On “The Fast and the Furious”

In which I finally watch Point Brake

Once upon a time in New Jersey, I went on a date with a friend of Paul Walker, the actor who had costarred in the previous summer’s car soap opera fantasia The Fast and the Furious. Brett (not his real name) was surprised I hadn’t seen the movie, which he claimed “totally sucked.” It would be nearly two decades before I found out how wrong he was.

My first viewing of The Fast and the Furious is where we’re headed in this essay, and we’ll get there, I promise. But first, we need to take some detours. Buckle up or strap in or do whatever you need to ride out any urge to hit that ejector seat, family. We won’t stop at every scenic overlook and fetid cesspool along the way. But I want to provide some context for where I was when the fast car series commenced its loving grip on the collective American psyche, and why my individual psyche was otherwise engaged.

I like going to the movies, but I was otherwise occupied for most of 2001. Specifically, I spent a lot of that year wanting to kill myself and/or being afraid to leave my apartment. It wasn’t exactly a hobby, but it kept me busy enough.

My suicidal ideation was unconnected to the summer debut of The Fast and the Furious, though some film critics seemed to feel a certain desire for the sweet relief of…