What? Why? Seriously. Of all the bad ideas I've offered for consumption so far, this one is the deadliest in that it contains a dose of possibility. You can get up from your chair right now and go pick up a copy of Death Race at your local HMV or Virgin Megastore, even in these recession-hounded times. But why would you?
Death Race is not a bad movie, and therein lies its problem – because it is not a good movie either. It's not bad enough to qualify as much of a guilty pleasure. It's not even bad enough to be bad. But it's not good enough to be good. Watching Death Race is like sitting at the edge of a campfire's radius of warmth in early Spring. The flames are pretty and your nose is pleasantly warmed, but an abominable cold bites at the back of your neck and slowly freezes the flesh of your back.
Why don't you move in a little closer to the fire? Because you'll get a faceful of smoke and sparks, that's why. What are you doing there? Why aren't you doing something you enjoy? And that's what Death Race is: the sick fire of fifty million dollars going up in smoke. In the end, all it does is burn a ninety-minute hole in your life.