“Contract to Kill” made me miss the old Steven Seagal, the person who used to wound Oscar-winning on-screen characters in the head with enormous blades and gouge out the eyes of racially stereotyped specialists of voodoo. The thin, ponytailed and humorless Aikido ace who hyper-viciously pushed through armies of hapless flunkies on the way to their Big Boss figure. The person who once coordinated a film where a two-time Oscar champ had a monstrous verbal monstrosity out offscreen so the chief could shoot another nearby up of himself.
Toward the end of that film, the executive gave a long discourse about the earth in the wake of exploding an oil fix and dirtying the sea. That is the Steven Seagal I miss. He was entertaining.