Rambo: a review

"There isn't one of us that doesn't want to be someplace else," John Rambo says, holding a drawn arrow at the eyes of the second meanest guy in the movie. Any fourth sequel will tickle the ironic bone: does Rambo speak for the audience?

But then we remember that we have chosen to watch this latest installment in the chronicles of one man's experience with post-traumatic stress disorder. We are drawn like moths to the light of Stallone. We pine for the violence and moral clarity promised by a sextagenarian. We are man-children of the seventies and eighties, bearing fond memories of various (but not all) Rambos and Rockys.

"This is what we do, who we are," Rambo insists. "Live for nothing, or die for something. Your call." Fortunately, the commitment asked of the audience is much less severe: about eighty minutes.

The requisite moral map places the Burmese government at the evil end, and they distinguish themselves with acts of amazing brutality. The good side are the oppressed and mostly unarmed Karen people. Lest we mistake armament for evil, two other groups offer an alternative axis: the whining and unarmed Christian missionaries, and the badass mercenaries who attempt their rescue. If on this map north is evil and south is good, then west is pacifist and east is an ammo dump full of balls. Your call.

In this well-defined world, Rambo and his friends find it difficult to express themselves with any precision, as demonstrated in the following exchange with a female missionary who may or may not be stalking this ripped sixty-year-old:

Missionary: "If everyone thought like you, nothing would ever change."

Rambo: "Nothing does change."

Missionary: "Of course it does. Nothing stays the same."

Rambo: "Live your life, because you got a good one."

Missionary: "It's what I'm trying to do."

Rambo: "No, what you're trying to do is change what is."

Missionary: "And what is?"

A pause.

Rambo: "Go home."

But we are primarily interested in what Rambo leaves unsaid. He communicates most effectively behind a fifty-caliber machine gun, reducing an entire company of bad guys to chunks of meat. Given sufficient ammunition, Rambo may rid the Burmese countryside of government-sanctioned rape and murder. Given sufficient steroids, Rambo may continue his bulging heroics well into his seventies. Given enough Rambos, our adolescent thirst for blood and gore may one day be fully quenched.

Until then: speak not, Rambo. Shoot, and shoot often.