Scimitars and axes yield blood-splattering results, as one would expect with Tarantino lurking in the shadows, but this is far from the dramatic and watchable edge of Kill Bill (2003). Instead, we are treated to a samurai pantomime, with dialogue in serious need of two or three rewrites, or perhaps completely scrapped altogether. Even pantomimes are more eloquently stitched together than this however; characters have little or no relation to each other and serve only to demonstrate who can slice and dice with unrivalled haste. There are certain lines, mainly ones delivered by Crowe, that will make you laugh out loud; so much so, it's hard to know whether RZA was drunk when he co-wrote Iron Fists.
In all seriousness, everyone involved in this film should be ashamed. It's amateurish, wholly unimaginative and completely ignorant of the profound mystical and moralistic philosophies of martial arts conquests. The Man with the Iron Fists gives a bad name to any western directors trying their hand at martial arts film, particularly in a genre which has been traditionally dominated by Eastern auteurs. If we are to engage in cross-cultural filmmaking, for which martial arts would definitely be an absorbing area, it's unlikely we'll find it in the work of RZA.