Wrath of Man

A mostly familiar saga of greed, betrayal, and dishonor among thieves, Wrath of Man sends director Guy Ritchie back to his roots.

The British filmmaker’s latest testosterone-fueled crime thriller is an ultraviolent tale of vigilante vengeance wrapped in a slick package of bullets and bravado. It’s reminiscent of his early works on the surface yet lacking any meaningful narrative complexity.

This stylish remake of the 2004 French thriller Cash Truck shifts the story to Los Angeles, where a brooding security guard known as H (Jason Statham) is hired at an armored truck company with high-volume transports that regularly catch the attention of potential robbers.

H’s poker-faced glare and antisocial mannerisms hint at some unspoken inner turmoil. And indeed, details are gradually revealed about his past, his true identity, and his motives. He also has a knack for precision driving and marksmanship.

It’s not long before Statham is doing Statham things, wiping out handfuls of lowlifes and scumbags with a combination of bullets and brawn while hardly breaking a sweat. Along the way, he tosses off one-liners like: “You just worry about putting your asshole back in your asshole and leave this to me.”

However, as we flash back to a tragic incident from his past, H has a more specific target in mind, stemming from an encounter with an ex-soldier (Jeffrey Donovan) and his hot-headed protégé (Scott Eastwood) who led a hold-up of the very trucks he’s now employed to protect.

Wrath of Man is hardly a stretch for the star, who reteams for a fourth go-around with Ritchie, more than 15 years after their last collaboration in Revolver.

The screenplay features some lively banter among characters with nicknames such as Sticky John and Boy Sweat Dave, although that’s mainly filler to bridge the space between action set pieces rather than an indicator or greater depth or nuance.

Ritchie’s technical proficiency makes the most of a familiar assortment of warehouses and back alleys. Some twists are more compelling than others, but mostly the jumbled chronology feels like a gimmicky attempt to tell a derivative story in a slightly different way.

Between all of the tough-guy flexing and macho posturing, there’s hardly any incentive for emotional investment in who lives, who dies, and — more importantly in this case — who walks away with the loot.

Rated R, 118 minutes.