Takers (2010)

There is a particular kind of 2010 heist picture that arrives, performs its function, and departs without leaving a mark on the culture, and Takers is that picture in its purest form. A crew of immaculately dressed professionals robs armored cars, lives well, and is undone by a former associate with a grudge. The ensemble is genuinely integrated, with Idris Elba commanding the center and substantial turns from Chris Brown, Michael Ealy, T.I., Jay Hernandez, and Zoe Saldana. What distinguishes this arrangement is how unremarkable it is. The multiracial crew simply exists inside the genre's furniture, never pausing to explain itself, never asking the audience to reflect on what it means. Representation here is a casting fact, not a thesis.

The women fare less well, which is to say they fare as the genre historically allows. Saldana and Marianne Jean-Baptiste occupy the girlfriend and sister positions, reacting to the men's choices and absorbing the consequences. No argument is made about their condition. No argument is made about anything, which is the film's curious integrity. The thieves enjoy their suits, their cars, and their money without a whisper of economic critique. The film is not against wealth. It wants some. There is no climate anxiety, no interiority to diagnose, no history to revise, and no lesson waiting at the end of the chase.

What remains is craft of a modest order. The armored car sequence, staged underground with a mistimed charge and a fleeing cyclist, has real momentum, and the cast sells the cliches with straight faces. Critics were unmoved, audiences were warmer, and the opening weekend landed at the top of the domestic chart. It is a competent, forgettable machine, and there is something almost restful about a film that aspires to nothing beyond the next set piece.