Jason Momoa and Dave Bautista Ignite Explosive Sibling Rivalry in The Wrecking Crew

Max Sterling, 1/9/2026 Momoa and Bautista clash and crack wise as feuding brothers in The Wrecking Crew—a riotous, self-aware action romp where family trauma is just as explosive as the gunfights. Think Lethal Weapon with bigger muscles, louder mayhem, and a knowing wink at the genre’s legacy.

Skip past the premise at your peril, because The Wrecking Crew doesn’t merely dust off vintage cop-movie tropes. The film kicks off with a family heartbreak: a patriarch’s puzzling death—by turns suspicious and soaked in myth—which leaves a crack in the foundation that time hasn’t managed to spackle over. It could be called Shakespearean, if Hamlet had traded Denmark’s chill for the sticky-sweet heat of Hawaii and the looming ghosts for motorcycle chase scenes. Estranged half-brothers Jonny and James are thrown back together, the tropics swirling around them like a mirage, promising comfort but delivering chaos. Their mission starts as a hunt for Dad’s killer but soon curdles into something knottier—sifting through childhood scars, family secrets, and all the grudges that never quite calcified into forgiveness.

Wouldn’t you know, the trailer wastes no time converting that emotional messiness into muzzle flashes and tire smoke. It’s all here. Yakuza crossfire, standoffs that somehow manage to feel both absurd and menacing, and the sort of set pieces that suggest someone at Amazon MGM Studios is determined to outdo the algorithms that tell you what to watch next. Momoa’s Jonny is, predictably, a beautiful disaster—equal parts charm offensive and bull in a Koa wood shop—while Bautista’s James brings a steely, internalized discipline. Imagine a Navy SEAL who’s seen too much, with a jawline you could level a picture frame on. When they clash, which they do often, you get the kind of comedic energy and emotional spark that keeps these movies ticking. Ángel Manuel Soto, fresh from the pop-and-sizzle of Blue Beetle, laces the action with a kind of cartoonish glee, but never loses sight of the melodrama at the story's core.

Of course, it would be unfair to paint this as a two-man show. (Though the pair consume so much screen gravity, you could argue it hardly matters who else is in the orbit.) Still, a stacked supporting cast keeps things interesting: Claes Bang delivers villainy with a quirk, Temuera Morrison brings the sort of weather-beaten wisdom only he can, while Jacob Batalon, Frankie Adams, Miyavi, Stephen Root, and Morena Baccarin round out a list that reads more like a wishful daydream conjured by a Comic-Con panel than your average studio casting memo.

The meta-ness is baked into the dough, not just sprinkled on top. Years back, Bautista tweeted about wanting a “Lethal Weapon kind of thing” with Momoa, and, well—three years and one saturated streaming landscape later—art imitates meme. Sure, David Leitch didn’t get the director’s chair, but Soto’s touch is anything but generic. The screenplay, courtesy of Jonathan Tropper—who’s built a career mining dysfunction for bittersweet gold—comes peppered with enough fraternal jabs, grief-laden flashbacks, and punchlines to stop things from sinking into pure bombast.

Here’s where things toy with expectations. Action movies, especially post-pandemic, have a tendency to either drown in their own nostalgia or sprint so hard for “freshness” they lose all flavor. Not so here. The Wrecking Crew leans into its genre roots, sure, but it revels in them. The car chases are joyfully preposterous (think: Michael Bay on holiday, perhaps one too many piña coladas deep), but Soto’s camera isn’t afraid to pause, if only for a half-second, and let a loaded silence—sometimes laughter, sometimes resentment—settle between the brothers. Maybe it’s the tropical setting, or maybe it’s the fact that both leads manage to keep their egos in check just enough to let the moments breathe.

And yet, for everything that explodes, there’s a theme humming underneath about the legacy of blood, grief, and second chances. You could almost miss it if the surround sound is too high. Bautista and Momoa don’t pretend to be Oscar-bait—they’re here to entertain, occasionally to surprise. The laughs aren’t afraid to stumble into something bruised and real, which, honestly, is a rarity in a space where most streaming originals vanish into the digital ether within days.

If the trailer’s any indication—though, let’s admit, movie trailers have become as trustworthy as a political poll in February—The Wrecking Crew is swinging for the fence, blending ’80s bravado with a 2025 sense of irony. There are quips, of course, some landing harder than others, and a sibling rivalry that proves more compelling than most of the gunfights.

Now, odds are, the finished movie won’t be the savior of the genre. That’s hardly the point. It’s not aiming to change cinema’s DNA, but if it can wring a few last drops of heart out of a battered formula—and leave you grinning, just a little, as the credits roll—well, that’s a victory, isn’t it? Family, fireballs, and a punch-up on the beach. Could be worse ways to spend a couple hours this January.

Hollywood’s took its sweet time with this one—delivering what social media half-jokingly, half-longingly willed into existence back in 2021: a bruiser of a buddy picture starring Jason Momoa and Dave Bautista. Now, they’re shoulder to shoulder (and sometimes using those same shoulders for violence, comic or otherwise) in The Wrecking Crew, a movie that knows exactly what it is. That’s not meant as a backhanded compliment; here, self-awareness isn’t so much a winking gimmick as the film’s backbone, both battered and brazenly displayed.Skip past the premise at your peril, because The Wrecking Crew doesn’t merely dust off vintage cop-movie tropes. The film kicks off with a family heartbreak: a patriarch’s puzzling death—by turns suspicious and soaked in myth—which leaves a crack in the foundation that time hasn’t managed to spackle over. It could be called Shakespearean, if Hamlet had traded Denmark’s chill for the sticky-sweet heat of Hawaii and the looming ghosts for motorcycle chase scenes. Estranged half-brothers Jonny and James are thrown back together, the tropics swirling around them like a mirage, promising comfort but delivering chaos. Their mission starts as a hunt for Dad’s killer but soon curdles into something knottier—sifting through childhood scars, family secrets, and all the grudges that never quite calcified into forgiveness.Wouldn’t you know, the trailer wastes no time converting that emotional messiness into muzzle flashes and tire smoke. It’s all here. Yakuza crossfire, standoffs that somehow manage to feel both absurd and menacing, and the sort of set pieces that suggest someone at Amazon MGM Studios is determined to outdo the algorithms that tell you what to watch next. Momoa’s Jonny is, predictably, a beautiful disaster—equal parts charm offensive and bull in a Koa wood shop—while Bautista’s James brings a steely, internalized discipline. Imagine a Navy SEAL who’s seen too much, with a jawline you could level a picture frame on. When they clash, which they do often, you get the kind of comedic energy and emotional spark that keeps these movies ticking. Ángel Manuel Soto, fresh from the pop-and-sizzle of Blue Beetle, laces the action with a kind of cartoonish glee, but never loses sight of the melodrama at the story's core.Of course, it would be unfair to paint this as a two-man show. (Though the pair consume so much screen gravity, you could argue it hardly matters who else is in the orbit.) Still, a stacked supporting cast keeps things interesting: Claes Bang delivers villainy with a quirk, Temuera Morrison brings the sort of weather-beaten wisdom only he can, while Jacob Batalon, Frankie Adams, Miyavi, Stephen Root, and Morena Baccarin round out a list that reads more like a wishful daydream conjured by a Comic-Con panel than your average studio casting memo.The meta-ness is baked into the dough, not just sprinkled on top. Years back, Bautista tweeted about wanting a “Lethal Weapon kind of thing” with Momoa, and, well—three years and one saturated streaming landscape later—art imitates meme. Sure, David Leitch didn’t get the director’s chair, but Soto’s touch is anything but generic. The screenplay, courtesy of Jonathan Tropper—who’s built a career mining dysfunction for bittersweet gold—comes peppered with enough fraternal jabs, grief-laden flashbacks, and punchlines to stop things from sinking into pure bombast.Here’s where things toy with expectations. Action movies, especially post-pandemic, have a tendency to either drown in their own nostalgia or sprint so hard for “freshness” they lose all flavor. Not so here. The Wrecking Crew leans into its genre roots, sure, but it revels in them. The car chases are joyfully preposterous (think: Michael Bay on holiday, perhaps one too many piña coladas deep), but Soto’s camera isn’t afraid to pause, if only for a half-second, and let a loaded silence—sometimes laughter, sometimes resentment—settle between the brothers. Maybe it’s the tropical setting, or maybe it’s the fact that both leads manage to keep their egos in check just enough to let the moments breathe.And yet, for everything that explodes, there’s a theme humming underneath about the legacy of blood, grief, and second chances. You could almost miss it if the surround sound is too high. Bautista and Momoa don’t pretend to be Oscar-bait—they’re here to entertain, occasionally to surprise. The laughs aren’t afraid to stumble into something bruised and real, which, honestly, is a rarity in a space where most streaming originals vanish into the digital ether within days.If the trailer’s any indication—though, let’s admit, movie trailers have become as trustworthy as a political poll in February—The Wrecking Crew is swinging for the fence, blending ’80s bravado with a 2025 sense of irony. There are quips, of course, some landing harder than others, and a sibling rivalry that proves more compelling than most of the gunfights.Now, odds are, the finished movie won’t be the savior of the genre. That’s hardly the point. It’s not aiming to change cinema’s DNA, but if it can wring a few last drops of heart out of a battered formula—and leave you grinning, just a little, as the credits roll—well, that’s a victory, isn’t it? Family, fireballs, and a punch-up on the beach. Could be worse ways to spend a couple hours this January.