Muscle, Mayhem, and Maui: Momoa & Bautista’s Big Hawaiian Brawl

Olivia Bennett, 1/27/2026 Jason Momoa and Dave Bautista smash through “The Wrecking Crew”—Hawaii’s glossy vistas, bruised egos, and cacophonous action aplenty. The charisma’s big, the art less so; think blockbuster brawn over brains. A sunset spectacle best sipped with low expectations and an even lower tolerance for plot finesse.

And subtlety? That’s been checked at the baggage carousel. Momoa’s Johnny Hale, a Honolulu cop with more emotional wounds than aloha shirts, barely takes a step before his late father’s secrets—and a pair of ill-tempered Yakuza—come hunting for a mysterious box. It’s the sort of plot device that doesn’t just walk in; it somersaults through a window. Little surprise, then, that the opening beatdown in Johnny’s living room plays out like a UFC main event filmed during a power outage. The phrase “gut-wrenching precision” doesn’t quite cover it; think more along the lines of someone moonlighting as a demolition contractor.

But plot, if we’re being honest, isn’t the drawcard here. Jonathan Tropper’s screenplay nods dutifully to emotional depth—an abandoned childhood here, a fraught embrace there—while lacing those moments with quips just self-aware enough to earn a faint chuckle. The machinery under the hood, though, is barely concealed. It feels like everyone involved knows exactly the kind of film this is: crime tropes retrofitted with loud, often absurd, bravado. One gets crime lords with vaguely defined vendettas, a greasy villain (Claes Bang and his now infamous topknot—part samurai, part petting zoo), and Jacob Batalon as, well, comic relief. Streaming has truly made typecasting both sport and science by now.

Let’s not forget the obligatory parade of supporting players—cops who shout, business magnates who scheme, and henchmen who seem to have arrived straight from a multinational casting call for ‘aggressive sunglasses enthusiasts.’ A pair of love interests flutter in and out, both circling the leads as if bound by gravitational law: part muse, part occasional shrew, never quite a real person. Why break the mold when the formula still fills digital seats?

So, does the action deliver? Absolutely—though not always wisely. Director Angel Manuel Soto, still fresh from “Blue Beetle” acclaim, lets rip with a kind of orchestral carnage, choreographing stunts that teeter between genius and parody. Most memorable: a chase scene on the island highway with a helicopter swooping like a hawk while bullets ricochet off nearly everything except the intended targets. It’s bewildering. And, weirdly enough, beautiful—cars fly, bumpers disintegrate, and at some point, it all starts to feel like an over-caffeinated Fast & Furious spin-off set to steel guitar.

Yet for all this muscle on display, genuine reinvention remains elusive. The main event—a slugfest between Momoa’s wounded brute and Bautista’s gruff brother-in-arms (they’re not actual siblings, but you could be forgiven for checking IMDB twice)—rarely achieves more than surface sizzle. Banter that probably looked sparkling on the page lands with peculiar dullness onscreen, as if the duo had too much fun before cameras rolled. Momoa and Bautista have charm to burn, no doubt about that, but here, chemistry fizzles just short of liftoff.

Some lines do break through the haze (“Fat Jackie Chan!”—choose your moment and relish the delivery), but wistful memories of Shane Black’s “The Nice Guys” inevitably invade. In 2025, audiences expect their buddy comedies to cut a little deeper, not just circle the ring. That’s perhaps the clearest signal of these content-heavy times: spectacle abounds, but genuine friction—a comedic clash that really bites—is harder to come by.

Ah, but Hawaii. What a backdrop. Even the most perfunctory gunfight sparkles when framed by volcanic slopes and the kind of surf most of us only see in vacation screensavers. There’s a real pang at how much of that beauty is left wandering the periphery, a missed opportunity for a bold visual signature. “The Wrecking Crew” could, in a better universe, have wielded its setting like another character. Instead, it’s mainly set dressing—a hundred million-dollar postcard glimpsed between the explosions.

The real contradiction at the heart of this movie: everything is outsized, loud, just a bit absurd, but also played with a strange earnestness that keeps it from swerving into the wild fun promised by its trailer-happy premise. It’s a film aimed at viewers who want muscle and mayhem mixed with the occasional father-son wound, shaken but never stirred. Think of it as a cinematic energy drink—big on buzz, light on nuance.

When the volcanoes settle and the credits wash over, what’s left is hard to classify. Certainly, it’s got spectacle—prime beef for the home-streaming crowd eager to swap Oscar bait for Friday-night bombast. Yet, artistry? Debatable. There are glimpses—flashes of wit, muscular grace, that intoxicating Hawaiian glow—but they’re mostly swallowed up by a tidal wave of well-trodden tropes.

Maybe, in the current streaming landscape, where new content lands faster than anyone can keep up, that’s enough. Not every night needs champagne; sometimes a plastic-cup tequila does just fine. Just don’t count on remembering the flavor—or, for that matter, much of what happened—by sunrise.

Sun is high over the Hawaiian horizon—coral reefs simmering, palms stirring—when Jason Momoa and Dave Bautista stride onto the screen with the sort of presence that makes even the trade winds pause to gawk. Muscle mass? Immeasurable. Magnetism? Enough to power the next Super Bowl halftime show. “The Wrecking Crew” drops onto Prime Video with a thud you can practically feel through your couch. There’s no trace here of Dean Martin’s swagger from ‘68 nor the gentle self-reflection of that documentary—no, this incarnation barrels forward less like a surgical strike team and more like two pro wrestlers crashing a five-star luau.And subtlety? That’s been checked at the baggage carousel. Momoa’s Johnny Hale, a Honolulu cop with more emotional wounds than aloha shirts, barely takes a step before his late father’s secrets—and a pair of ill-tempered Yakuza—come hunting for a mysterious box. It’s the sort of plot device that doesn’t just walk in; it somersaults through a window. Little surprise, then, that the opening beatdown in Johnny’s living room plays out like a UFC main event filmed during a power outage. The phrase “gut-wrenching precision” doesn’t quite cover it; think more along the lines of someone moonlighting as a demolition contractor.But plot, if we’re being honest, isn’t the drawcard here. Jonathan Tropper’s screenplay nods dutifully to emotional depth—an abandoned childhood here, a fraught embrace there—while lacing those moments with quips just self-aware enough to earn a faint chuckle. The machinery under the hood, though, is barely concealed. It feels like everyone involved knows exactly the kind of film this is: crime tropes retrofitted with loud, often absurd, bravado. One gets crime lords with vaguely defined vendettas, a greasy villain (Claes Bang and his now infamous topknot—part samurai, part petting zoo), and Jacob Batalon as, well, comic relief. Streaming has truly made typecasting both sport and science by now.Let’s not forget the obligatory parade of supporting players—cops who shout, business magnates who scheme, and henchmen who seem to have arrived straight from a multinational casting call for ‘aggressive sunglasses enthusiasts.’ A pair of love interests flutter in and out, both circling the leads as if bound by gravitational law: part muse, part occasional shrew, never quite a real person. Why break the mold when the formula still fills digital seats?So, does the action deliver? Absolutely—though not always wisely. Director Angel Manuel Soto, still fresh from “Blue Beetle” acclaim, lets rip with a kind of orchestral carnage, choreographing stunts that teeter between genius and parody. Most memorable: a chase scene on the island highway with a helicopter swooping like a hawk while bullets ricochet off nearly everything except the intended targets. It’s bewildering. And, weirdly enough, beautiful—cars fly, bumpers disintegrate, and at some point, it all starts to feel like an over-caffeinated Fast & Furious spin-off set to steel guitar.Yet for all this muscle on display, genuine reinvention remains elusive. The main event—a slugfest between Momoa’s wounded brute and Bautista’s gruff brother-in-arms (they’re not actual siblings, but you could be forgiven for checking IMDB twice)—rarely achieves more than surface sizzle. Banter that probably looked sparkling on the page lands with peculiar dullness onscreen, as if the duo had too much fun before cameras rolled. Momoa and Bautista have charm to burn, no doubt about that, but here, chemistry fizzles just short of liftoff.Some lines do break through the haze (“Fat Jackie Chan!”—choose your moment and relish the delivery), but wistful memories of Shane Black’s “The Nice Guys” inevitably invade. In 2025, audiences expect their buddy comedies to cut a little deeper, not just circle the ring. That’s perhaps the clearest signal of these content-heavy times: spectacle abounds, but genuine friction—a comedic clash that really bites—is harder to come by.Ah, but Hawaii. What a backdrop. Even the most perfunctory gunfight sparkles when framed by volcanic slopes and the kind of surf most of us only see in vacation screensavers. There’s a real pang at how much of that beauty is left wandering the periphery, a missed opportunity for a bold visual signature. “The Wrecking Crew” could, in a better universe, have wielded its setting like another character. Instead, it’s mainly set dressing—a hundred million-dollar postcard glimpsed between the explosions.The real contradiction at the heart of this movie: everything is outsized, loud, just a bit absurd, but also played with a strange earnestness that keeps it from swerving into the wild fun promised by its trailer-happy premise. It’s a film aimed at viewers who want muscle and mayhem mixed with the occasional father-son wound, shaken but never stirred. Think of it as a cinematic energy drink—big on buzz, light on nuance.When the volcanoes settle and the credits wash over, what’s left is hard to classify. Certainly, it’s got spectacle—prime beef for the home-streaming crowd eager to swap Oscar bait for Friday-night bombast. Yet, artistry? Debatable. There are glimpses—flashes of wit, muscular grace, that intoxicating Hawaiian glow—but they’re mostly swallowed up by a tidal wave of well-trodden tropes.Maybe, in the current streaming landscape, where new content lands faster than anyone can keep up, that’s enough. Not every night needs champagne; sometimes a plastic-cup tequila does just fine. Just don’t count on remembering the flavor—or, for that matter, much of what happened—by sunrise.