2 Fast 2 Furious has gone down in history as the movie called 2 Fast 2 Furious, a sequel defined by its listless sequel-ness. In it, we find the still-improbably named "Brian" living on a houseboat in Miami with a two-liter of Pepsi and a Foreman grill, scratching together a living through street-races and gigwork(?) as an undercover cop. You have questions, and the answer is cars, motherfucker. Incoming director John Singleton presents the driving sequences as digital composites, anticipating the celebrated setpieces of the Wachowskis' later Speed Racer reboot in pure cartoonish unreality. Somehow, by and large, it still works -- the hideous automobiles, the lurid rap-rock, the way Paul Walker says "bruh" -- at least well enough to facilitate several additional soft reboots. How refreshing, in 2021, to visit a franchise with no masterplan, just doddering forward and falling dick-first into 300% ROI, over and over again. Talk about failing upward! For me, at least, the film's greatest moment is extratextual: the electric charge in the air when Tyrese and Ludacris's characters meet, barely acknowledging one another's existence, and yet doomed to banter for decades to come. How unplanned is love, is life itself!