Crank: High Voltage

Synopsis: Chev Chelios survives a fall from the sky, sort of. He's in an unknown location, sedated, while various Chinese are harvesting his organs. His heart is gone, in an ice chest; a temporary in its place. Chev escapes, knowing only the name of the guy with the ice chest. He calls Doc Miles, an unlicensed cardiologist, who tells him there's only an hour's life in the artificial heart: keep it charged. Chev needs to find his own heart and get to Doc for a transplant. He starts his time-limited pursuit of shadowy figures, the ice chest, and his heart aided by Eve, Rei, and Venus - a stripper, a prostitute, and a pal with Tourette's - constantly needing an electric charge to keep going.
Production: Lionsgate
  1 win & 2 nominations.
Rotten Tomatoes:
96 min

In a story so bizarre I can scarcely

believe the event I'm reporting,

and yet corroborated by at least

a dozen eyewitnesses,

a white male apparently fell from

the sky above downtown Los Angeles today,

landed in the middle of a busy

intersection, destroying one vehicle

and hospitalizing its elderly driver,

and then was removed from the scene

before emergency personnel could respond.

Without a body, the police have yet to

piece together the events of a day

that can only be described


Reports of a second body landing

in the Boyle Heights area have yet

to be confirmed and are being treated as

the bullshit they most likely are.



You big cock English.

Strong like horse.

F*ck that.

That's not so bad.

You like nice and rough.


Pick up, Eve.

The number you have reached is not

in service at this time and--



You lost?






On your knees, son.

Okay, chow mein. Who do you work for?

F*ck you, Chelios.

Fuckin' ground.




You found me in quite an unpleasant

mood this morning, mate.

Now... I'm gonna ask you this

question one time.

Who's gots my fucking strawberry tart?





...Just spit the fucking name out!

Johnny Vang!

Johnny fucking Vang?

Johnny fucking Vang?

Good boy. Where?

Cypress Social Club!

Cypress...Cypress Social Club.

Now you're sure about that, ain't ya?

Good boy. Thanks for coming.

Now you can keep that.

Hello. Doc Miles.

Yeah... Doc, it's Chev.

Jesus H... Chelios!

You've gotta be kiddin' me.

Listen, I'm deadly fuckin' serious, Doc.

These Triad motherfuckers cut out

my fuckin' heart

and put in one of those plastic

artificial jobs.

You got an artificial heart?

Do you think I'm having a fuckin' laugh?

No-No-No, but you got to admit,

it's a little out there, dude.

Yeah, you take your fuckin' time, Doc.

You don't have any time,

if you've got an artificial heart.

They're not designed to keep you

alive more than a couple days

while you're waitin' on a transplant.

And don't do anything strenuous.

Yeah, sure, Doc. No problem.

So what's my next fuckin' move?

Well, we got to get a real heart put

back in you preferably your own.

I'm on it.

Okay, you're on it.

Doc! Jesus fucking Christ!

I'm-I'm sorry.


Does-Does-- Let me-- Does that thing

have a a-a-a a belt battery pack?


How many bars are showing?


Shit. That's better than none, I guess.

Look, what they did you with is

an Avicor Total Artificial Heart.

It's got an internal battery that'll

pick up once the belt battery dies.

It's like a reserve tank.

Once the internal battery takes over,

you got one fuckin' hour.

The internal battery charges

wirelessly through

its transcutaneous energy transfer system.

Two coils, there's one internal,

one external that transmit the, uh,

magnetic force across the skin

without piercing the surface.

The internal coil receives power

and sends it to the controller device.

Is this makin' any fuckin' sense to you,


It's fucking Greek, Doc.


Look, you got to keep your body

electrically charged to keep

that piece of shit pumpin'.

Copy that.

Hey, Chev.


I'm stoked you're alive, dude.

I'll get back to you, Doc.

Yeah, well, y-- Call me.



That's a nice car.

I don't suppose you know where

the Cypress Social Club is, do you?

Man, f*ck that shit, puto.

Let's race, ese.

Don't you tempt me, fucker.

What I need from you is directions.

Oh, shit.


Damn, dog. You good, ese?

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Mark Neveldine

Mark Neveldine (born May 11, 1973) is an American film director, film producer, screenwriter and camera operator. He is best known for frequently collaborating with Brian Taylor as Neveldine/Taylor. more…

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Submitted on August 05, 2018

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