Bullet Train

The Fatalism of the Funhouse

There is a specific strain of modern action cinema that operates less like a story and more like a fever dream of kinetic energy. It is a genre where the laws of physics are suggestions, dialogue is a series of rapid-fire non-sequiturs, and the violence is so stylized it becomes a form of dance. *Bullet Train* (2022) is the apotheosis of this movement—a film that does not just break the fourth wall but decorates it with neon graffiti. Directed by David Leitch, a stuntman-turned-auteur whose fingerprints are all over the DNA of *John Wick* and *Deadpool 2*, the film is a breathless, hermetically sealed exercise in nihilistic joy. Yet, beneath its candy-colored exterior lies a surprisingly coherent meditation on the tension between luck and destiny.

Visually, Leitch treats the titular shinkansen not as a mode of transport, but as a moving stage. The cinematography is claustrophobic yet expansive, utilizing the narrow corridors and economy seats to create a fight choreography that feels intimate and desperate. The Japan we see outside the windows is a blur of digital bioluminescence—a "theme park" version of Tokyo and Kyoto that feels intentionally unmoored from reality. This artificiality is double-edged. On one hand, it creates a suffocating sense of inescapable momentum; on the other, it highlights the film’s most glaring critical flaw: its cultural dislocation. By adapting Kōtarō Isaka’s novel *Maria Beetle* but bleaching the cast of its specific Japanese identity, the film trades cultural texture for a generic "global cool." It feels like a story happening nowhere and everywhere all at once, a choice that robs the narrative of a grounding gravity it desperately needs.

However, where the film finds its soul is in its rogue’s gallery of fatalists. At the center is Ladybug (Brad Pitt), an assassin suffering from an existential crisis, armed not with a gun but with therapy-speak and a bucket hat. Pitt plays him with a weary, shaggy-dog charm that anchors the film’s chaos. He is a man convinced he is cursed by bad luck, yet the film posits a fascinating counter-argument: is survival in a chaotic universe a skill, or is it merely the universe’s dark sense of humor?

This philosophical thread is most surprisingly knotted in the characters of Lemon (Brian Tyree Henry) and Tangerine (Aaron Taylor-Johnson). What begins as a Guy Ritchie-esque caricature of Cockney hitmen evolves into the film’s emotional spine. Lemon’s obsession with *Thomas the Tank Engine* is played for laughs, but it serves a genuine narrative function, offering a moral compass in an amoral world. When the narrative tracks switch and the stakes rise, the bond between these "twins" provides a heartbeat that the frenetic editing often threatens to silence.

Ultimately, *Bullet Train* is a film about the collision of conflicting narratives. Every passenger believes they are the protagonist of their own story, only to realize they are merely obstacles in someone else’s. The script occasionally collapses under its own cleverness, tangling itself in flashbacks and winking cameos that distract rather than delight. Yet, as a piece of kinetic art, it succeeds by embracing its own absurdity. It is a violent ballet set to a pop soundtrack, a ride that asks you not to check your ticket, but to check your disbelief at the door. In an era of self-serious blockbusters, Leitch’s refusal to take anything seriously—even death—is a refreshing, if occasionally exhausting, change of pace.