The birthday cake neck. The cargo crate torso. The walnut-cracking eyelids. Let's face it. If The Rock didn't exist, John Milius would have had to invent him. A kind of Hulk Hogan for Generation Xbox, with his first headliner he panders to his attention-deficit fanbase with ample crunch and gusto.
Swatting away the indignity of The Rock's CG monster incarnation in The Mummy Returns, director Chuck Russell's sussed that there's little point dabbling in pricey special effects when your leading man looks like one anyhow. Thus, Mr Rock's quest to destroy Steven Brand's tyrannical domain plays out like a console beat-'em-up shit-kicking its way towards the end of level boss.
Less directed, more guided by joypad, at least it wears its hokeyness on its thong - the kind of movie that solves every dilemma with a whirring fist and whose dialogue appears to have been written by a foley artist (tong, chunk, fiing and, above all, gnumph). As if it matters. A virile showcase of The Rock's physical clout, it's action-jammed, illegally corny and maintains an immaculate sense of high camp.
See it after 16 pints of Sunny Delight.