Here’s the plot of John Wick in the length of a tweet: Keanu Reeves plays a killer. His wife dies of cancer. Thugs steal his 1969 Mustang and kill his puppy. He gets mad. People die, badly.
I know, it sounds basic to the point of brainless. Don’t let that discourage you. John Wick is the kind of fired-up, ferocious B-movie fun some of us can’t get enough of. You know who you are. Reeves, always a nimble action presence, delivers the goods and then some. Chad Stahelski, Keanu’s former stunt double, directs with a flair for movement and framing that slams you right into the fights, stabbings and shoot-outs. From home invasion to a hotel for assassins, the stage is set for all hell to break loose. That it does. Moral nourishment is not on the menu. Neither is quotable dialogue. But juicy supporting performances from Willem Dafoe, John Leguizamo, and Ian McShane are ample compensation. The kick of Wick is not to be denied.