one emerges almost instantly to take their place. It’s a procession of mob bosses and criminal henchmen, layered like Russian nesting dolls—one hidden inside the other, each more disposable than the last. Just as the audience starts to think we’ve reached the core of the conspiracy, a new, faceless villain steps in with little context and even less motivation. This rinse-and-repeat rhythm turns the plot into a checklist, where Levon’s journey feels less like a personal vendetta and more like an arcade game with endless levels but no emotional progression.
Eventually, the film does what so many revenge thrillers fall back on—it introduces the Russian mob. The mysterious “Brotherhood” enters late in the game as the puppet masters behind everything, and their arrival feels as lazy as it is predictable. With thick accents, tailored suits, and a flair for cartoon villainy, they are every outdated stereotype rolled into one. It’s a choice that drains the final act of any sense of originality. Even the reveal of this crime syndicate’s role doesn’t change the stakes or raise the tension.
And then, just when the film attempts to inject some visual flair, it reaches once again for the John Wick playbook. Suddenly, we’re inside neon-lit nightclubs, watching strobe lights pulse across polished floors, and hearing bass-heavy music swell as chaos erupts. The style comes out of nowhere and feels pasted on rather than organically built. Unlike Wick, which used these visuals to deepen its world and enhance tension, A Working Man throws them in like garnish. There’s no weight behind the setting, no reason why these spaces matter—only a desire to look like a more stylish movie than it really is.
The Myth That Doesn’t Stick
Co-written by David Ayer and Sylvester Stallone, the script seems desperate to create a kind of “boogeyman” myth around Levon Cade. He’s meant to be the quiet killer with a past so fearsome it ripples through the criminal underworld. People whisper his name. Bodies drop when he walks into a room. But none of it ever feels earned. The film keeps telling us Levon is a legend, but it never shows us why. His takedowns are smooth—too smooth. There are no real stumbles, no gritty fights where he barely survives.
Even the crowd-pleasing “cheer” moments—the slow-motion kills, the final headshots, the cool-guy one-liners—don’t quite land. They feel overly staged, arriving right on cue without the build-up that makes those beats satisfying. As a result, the film’s final act, which should have been explosive and relieving, ends up feeling strangely rushed. After all that setup, after all those layers of crime and corruption peeled back, what we’re left with is a finale that feels half hearted, like it’s checking a box rather than leaving a lasting impact.
In the end, A Working Man wears the costume of a hard-hitting revenge thriller but doesn’t have the muscle beneath the jacket. It wants to be gritty, but it feels clean. It wants to be brutal, but it plays safe. And it desperately wants to be the next John Wick, but it can’t escape the long shadow cast by the films it so clearly imitates. For all its effort to build a mythos around Levon Cade, it forgets the most important rule of action cinema—iconic characters aren’t made by what they say they are. They’re made by what they do, how they suffer, and how they earn our respect. And that’s something this film never quite figures out.
Almost, But Not Quite
If there’s one thing A Working Man could’ve used more of, it’s this: 25% more goofiness and 50% more comedy. That’s not just a random formula—it’s exactly what the film needed to fully embrace the tone it flirts with but never commits to. It dances on the edge of absurdity, teases moments of outright silliness, and hints at a self awareness that could have pushed it into true cult classic territory. And yet, rather than diving into the fun, it plays things a bit too straight for its own good. The foundation is there—the bones of something delightfully unhinged—but the execution pulls back just when it should go all in.
That said, there are definitely elements in the film that work well and deserve credit. Cinematographer Shawn White brings a sharp, grounded look to the screen, often using handheld shots that help give the action scenes an immediacy that’s neither overwhelming nor sloppy. The action is never confusing, and that’s more than can be said for a lot of modern action flicks. White’s approach helps keep things readable even when chaos breaks out—he gives the audience space to actually see what’s going on, which is no small feat in a movie filled with frantic movement and shifting energy.
Among the film’s more human moments, the inclusion of David Harbour as a blind war veteran adds a surprising emotional anchor. While his role is frustratingly brief, his presence brings depth to Levon’s personal arc, especially regarding his relationship with his daughter, Merry. Harbour’s character isn’t just a wise sidekick—he’s a genuine emotional touchpoint. His bond with Levon feels lived-in and layered, suggesting a history of pain, loyalty, and mutual respect that doesn’t need to be spelled out.
Comedy in the Chaos
Then there are the goons—and what a cast of goons they are. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill henchmen. They’re gloriously incompetent, cartoonishly mismatched, and surprisingly well-cast. First, there’s Cokey Falkow’s Dougie, a biker gang member whose resemblance to Tim Blake Nelson is so uncanny it’s almost distracting. He walks the line between menace and mockery with every line. Then there’s the duo of Emmett J. Scanlan as Viper and Eve Mauro as Artemis, two villains so bumbling and exaggerated they could have wandered in from an SNL sketch about action movie clichés. But the real standout is Maximilian Osinski as Dimi Kolisnyk, the sleazy Russian caricature with greasy charm and just enough theatrical weirdness to make you wonder if he wandered in from a Jared Leto cosplay convention. His scenes are ridiculous, over-the-top, and absolutely essential to breaking up the film’s more serious tone.
These characters inject the levity that the rest of the film too often resists. They offer just enough absurdity to make you wish the movie leaned even harder into that vibe. The tension between deadly earnestness and outright silliness is never fully resolved, and as a result, A Working Man teeters on the edge of becoming something bolder but never quite takes the plunge. You can feel the film pulling itself back when it should be going off the rails. That balance—one foot in gritty realism, the other in high camp—is what makes or breaks movies in this lane. If the film had pushed its comedic instincts further, embraced its own weirdness more confidently, it might have earned itself a stronger identity and longer shelf life.
Sincerity Wins Points
Yet despite those misfires in tone, there’s an unmistakable sincerity running through the entire project. The filmmakers clearly care about the characters, about the emotional beats, and about giving the audience a reason to root for Levon Cade beyond the generic revenge tropes. Even when the film gets lost in its own pacing, or flirts with clichés that should have been left in the early 2000s, it never feels cynical. That sincerity, that heart beating underneath the explosions and grunts, gives the movie just enough soul to keep it afloat.
The Dropkick Murphys, a hilariously timed needle drop featuring the rowdy Irish punk band kicks off the film’s final act, and it’s like the movie suddenly remembers what kind of film it could be. That last stretch of chaos—complete with exaggerated stunts, unhinged line delivery, and action that finally lets loose—feels like the tone the film had been circling around from the beginning. It’s bonkers, it’s messy, it’s loud—and it’s the most alive the movie feels from start to finish. If only it had arrived 45 minutes earlier.
In the end, A Working Man is one of those rare movies that clearly wants to be more fun than it is. You can see the fingerprints of a better version of itself all over the screen—moments that suggest wild detours, character turns that beg for more punch, and action setups that feel like they were born for chaos but play it safe instead. It doesn’t fail because it lacks ideas; it stumbles because it doesn’t trust them enough. A little more absurdity, a few more laughs, and a touch more self-awareness would’ve taken this from decent to delicious. What we get isn’t bad—it’s just halfway to great.
The Limits of Blunt Force
There’s only so much mileage you can get from watching Jason Statham take out cartoonishly evil villains using whatever tool happens to be nearby. Yes, it’s satisfying to see a wrench, a pickaxe, or a blunt mallet suddenly become an instrument of vengeance. But after the fifth or sixth beatdown, the novelty starts to wear thin. In A Working Man, these moments—where Levon grabs a tool from the worksite and turns it into a weapon—serve as the film’s few genuine nods to the blue-collar identity it claims to champion. Outside of these violent bursts of “working-man justice,” though, the film forgets its roots. It trades in its supposed everyday grit for glossy violence, abandoning the grounded approach in favor of generic action tropes that could take place anywhere, with anyone.
If there’s one thing Statham commits to beyond the punching, it’s his portrayal of Levon Cade as a fiercely devoted father. Somehow, against all odds, he sells it. His relationship with his daughter Merry is one of the film’s more believable threads, giving him just enough emotional weight to stand above pure muscle memory. He’s not just punching for revenge—he’s doing it because he loves this kid more than life itself. But still, even that bond can’t disguise the lack of deeper substance in the film. While Statham might be one of the more convincing “girl dads” in recent action cinema, that doesn’t change the fact that A Working Man doesn’t really have anything to say beyond “hurt my family, and I’ll hurt you worse.” The theme is surface-level at best, functional but uninspired.
Missing a Point
So if you came to A Working Man hoping for anything beyond brutal revenge, prepare for disappointment. Beneath the sturdy, no-frills exterior is a film that resists any real introspection. There’s no larger commentary about class, trauma, fatherhood, or systemic corruption. There are no uncomfortable questions, no challenging ideas, no character arcs that go deeper than bruised skin and bloodied knuckles. For a movie that tries to wear the label of “working-class action,” it doesn’t actually offer any working-class perspective. In fact, I found myself missing the wild, drug-fueled madness of The Beekeeper, which at least leaned into the absurd. That film may have been chaotic, even unhinged, but at least it felt like it had a pulse. Compared to A Working Man’s safe, steady slog, its predecessor’s conspiracy-laced lunacy almost feels brave.
And, of course, because we live in the age of ongoing franchises and brand loyalty, A Working Man doesn’t end so much as it pauses. In the final stretch of its 116-minute runtime, the movie drops a half-hearted teaser—an open door to future installments based on the original book series by Chuck Dixon, which includes ten novels and a novella. It’s a brief moment, easily missed, but unmistakably intentional. Whether that moment ends up being a promise or a threat is still up for debate. If future sequels find a tone that balances muscle with madness, maybe they’ll strike gold. If not, we’re looking at an annual cycle of Statham grunts and grimaces, with each new chapter offering diminishing returns.
An Ongoing Experiment
At this stage, the David Ayer–Jason Statham partnership feels like a creative experiment still searching for its identity. Their chemistry is solid enough, and they clearly enjoy diving headfirst into gritty, R-rated fare that doesn’t apologize for being violent, grimy, and full of explosions. But right now, the collaboration is sitting in a creative middle lane—never quite bonkers enough to be memorable, never thoughtful enough to be taken seriously. There’s absolutely a space for movies like this: blood-soaked, adult-skewed action flicks that don’t try to win awards but still aim to entertain. But if they’re going to ask for our time, they need to give something back—something more than another sequence of bodies dropped with a hammer and a glare.
And here’s the twist that almost makes A Working Man accidentally poetic. Levon Cade is supposed to represent the everyday laborer—the man who clocks in, works with his hands, and handles his business. He’s meant to embody the no-nonsense, no-frills ideal. And yet, his story is dressed in genre cliché, wrapped in hollow heroics, and sold as something more meaningful than it really is. There’s an irony here that the film never acknowledges: it’s asking hardworking people to spend their hard-earned cash on a movie that barely respects their intelligence or time. Maybe Levon himself would get the joke. Maybe he’d appreciate that kind of bitter symmetry. But audiences expecting something smarter, wilder, or more fun will likely just walk away shaking their heads.
