Justice

Who knew that spur-of-the-moment blood revenge could prove a major dampener on future domestic bliss? Nic Cage does, especially after – in a moment of madness involving a bizarre vending-machine transaction – he unwittingly sanctions a louche stranger (Guy Pearce) to shoot holes in the slimebag that raped his wife (January Jones). Roger Donaldson’s buttoned-down conspiracy thriller posits that vigilante justice is both corrupt and corrupting, as we learn that Pearce’s ‘Simon’ is in fact the ringleader of a sect charged with taking out the trash – whatever their definition of ‘trash’ is, of course. And so Cage is coerced in to repaying his debt by administering a deadly nudge to a man he’s been told is a sex pervert. But is Simon spinning him a yarn?

Despite an effective, educational action sequence, which takes in the perils of sprinting across a motorway, ‘Justice’ is about as memorable as a morning shower. The moral conundrum at its core is dealt with in a slick, if cursory fashion, as ideas of loyalty and responsibility give way to shots of Cage shouting at various characters in vain attempts to clear his name. The protracted finale includes a gratuitous detour to a monster truck rally, leading to words that no fan of action cinema ever wants to hear: ‘Let’s transfer this showdown to the abandoned shopping mall next door.’ It’s not that ‘Justice’ doesn’t achieve its goals – but the goals are so modest that disappointment is inevitable.