The film ends in a grid of spaghetti western motifs deep in the heart of a docklands warehouse, a vibrant mix of stand-off and slow-motion gunfight, a flashing kaleidoscope of cross-cutting that sees Van Damme finally ascend to complete redemption as he saves the wife and exterminates the bad guy. But strands of plot remain unanswered, left to waft uneasily in the wind, namely the issue of those sideburns, which returns again and again. Where did they go? Who took them? What did they do with them? Who are ‘they’? Will the sideburns come back? Can Van Damme find it in himself to grow another duo of those glistening marvels? Is it even possible?

Like the sideburns themselves, the rejoinders to these queries are conspicuous in their absence. Until Death sees fit to teasingly showcase what may be the greatest Van Damme character of all time, even surpassing the dance frenzies of Kurt Sloane in Kickboxer, but then cruelly injects him with a moral disposition and, dare I say it, a slew of compassion. Luckily, the alteration occurs after the halfway point, meaning that we do get a hefty helping of Stowe goodness, something to be cherished until the next time Van Damme plays a despised police officer with spirals of narcotic spores running riot in his corneas.

What is art? Art is Jean Claude Van Damme blazoned with rigid outcroppings of hair and profundity, boisterous ruby chippings of ethereal paradise, microcosmic shuffles of epitomising ecstasy, harbingers of porcelain rectitude, textured topographies writhing in harmonious union – in other words, the sideburns of death.