As I suggested it would back in July last year.
Of course, this makes it look like I was far more likely to be biased in favor of it rocking, since I'd be setting myself up to kinda contradict myself if it didn't. Well, I think I'm spared the conflict-of-interest because the movie actually did knock my socks off.
Actually, that's not true. It reverse spinning back-kicked my guts out.
Man. I saw Rambo IV at the press screening last Tuesday, and let me tell you – it delivered. It was Rambo.
What does that mean, really? Well, it whisked me back to the days when the first Rambo came out, which was called "First Blood" and was actually received as a well-made movie with a lot of heart. It had something to say, it was smart. The reactionary work of pornographic violence that was the second movie (where he goes back to Vietnam and basically wins the war this time) hadn't been made yet.
Frickin' evil Brian Dennehy. No wonder Rambo cracked.
That first movie told the story of a Vietnam veteran who returned home, whose experience at being abused by a bunch of local yokels recapitulated all the real and perceived slights to the honor of returned veterans' sacrifices made for a country that had forced them to go over there in the first place.
The desire to see certain people die very painfully, very slowly was the perfect example of unadulterated violence-in-context – it was graphic and frickin' over-the-top, but somehow it wasn't gratuitous. All that would come out in the second Rambo film, which more resembled the Super Nintendo game Contra II than any military reality. But the thing is, Contra was a really fun game. Really fun.
See, Rambo II was nothing short of a pornography of violence. One can't say it was anything other than that. It lacked any of the auteurship of the first film, a real plot, or even a point. It did, however, channel the frustrations about the Vietnam war, though, as Rambo is as much betrayed by duplicitous characters on "our" side as he is threatened by faceless Asian bad guys and menacing Soviet infiltrators.
When Rambo squeezes the microphone after being left for dead by his American military handler, the line "I'm coming to get you" – the biggest one of the movie – is importantly directed at the betrayers "back home."
Hey! Ain't that Victor Maitland from Beverly Hills Cop? Anyway, as a Russian, he has the worst commie badguy accent in the history of Cold War-era movies.
But that's nearly beside the point. The violence in the Rambo movies is a force unto itself, and if there's anything maturity and a study of history has taught me, it's that violence really is a thing unto itself. And that's what Rambo IV delivers.
See, what I realized from the first 10 minutes of the recent film was that movies these days seem to have forgotten what violence really is. They've forgotten the nature of the thing itself. At worst, violence in post-PC, post-Columbine, post-9/11 America is stylized and a function of the emotional payoff contained within the logic of the standard Hollywood plot – it's fun to watch, while kids and dogs and blondes never get killed, nor does the good guy (you can do your own tally of how the above fare in the Rambo movie – tell me how surprised you are later); conversely, in the standard Hollywood use of violence, the black guy or the private who just got married and has a kid on the way would always buy it so that the violent payoff at the end – i.e. killing the man baddie in an extremely painful way, fully depicted in slow-motion closeup while the main character says something way fittingly cool – would really be satisfying.
At best you get the hyper-real depictions of violence (Saving Private Ryan is the best example) in which the work seems to pat itself on the back for "accurate" and "unflinchingly" depicting. Meh. It's still a visual thrill and very fetishized – think overcranked high-speed shutter shots and self-conscious "Look! The horrors of war!" that Spielberg manages to make look somewhat preachy and annoying.
But violence in the real world doesn't work that way. It doesn't skip kids and dogs, nor loving mothers and sons, or even good people with good intentions. No, under the influence of "revolutionary armies" and petty dictators and the forces of "ethnic cleansing", people die every day, they die like dogs, and often die unavenged. It doesn't make sense; it just is.
When faced with the first sequence of major mayhem in the film, I was surprised that I was very surprised by it. I actually wanted to look away, because it was just very fucking horrible. I mean it – I'm kinda scarred. And it seemed to do one thing exceptionally well: you were captivated by the corporeal, morbid thrill of the violence-as-spectacle, but you aren't let off the moral hook, so to speak, even as the film is obviously setting you and the Rambo character up so you give him carte blanche to kick major Burmese army ass; because watching a cute little kid get it in the chest with an automatic rifle without a cutaway shot and a splash of blood on the wall, or an innocent and beautiful young girls being raped by soldiers and not being saved, or a mother being blown into nothing but chunks of flesh...wow.
You don't sign off on the blank check for moral retribution easily. You gotta pay the price, and it's your pampered sensibilities.
For those of you with weak stomachs or who have nightmares easily, this movie isn't for you. You have to earn your right to demand retribution by sitting there and bearing it. You just don't get to watch cartoon violence while you sit there eating your popcorn; you're too busy being sick to your stomach.
Somehow, I appreciated that.
Somehow, the pornographic violence of this film, the fact that it comes as a relentless, merciless onslaught of sudden and senseless mayhem – made a sort of sense to me. The reason I don't have much interest in the Friday the 13th-style slasher films I used to giggle over, or the much-over-hyped Saw series, is that I look at such things and think, "Owwww! That looks painful" or "my, that's really, really horrible."
In short, now that I'm older, fear death a bit more, and don't have health care, watching people die cruel, stylized deaths doesn't really make me giggle or half-hide under the covers anymore. I just shudder and want to watch something else.
The present Rambo is an orgy of violence, but it feels like it has a point. I was really glad to see some really bad people picked as the "really bad people" in this movie, and not "Rambo Hunts Al Qaeda" or some other variation of "Rambo sticks it to swarthy Muslims with bombs strapped to their chest."
No, this one keeps the motive for ass kicking, gut ripping, and machete gripping bounded in the realm of the moral (Burmese army regulars do horrible things to innocent villagers), rather than in the ideological (America takes out its angst and anger on some specific group of people in the US who have it tough enough already). Stallone was smart to keep it simple, to keep it apolitical – him pumping lead into the face of an Arab terrorist or North Korean guard to a missile complex just doesn't seem right or necessary these days, because 1) it's cliché, and 2) the mainstream news and entertainment media is already doing that, hence, it being irresponsible on top of it being as cliché as it already is.
What's being worked out here is really an excuse for Rambo to kick ass one more time, of course, but it's also a chance to come full circle with the character and seemingly finish what Stallone had so successully started. By the end of the movie, you'll see what I mean, at which point it will be clear that we won't have to fear a Rambo V. In a way, I think no one wants it, because Stallone so obviously said what needed to be said in this one, but nothing more.
This last Rambo movie feels like the extension of the first, with the stuff that happened in between (I actually forget the details of Rambo III, actually) except it being explained by John Rambo himself in the film with the quip, "It's complicated." Yeah. That's all we needed to know. Rambo was rejected by his country. Bad stuff happened. Now, the wounded vet finds a place for himself, but in the process, has a last violent hurrah that is, importantly and in such post 80's fashion, not just about one man's rage, but done ostensibly for the sake of helping others, righting wrongs, doing some good in the world.
Rambo doesn't become Mother Theresa, but neither can he allow himself to live in a state of selfish nihilism, no matter how badly the world has fucked him over. Strangely enough, that's the sign of a Rambo who's finally grown up and gotten over himself, and finally reinstate himself as a full human being in a world that is, to him, essentially shit.
Somehow, I was a relief to see Rambo realize that there's a bit more to the world than that.
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