I was into car chase movies for about two minutes in the 1970s — “Bullit,” “The French Connection,” “Duel” — but they quickly became cliches, then jokes. “Smokey and the Bandit,” “Cannonball Run” and — need I say more?
I still get the old rush occasionally — “The Bourne Identity” had vehicular thrills aplenty, as did, in its own demented way, “Death Proof” — but I now feel that car chases or races, like sex scenes, quickly reach the point of diminishing returns. After 10 minutes, I’m usually looking for an exit ramp. A sign of advancing geezerhood? Probably.