Hurricane Heist (2018) should get its own special Razzie award called "Fuck No It's Not Going to Direct Cable, Big Screen Motherfucker!"

We have a lot of fun at the cinema, don't we? Go in there, relax in sorta comfy seats. The lights go low and some actor people put on a show for us. They tell the same stories, again and again, and we react. Then some nutjob comes along once in a blue moon and asks the eternal question: What if you robbed a federal money place during a hurricane?

    It's good that the makers of the Fast and the Furious have other things on their plates, otherwise every damn year would be another "la familia" speech. But on the years when nobody we recognize wants to do stunts, movies gotta come out. The B team gets rolled out for Hurricane Heist and hell yeah.

    Oh yeah, synopsis: some dudes try and steal money during a hurricane. Synopsis over.

    This movie is the equivalent of hanging out with that guy at three in the morning after the bar's closed. You know that guy. He's got a truck with too many dents and an extra case of beer in the back because bars close and he knows all the good places for mud. So you find yourself drunk in a field with the sun coming up yelling "yeehaw" at God and all creation while the truck spins in circles kicking up rooster tails of red muddy clay high enough to surf on.

    The acting is eh. The stunts are stupid and not plausible. Science, from general physics to how hurricanes work, shit the bed. There's a goddamn giant evil skull in hurricanes on two separate occasions.

    Run to the movie theater and see this flick fifteen feet tall. They don't let this happen often enough.