Seagal plays cop John Cole hunting a psycho who likes to crucify his victims on their living room walls. Pretty straightforward stuff except that Cole is a mystic, the bizarreness of which means his own colleauges begin to suspect him. Cue the Russian mafia and a descent into a story about smuggled chemical weapons.
With its jumpy title sequence full of artfully arranged pictures of murder victims, a spurious serial killer plot and endless shots of a suspiciously rainy LA, Steven Seagal's latest clearly owes a fair amount to Seven. That is, for the first hour anyway; after that, it's just the usual mayhem.
Seagal plays cop John Cole hunting a psycho who likes to crucify his victims on their living room walls. Pretty straightforward stuff except that Cole is a mystic - which means he wears Tibetan prayer beads and ponders frequently on what it all means, much to the bemusement of his partner (Wayans). So weird is Seagal that even his fellow cops begin to think that maybe he's the serial killer. But then the Russian mafia turn up, as does Brian Cox sporting the same Southern accent he does in Chain Reaction, and before we know it, the murders are a sub-plot and the story is suddenly all about smuggled chemical weapons.
None of this would matter if there were decent fights to watch. Sadly, the surprisingly podgy Seagal spends far too much time contemplating and not enough time kicking Russian butt. There is a tasty rumble at the end but it came far too late to rouse this reviewer. The appealing Wayans adds a little comic relief in a basically thankless role and Cox boosts his bank account, but Seagal would do better sticking to the formula that made him famous in the first place.
As the plot gets even worse than that of a bad serial killer movie, not even the OK fight scene at the end can redeem it.