In a cinematic era obsessed with blending genres and flipping audience expectations, Guns Up emerges as a film that attempts to toe the line between hard-hitting action and absurdist satire. The result, however, is a tonally confused spectacle that leaves viewers not so much entertained as dumbfounded. Anchored by Kevin James—yes, the Paul Blart guy—this film sets out to answer a question no one was really asking: what if a suburban family man became an unrelenting killing machine in a John Wick-style bloodbath?
Directed by Edward Drake, the filmmaker better known for churning out the final, forgettable Bruce Willis vehicles, Guns Up is so outrageous in concept and execution that it occasionally threatens to become a parody. But it ultimately takes itself too seriously to pull off the camp charm it so desperately needs. The premise might seem like a tongue-in-cheek send-up of the “killer-in-hiding” trope, but the movie stubbornly insists on being more than it can credibly support.
Let’s start with the setup. Ray Hayes (Kevin James) is a former cop and current doting father who, five years before the events of the film, made a fateful decision: unable to provide a stable life for his wife Alice (Christina Ricci) and their children, Siobhan (Keana Marie) and Henry (Leo Easton Kelly), he joined the local mob. But not just any mob. No, Ray falls in with perhaps the gentlest, most philosophical organized crime syndicate in cinematic history. Their leader, Michael—played with uncharacteristic restraint by Melissa Leo—is a soft-spoken matriarch who insists on a strict moral code. Her right-hand man, Ignatius (Luis Guzmán), doesn’t so much issue threats as recite quotes from historical figures like John Quincy Adams.
It’s the kind of mob where you’re welcome to retire if you ask politely. Alice even knows what Ray does and supports his decision, seeing it as a necessary evil to ensure their children have a future. The kids, naturally, remain blissfully unaware and continue to think their father is still patrolling the streets as a police officer.
For a while, things work out. Ray collects debts and manages to maintain his façade as a loving husband and father. But peace, as we know, is fleeting in crime dramas. The moral order is shattered when Michael’s mob family is usurped by a new boss, Lonny Castigan (Timothy V. Murphy), a ruthless and stereotypically cold-hearted gangster with no room for compassion or retirement plans. Lonny isn’t interested in ethical codes or exit strategies. He wants loyalty—and blood.
Realizing that his family could be in danger under the new regime, Ray decides it’s time to finally walk away and fulfill his and Alice’s dream of opening a quaint diner. Unfortunately, Lonny doesn’t share Michael’s diplomatic grace. Ray’s resignation is rejected, and he finds himself dragged back in for “one last job.” Naturally, that job spirals out of control, leaving Ray with a target on his back and hordes of assassins descending on his suburban home. What follows is a gory home invasion showdown where Ray must channel his inner Rambo to protect the people he loves.
Now, on paper, this could have worked as a parody of gritty revenge flicks or a subversive character study in the vein of Breaking Bad or Barry. Even Adam Sandler made a successful leap from lowbrow comedy to high art under the direction of Paul Thomas Anderson in Punch-Drunk Love. That film took Sandler’s persona—a volatile man-child with anger issues—and reimagined it within a more emotionally nuanced, dramatically grounded narrative. It was a revelation.
Guns Up appears to be Kevin James’s attempt at a similar career pivot. After surprising critics with his genuinely terrifying turn as a neo-Nazi in the 2020 thriller Becky, James seemed poised to expand his range. But unlike Sandler, who had PTA to elevate his performance, James here is saddled with Edward Drake, whose résumé reads like a graveyard of direct-to-video action flops.
Drake’s direction and screenplay are an incoherent mash-up of styles, tones, and genres. The movie tries to inject pathos and dark humor into a narrative that’s neither emotionally resonant nor consistently funny. The tonal shifts are jarring. One moment, you’re watching a man have a heartfelt conversation with his daughter; the next, he’s brutally dispatching hitmen with a nail gun. The action scenes are brutally graphic, but not in a way that elicits awe—they’re more like punchlines delivered with a grimace.
This tonal inconsistency is further complicated by the film’s inability to decide how seriously we’re meant to take Ray. Kevin James gives the role his all, playing it straight and sincere, but the writing constantly undermines his performance. The character is too blandly noble to be interesting and too implausibly lethal to be believable. We never quite buy that this doughy dad has the reflexes and kill count of a trained assassin. And because the film refuses to fully embrace its absurdity, the premise feels more confusing than compelling.
Other characters fare even worse. Christina Ricci, a talented actress with a penchant for the quirky and macabre, is criminally underused. Her role as the supportive wife borders on caricature, and she’s given little to do beyond offer worried glances and murmur encouragement. Luis Guzmán and Melissa Leo, both capable of adding flavor to any project, are similarly wasted in thankless roles. One can’t help but wonder if their decision to participate had more to do with location convenience—Bayonne, New Jersey, in this case—than script quality.
As for the action set-pieces, they are technically competent but creatively bankrupt. There’s blood, lots of it. Guns, of course. Also blades, blunt objects, homemade traps—basically, a Home Alone scenario on steroids. But without the charm or suspense. You’re never truly invested in what happens because the stakes never feel real. The enemies are cartoonishly evil and disposable. The family is never developed enough for us to care about their fate.
Even the film’s attempts at humor fall flat. Instead of clever juxtaposition or satirical wit, we get awkward punchlines and jarring tonal detours. For instance, one scene involves Ray frantically burying bodies in his backyard while trying to explain to a nosy neighbor that he’s just planting “winter kale.” It’s the kind of gag that might have worked in a full-on spoof, but here it’s wedged between grim action scenes and sentimental family moments, rendering it ineffective.
Ultimately, Guns Up feels like a parody trailer that somehow got inflated into a full-length feature. You know the type—those fake trailers that run during sketch comedy shows or before genre films as in-jokes for savvy viewers. Except no one pulled the plug, and the filmmakers charged full steam ahead, unaware or unconcerned with how absurd the final product truly was.
This is a film that can’t decide what it wants to be. Too ridiculous to be taken seriously as action, too violent and humorless to function as comedy, and too poorly written to serve as effective satire. It tries to be everything at once and ends up being nothing. Even at a tight 90 minutes, it feels overlong. Viewers are left counting the minutes rather than immersed in the experience.
There’s also the issue of wasted potential. The idea of a family man caught in a spiral of violence is inherently compelling. Films like A History of Violence or Nobody have explored similar premises with style and insight. But those films understood their characters, and more importantly, their tone. They knew how to build suspense, how to balance brutality with introspection, how to say something beneath the surface mayhem. Guns Up knows none of this. It fumbles every opportunity to dig deeper, opting instead for blood-spattered spectacle and shallow sentimentality.
In conclusion, Guns Up is a cinematic oddity that never justifies its existence. It’s not the worst film ever made—technically, it’s competent enough—but it may be one of the most baffling. Watching it is like witnessing a joke being told with a completely straight face and then being expected to laugh anyway. Kevin James deserves credit for stepping out of his comfort zone, but this isn’t the vehicle to showcase his dramatic chops. If anything, it’s a reminder that shifting gears as an actor requires not just courage, but also the right collaborators.
For fans of action, there are far better options out there. For fans of Kevin James’s comedy, this will feel like an alien experience. And for viewers just hoping to kill an hour and a half, Guns Up is more likely to kill your enthusiasm for cinema itself. It’s a misfire, plain and simple—one that will vanish from memory the moment the credits roll, though not quickly enough for most.
