I’ve just emerged from my second F1-in-IMAX viewing…big Danbury plex, king-sized screen, excellent sound (sharper speakers than those at the AMC Kips Bay), throbbing bass rumble…and I swear to God it felt better this time.

Knowing what’s coming relaxes you, puts you into a calmer, more receptive mood. I was ticking off my list of fave and not-so-fave scenes (ixnay on Pitt, Idris and Condon sharing that Vegas casino poker moment), shots and lines, plus there was a decent indoor climate this time (no a.c. inside theatre #10 on Tuesday night, enveloping invitees in warm, close-to-suffocating air).

F1 is not top-tier, as noted earlier today, and yes, it suffers from formulaic plotting and a mechanized mindset, as noted, but it somehow plays better if you’re secure in the knowledge that it won’t quite get there. The anxiety factor was absent this time (naturally), and at least it all fit together just so and all the players, committed as they are to a glossily corrupt mission, delivered their best.

Loved William Bradley Pitt, Damson Idris, Javier Bardem, Kerry Condon, the blonde tire girl whose name escapes …good gang, excellent company.

There’s no believing in a film that professes to say “it’s not about the money” while revelling in the flush clover of a $200 million Apple budget…F1 is not an honest film plus it activates a kind of buzz-saw effect in your head. But I’m also thinking of that Pauline Kael line about Richard Brooks’ The Professionals (‘66) working the viewer over with the skilled hands of a veteran prostitute.

I’ll tap out some randoms when I get home, but the second viewing somehow kicked in or settled in…whatever. It sure as shit didn’t diminish.