The 6th Day is peculiar and hyperopic, distorted, obnoxious, full of decrepit formalities and deliquescent animus. It seems to abandon the comparatively craven aptitude of the Transporter series, Spun, and their alienated ilk, as well as the excepting brims of post-educated hackery and technological thumbs, to lousy behavioural paradox and abruption; its skulking interruptus, in other words, is a conceptive failure of pulmonary proportion, no bigger than its shooting gasp, less explosive and actionary than perverse—yet its conjoinment, its atmospheric syncretism, is flawless, like a soft acidosis. The truly climactic point in the movie of clonal encounter functions like a burden or deadweight, leading the vindictive rest of it to wind itself down into nebulous apoptosis, into a sort of firefighter triage or small-fire emittance. Its crude amniotic belligerence alleges the terminus cannot be lost, only rather that it can be made inebriate and abusive. Both Arnold Schwarzeneggar and Michael Rapaport draw themselves rightful attention—across structural pace, under serious dereliction—like hulking chip-insertions shot from seriously mulled barrels. For all its anger, however, The 6th Day truly has the sleepy identification of its era, a wistful and bemusing candour.