From A.O. Scott's take on Smokin' Aces in the NYT:

“F.B.I.! F.B.I.!” Blam blam blam blam. “[Expletive]. [Expletive].” Blam blam blam. Spurt of blood. Plot twist. “F.B.I.! F.B.I.!” “[Expletive].” Blam blam blam blam blam. “[Expletive].” “F.B.I.!” “Hotel Security!” Blam. Exploding skull. Guy sits on a chain saw. Montage. [Expletive]. Plot twist. Roll credits.

Yes, I condensed a bit, and I’m sorry if I spoiled anything, but the above is a fair summary of Joe Carnahan’s “Smokin’ Aces,” a Viagra suppository for compulsive action fetishists and a movie that may not only be dumb in itself, but also the cause of dumbness in others. Watching it is like being smacked in the face for a hundred minutes with a raw sirloin steak. By the end, there’s blood everywhere, a bad smell lingering in the air, and vegetarianism — or starvation or blindness — starts to look like an attractive option.