of baseball rules, i.e. three strikes and you're out. Strike one: Pre-credit sequence shows a 007 wannabe checking into a south-of-the-border resort. Suitcase opens and a complete snipers kit is assembled. A long shot shows a large outdoor party very distant in the frame. And then. And then. Cut to the credits. Yes, a hit man thriller that doesn't hook you with a depicted killing! Strike two: 00-1/4 is about to kill a young woman (it's his usual M.O.) He kills vulnerable women who he trains just for a particular hit. But instead of just shooting her, at let's say, 5 feet, he allows the poor thing to sprint into the distance and then, un-holstering his Magnum .41 or .45, he takes aim and gets a clean hit at about 2 to 3 hundred feet. What a shot! He suffers no hearing loss, by the way, holding this huge caliber revolver next to his ear. Then, when he approaches the body, shovel in hand, we find this super professional hit man has done the dirty deed, 100 feet or so, parallelling the major southwest highway he's driven on to get to the place! Absolutely no concern for any other vehicle that might pass by in broad daylight.) (Hmmm. Seems like we're up to strike four.) Strike three: Wanting sex after killing someone he finds an isolated truck stop and takes a comely waitress to his motel room, something he's been doing with this babe for 12 years, and without any foreplay (think lubrication here folks. And unprotected sex, of course.) they attack each other sexually like they are horny teenagers about to schtupp for the first time. Yup. Strike three, four, five and enough, enough and more than enough. A tired, tiring and tiresome movie, all strikes described happening within ten minutes or so.
Review of Desert Saints
