Now that Tom Hardy is officially done with the Venom franchise—good riddance to that symbiote schlock—he can finally return to making films that don’t involve CGI drool and Eddie Brock’s existential whining.
And what a triumphant reentry: Havoc, a 2025 Netflix action thriller that reunites him with Gareth Evans, the Welsh maestro behind The Raid franchise. Evans’ bone-crunching ballets of brutality, much like John Wick’s slick gun-fu, revolutionized the genre over the last decade and a half, turning faceless goons into cannon fodder with balletic precision.
Hardy, fresh off Venom: The Last Dance’s box-office shrug, dives headfirst into this chaotic playground, proving he’s still the king of brooding, battered antiheroes. When Netflix isn’t peddling propaganda to force-feed the transgender agenda to your kids or churning out forgettable dreck like The Old Guard or The Gray Man, they occasionally drop real money on action slop that’s actually good.
Havoc is one of those rare beasts: so unhinged, so over-the-top, it transcends its B-movie DNA to become a glorious mess of flying limbs and squibs. After years of pandemic delays, SAG-AFTRA strikes, and reshoots in gritty Welsh locales like Swansea and Barry Island, the film clocks in at a lean 97 minutes of pure adrenaline.
It’s the kind of project that feels like Evans channeling his Gangs of London grit into a Hong Kong fever dream, all shot on location in Wales to keep costs down while amping up the authenticity—think rain-slicked streets standing in for a corrupt American underbelly.
The plot kicks off in that seedy underworld, where low-level crook Charlie Beaumont (Lockhart Ogilvie) ropes in his sharp-tongued partner Mia (Jessie Mei Li), loyal sidekick Johnny (Justin Cornwell), and no-nonsense enforcer Wes (Quelin Sepulveda) for a heist that’s equal parts dumb and doomed.
They jack a shipment of washing machines hiding a mountain of cocaine, but the job implodes, sparking a savage pursuit by narcotics cops Vincent (Timothy Olyphant), Hayes, Jake, and Cortez. Bullets fly, Cortez takes a gut shot, and the city erupts into pandemonium.
Desperate to square a debt, Charlie and Mia hand off the blow to Triad kingpin Tsui (Yeo Yann Yann), only for masked raiders to crash the party and carve up his crew like sushi. Framed for the bloodbath, the pair bolts, oblivious that the ambush was orchestrated by Tsui’s snake of a lieutenant, Ching (Sunny Pang). Cue the real star: jaded homicide detective Patrick Walker (Tom Hardy), a family man crumbling under booze, bad choices, and shadowy strings pulled by real estate tycoon and mayoral wannabe Lawrence Beaumont (Forest Whitaker)—Charlie’s deadbeat dad.
Lawrence tasks Walker with protecting his screw-up son at any cost, forcing the cop to link up with greenhorn Ellie (Xelia Mendes-Jones) and Mia’s shady uncle Raul (Luis Guzmán, stealing scenes with his trademark sleaze). Their hunt snakes through forged passports, cop beefs, and a throbbing nightclub where Triad grudges explode into a multi-level shootout that leaves bodies stacked like cordwood.
The film’s opening frames conjure a comic-book fever dream straight out of Kung Fury—neon-drenched chaos, synthwave vibes, and a world where physics takes a coffee break. Those first five to ten minutes set the table for a brutality dial cranked to eleven. If you’ve seen The Raid’s hallway massacres, know that Havoc revs that engine with hand-to-hand savagery that makes John Woo blush: bones snap, arteries spray, and extras cartwheel like they’re in a Johnnie To fever dream.
Blood’s not just a color here; it’s the damn wallpaper. Sensitive stomachs? Skip it—this is R-rated carnage that earned its TV-MA tag, with Netflix’s occasional CGI wonkiness doing little to dull the edge. For genre diehards craving something fresh in a sea of sanitized superhero slop, Havoc delivers: a stacked cast of recognizable faces, jaw-dropping set pieces like the nightclub siege and a rain-lashed cabin finale, and an adventure that’s equal parts hilarious and harrowing.
Hardy’s in his wheelhouse as Walker, the rugged cop who’s danced too close to the flames and got scorched—grunting through moral quagmires, unleashing haymakers with that signature intensity. He’s not just phoning it in; he’s producing alongside Evans, fusing his Warrior-esque depth with the director’s kinetic fury. As Walker juggles badges, bullets, and daddy issues, the film piles on tropes like ammo crates: double-crosses, one-liners, and shootouts where everyone’s got infinite clips, mowing down waves of mooks like it’s Max Payne on steroids.
The pacing is a freight train—blitzing through betrayals without a breath, evoking those glorious ’80s B-movies that Hollywood ditched for algorithms. Havoc doesn’t pretend to reinvent the wheel; with Evans’ track record and Hardy’s grit, it knows its crowd—fans of balletic body counts and pulpy plots—and serves it up raw.
Sure, the story’s predictable and side characters like Guzmán’s Raul add flavor but not depth. This isn’t prestige TV; it’s car-crash cinema, a riotous standout in 2025’s bland blockbuster buffet.
Not for the squeamish or plot purists, but if you’re an old-school action junkie nursing nostalgia for when films felt dangerous, Havoc packs replay value rarer than a quiet Netflix queue. It’s Hardy unchained, Evans unleashed, and a bloody reminder that sometimes, slop is the spice of life.
4/5
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