Jason Statham sat on a worn wooden bench in the middle of a quiet park, enjoying the crisp morning air. The peace was something he cherished. Life in Hollywood, with its high-octane roles, constant training, and the chaos of celebrity, left little room for calm moments like this. He reveled in the sound of the birds singing and the distant rustle of the leaves. His newspaper lay open in his hands, the ink staining his fingers as he flipped through the pages. He allowed himself a deep breath, letting the tranquility wash over him. It was rare, but perfect.
The peace didn’t last long.
Footsteps approached, the sound cutting through the calm. Two uniformed police officers strolled toward him, their posture relaxed, but there was something in their eyes—an unspoken challenge. One of the officers was tall, lanky, with sharp cheekbones and a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The other was shorter, stocky, his shaved head and steely gaze betraying an air of authority laced with irritation. They stopped directly in front of Jason, casting shadows over his newspaper.
“Enjoying yourself?” the tall officer asked casually, sipping from his steaming coffee. His voice carried a hint of mockery, though his smirk remained.
Jason lowered his paper slowly, locking eyes with the officers. “Yeah, nice morning. Something I can help you with?”
The shorter officer scoffed, the irritation in his voice clear. “That depends. What are you doing here?”
“Reading the news,” Jason replied, raising an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”
The officers exchanged a glance, the taller one shifting his weight slightly, hand brushing against the holster at his hip. “Just making sure you fit a description.”
Jason tilted his head slightly. “Do I?”
The short officer took another sip of his coffee, then sighed dramatically. “We got a report of a suspicious individual in the area. White male, bald, wearing a suit.” His eyes slid over Jason’s neatly tailored blazer. “You see the resemblance?”
Jason couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re questioning me because I’m bald and wearing a suit? That’s the best you’ve got?”
The taller officer’s smirk faltered, clearly not used to being pushed back. “It’s a simple question. Got any ID on you?”
Jason folded his newspaper and placed it beside him, his gaze remaining calm but his body tense. “Did I break any laws?”
The shorter officer’s jaw tightened. “When a police officer asks you for ID, you provide it. That’s how this works.”
Jason leaned back against the bench, his posture relaxed but firm. “Not unless you have reasonable suspicion. Otherwise, I have no obligation to give you anything.”
The officers exchanged another glance. Irritation was simmering between them. The taller officer’s smirk was completely gone now, replaced by a hint of anger. “You think you’re funny?” His voice now carried a sharper edge.
Jason took a slow, controlled breath. He had seen men like this before—officers who thought their badges gave them power, but they had picked the wrong person. “Look,” Jason said, his voice still calm, “if you’re looking for trouble, you’re not going to find it here. I’m just sitting in a park, reading the news. That’s all there is to it.”
The tall officer took a slow sip of his coffee, and in an instant, he turned the cup over, letting the hot liquid spill onto Jason’s blazer. The strong scent of burnt coffee filled the air as the liquid soaked through the fabric.
“Oops,” the officer said, voice dripping with mock innocence. “Guess that was an accident.”
The short officer stepped closer, his grin widening. “Here’s the thing. We don’t like attitudes. You think you can talk back to us like that?”
Jason’s jaw tightened. His instincts were on high alert now, and every muscle in his body was screaming to fight back, but he stayed still. He had handled worse situations before, but this wasn’t a fight he was eager to start. Still, he wouldn’t tolerate being pushed around.
The taller officer suddenly pulled out his baton, spinning it lazily in his hand. “See, guys like you don’t understand how things work around here. You don’t question cops. You don’t get smart. You just do what you’re told.”
Jason glanced at the baton, then back at the officer’s smug expression. “You really want to go down this road?”
The short officer grinned. “You bet.”
Before Jason could respond, the tall officer pressed his radio button. “Unit 47, we’ve got a hostile suspect at the park. White male, bald, resisting orders. Requesting backup.”
Jason’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not what’s happening, and you know it.”
The officer shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what’s happening. What matters is what people hear on the radio.”
Jason clenched his jaw. This had gone too far. He had tried to be civil, tried to give them a chance to walk away, but now they had made their choice. The short officer reached for his baton.
“Last chance. You’re going to comply, or we’re going to make sure you do.”
Jason exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “You had your warning.”
The tension snapped. The tall officer swung his baton at Jason, aiming for his ribs, but Jason was faster. With years of training, his reflexes kicked in. He dodged the swing, caught the officer’s wrist, and twisted it sharply. The baton clattered to the ground.
Before the officer could react, Jason drove his elbow into the man’s gut, sending him staggering backward. The short officer lunged forward, swinging wildly. Jason sidestepped, grabbed his arm, and used his momentum to flip him over onto the bench. The officer groaned in pain as his back slammed against the wood.
The taller officer, recovering from the blow, reached for his gun, but Jason was quicker. A swift kick knocked the weapon from his grasp, sending it skidding across the pavement. Now both officers were on the ground, gasping for breath.
Jason stood over them, fists clenched, his calm demeanor completely gone. The tall officer struggled to reach his radio, voice strained. “Suspect attacking officers. Needs to be neutralized.”
Jason scoffed. “You’re unbelievable.”
Just then, a powerful voice cut through the air. “Enough.”
All three men froze. A heavyset man in a crisp police uniform strode toward them, flanked by two other officers. His presence alone demanded respect. The way his steely eyes scanned the situation made it clear he already knew what had happened.
Jason exhaled slowly. Finally, someone who might actually see through this mess.
The two beaten officers scrambled to their feet, trying to straighten their uniforms, their pride bruised and their professionalism shattered.
“This man attacked us,” the short officer blurted out. “We were just doing our job.”
The commanding officer turned his gaze to Jason and then back to the officers. “I heard everything,” he said, his voice cold as steel. The color drained from the officers’ faces.
“You two are done,” the commander said, his tone final.
The commanding officer’s words rang in the air. Jason remained silent, his arms crossed, watching as the officers began to realize their careers were over. There was no escape. The younger officer stepped forward and handed over his badge and weapon. The taller officer followed suit, their faces pale with defeat.
Jason watched, expression unreadable, as the officers walked away, their heads low in humiliation. The commanding officer turned to Jason, his expression softening slightly. “Are you alright?”
Jason glanced down at his coffee-stained blazer. “Been through worse.”
The commander studied him for a moment before sighing. “I wish I could say this never happens, but you and I both know that’s not true.”
Jason nodded. He had seen this kind of abuse before—men who let their badges and authority get to their heads, hurting others in the process. The older officer sighed. “I get it. You want to file a formal complaint, we can do that.”
Jason shook his head. “No point. You handled it. That’s enough.”
The commander nodded in understanding. “I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
Jason gave a small nod before walking away, leaving the park behind him. The battle had been won, but he knew it was just one in a long war. The fight against abuse of power would never truly be over. But for today, justice had been served.
Jason Statham: ‘Do I want to be the next James Bond? Absolutely’
He’s got the deadliest skills and the maddest stare but has Jason Statham got the chops for comedy? As his new film Spy opens, Britain’s toughest export talks about keeping a straight face, doing his own stunts and having 007 in his sights
‘You slip on a cape and you put on the tights and you become a superhero? They’re not doing anything!’ … Jason Statham. Photograph: Daniel Smith
“If someone wants me to jump off this balcony,” says Jason Statham, nodding to the window behind him, “and land on a crash pad, that’s a piece of cake for me.” We’re only on the first floor of a Mayfair hotel, but it’s still quite a drop. This isn’t Statham boasting – it’s more a casual aside – but we both know he’s not joking, either. I’m tempted to challenge him to do it without the crash pad, though there’s the possibility he’d win the bet by disabling me with a dinner plate to the throat, hurling me off the balcony with him, and using my body as a human cushion, like he did a few years ago in the movie Safe.
Statham is one of the most distinctive brands in cinema. You know exactly what type of movie you’re getting when you see his name above the credits, and you can be sure that’s really him doing the balcony-jumping, car-chasing and choreographed ass-whupping. He’s the man with the deadliest skills, the maddest stare, the strongest cranium, the graveliest growl. When he punches the air, the air screams in pain.
Except now Statham might have blown his cover. In his new movie, Spy, written and directed by Bridesmaids’ Paul Feig, he’s scene-stealingly hilarious. Melissa McCarthy is the dependably funny and surprisingly physical heroine of this gleeful action comedy, but equally revelatory is Statham, playing a chauvinistic English secret agent. He’s everything James Bond isn’t: sweary, vulgar, not very good at being secret, and by no means the sharpest tool in the agency’s box. He’s confused to learn there’s not actually a “face-off machine” that can change his identity, and he’s given to listing the absurd punishments he’s taken in the line of duty, from ripping off his own arm to impersonating Barack Obama – all delivered with an impeccably straight face. He’s basically a brilliant parody of himself.
“Paul was saying, ‘Look, just don’t try and be funny. That’s not what I want,’” says Statham. “It harks back to Guy Ritchie saying, ‘Don’t try and act. That’s not what I want!’”
There’s no mad staring or growled threats with the real-life Statham. He’s friendly and attentive, even if you get the sense he’d rather jump out of the window than go through another interview. He enjoyed being out of his testosterone comfort zone doing Spy, it seems. If he had any anxieties about playing second fiddle to smart, funny women like McCarthy, Rose Byrne and Miranda Hart, he’s not admitting to them. More challenging was Feig’s way of working. He encourages improvisation, and is in the habit of dreaming up new lines mid-scene and handing them to his actors on Post-it notes.
Statham might have the edge when it comes to leaping from tall buildings, but when it comes to verbal dexterity, he’s happy to bow to McCarthy. “She was just … great,” he says, amused by his own inarticulacy. “For myself, it’s not something I’ve been accustomed to experimenting with.”
Spy review – uproarious Paul Feig comedy tickles SXSW
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Feig wrote the part especially for Statham. He’s a big fan, it turns out. He’d seen all of Statham’s movies – “even the bad ones” – and he clearly recognised something that becomes apparent watching Spy: Statham has been a comedian all along. Many an absurd story would have been impossible to buy without Statham’s unwavering deadpan. Like the one where the hero can only survive by committing high-adrenaline acts such as having public sex and driving through shopping malls (Crank). Or keeps his artificial heart charged by attaching jump leads to his tongue and rubbing up against polyester-clad grannies (Crank 2). Or assassinates someone by ambushing them from the bottom of their swimming pool, then moves the corpse’s arms and legs from underneath to make it look like they’re still having a swim (The Mechanic).
Statham has been keeping a straight face for some time, I suggest, half-tensing in case he decides to shove my dictaphone into the side of my neck. He laughs. “I get paid too well not to keep a straight face.”
Statham’s school-of-life ascent is almost the stuff of legend now. His acting skills were acquired hawking cheap costume jewellery on London street markets. The athleticism was encouraged by his father, who was a boxer and gymnast. “He taught me to do a handstand practically before I could walk. I could do somersaults and backflips from a very early age.” That led to diving, and a place on the national team, but not the success he craved. “You have to start when you’re five years old; when I started at 12, it’s way late. You need pro coaches; my coach was a chartered accountant.”
Guy Ritchie took a chance on him with Lock, Stock …, Luc Besson took another with The Transporter in 2002, and it’s been a succession of strenuous B-movies and increasingly lucrative franchises ever since. His previous movie, Fast & Furious 7, is now the fourth-highest-grossing of all time, having taken more than $1.5bn worldwide.
Statham’s comfort zone has never looked the slightest bit comfortable, mind you. It’s exhausting just reading about his punishing training regimen: rowing machines, circuit training, weights, sprints, rings, trampolines. Having said that, he recently divulged he also likes to get drunk and float about in his Los Angeles pool with his girlfriend, Rosie Huntington-Whiteley. “It’s been feast and famine,” he admits. “I’ve had untold years of burning the candle: going out, overeating, over-drinking. Even when you do it, you understand you can’t live that way. As you get older, you get a bit wiser.” He’ll be 48 next month. Given his new comedy direction, could it be he’s easing out of the action game?
He shakes his head. “I really like doing action movies. It’s opened the door for me and I’ve had a great career out of it. Why not continue doing something I’ve always wanted to do?”
The problem is, in today’s movie landscape, Statham is facing competition from all directions. On the one hand, there’s a conveyor belt of superhero contenders muscling in on his turf; on the other, you’ve got actors such as Liam Neeson, Denzel Washington, even Colin Firth, taking late-life detours into action movies.
Not to mention the Expendables old guard, including Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger, who refuse to retire. Statham doesn’t begrudge the latter: “They were my heroes growing up. Sly Stallone is a real athlete; he gets stuck in.” But he’s riled by the number of phoneys he sees around him.
“They are not doing what they’re supposed to be doing,” he says, becoming more animated. “I’m inspired by the people who could do their own work. Bruce Lee never had stunt doubles and fight doubles, or Jackie Chan or Jet Li. I’ve been in action movies where there is a face replacement [that “face-off machine” really does exist] and I’m fighting with a double, and it’s embarrassing. But if you really are an aficionado of action movies, you know who’s doing what and who ain’t. To me it’s a little bit sad.”
