The key words here are lazy and contrived. In this pointless sequel to 48 HRS, we get a tired replay of the classic redneck bar scene, and a desperate attempt to revive the antagonism (minus its crucial racial element) between San Francisco cop Nolte and fast-talking ex-con Murphy. The plot contortions necessary to achieve this are absurd: Nolte faces a manslaughter charge, while the resentful Murphy is about to be released after seven years in the slammer. Only when a pair of vicious bikers blow up his car does Murphy agree to team up with the gruff cop again. The sole innovation is Nolte's obsession with the mysterious Iceman, a criminal kingpin he alone believes exists. Hill's action scenes are par for the course, with plenty of shotgun slayings, vehicle chases and bodies crashing through windows. There is a certain residual pleasure, too, in Hill's atavistic efforts to introduce Western elements into an urban crime thriller, with one of the gun-toting bikers, Willie Hickok (geddit?), saying 'We're the only real outlaws left'.