As I sit at my computer typing this review, it is -32° F outside. A thin pane of glass separates me from the howling arctic winds, whose whistling is their warning call should I ever be foolish enough to meet them outside. Frost dresses every surface, making the whole state feel like one big hockey rink. The brief, constant need to stay indoors crafts a rift in time, blurring the days and reminding me of the initial stages of the COVID-19 pandemic. That window of time bestowed the outdoors with the power of freedom. Now, it’s trying to kill us.

All of that dramaticism is to say that I got some basic enjoyment (and jealousy) from the sights and sounds of the Hawaiian islands that serve as the backdrop for the new Prime Video action film The Wrecking Crew. The film opens over the ocean, with a helicopter-traversing camera that eventually descends onto the bustling streets of Honolulu. We follow a weathered man who continually looks over his shoulder as he walks to a mailbox within a market. He picks up the pace once he drops off the envelope, eventually crossing into an abandoned part of town. A mysterious van runs him down, and his corpse catalyzes his estranged sons to resume the hunt.

One of them is James (Dave Bautista), a native son of the island who works as a trainer for the Navy SEALS. There isn’t an aspect of his life that he doesn’t control, which is why he didn’t want anything to do with his womanizing and reckless father. One of those apples that didn’t fall far from the tree is James’ half-brother Jonny (Jason Momoa), a wildcard who fled the island as a teenager, now living as a deadbeat detective in rural Oklahoma. These opposites attract once Jonny receives the mysterious letter from their father, which contains clues to a deeper conspiracy involving political corruption and criminal rings.

Similar to last year’s John Cena and Idris Elba-starring Heads of State, this is a run-of-the-mill actioner that initially pits its two stars against each other until they must come together to stop a common enemy. And without spoiling the third-act reveal, it’s constantly obvious who the secret bad guy is here. Baustista and Momoa are fine together, their similar physical and comedic sensibilities not allowing for anything new to be brought to the table.

Jonathan Tropper’s script or Momoa’s improvisation seems to think that ironically using terms like “gaslighting,” “triggered,” and “boomer” are the pinnacles of comedy, which they aren’t unless you're twelve years old. That demographic will probably get the most out of this movie, downing the surprisingly Hard R vulgarity and violence just as much as Momoa chugs a Guinness, a brand that he has a commercial partnership with.

Director Angel Manuel Soto, last seen helming the most forgotten DC movie of the last few years, Blue Beetle, does bring some life to the film, opting for a mixture of handheld camerawork and long takes. It brings some complementary panache to the leads, their muscles flexing more in real-time than being cut around. All of that kind of gets thrown away for the big car chase set piece on a highway, which looks horribly digitally composited. The brothers are directly responsible for many civilian deaths from automobile accidents, showing little remorse for their actions, almost as if cops can cause as much collateral damage as they want and only get a stern talking to as their punishment.

That kind of pick-and-choose energy permeates throughout the film’s many attempts at representation for the island’s native citizens. The brother’s father is given a ceremonial ocean burial, and an off-the-grid commune is highlighted. But then there are also several borderline racist jokes directed at the European and Asian bad guys. I’d be a little more up in arms about the hypocrisy if the film were more than a pile of nothingness. There’s certainly bigger fish to fry in this world, and better movies to watch.