Guns, Goons and Ghouls
Guns, Goons and Ghouls
By Cesare A.X. Syjuco [Video Troll]
Published in: Sunday Globe Magazine, March 27, 1988
ASK anyone on the street and he’ll tell you that “ACTION” and “SUSPENSE” have no peer, have no equal in a random taste test. Sudsy romance, blue flicks and slapstick may all vie for third place, but breakneck thrills and blazing barrels will always clinch the race and the big blonde besides. As thematic genres, they totally dominate popular cinema—and small wonder, since they do pay producers the handsomest dividends. Here are some recent titles we’ve seen, most if not all of them available from your neighborhood video outlet:
Malone. Already larger than life as a mid-70s beefcake. a decidedly more laidback and greying Burt Reynolds rises through the roof as Malone, an ex-CIA super-hitman who comes to the aid of a small midwestern town dying under the oppressive weight of a self-righteous land-grabber. This is probably among the very best slam-bang action films to come our way in many moons, a surprisingly explosive package built on a storyline as old as the hills. Reynolds apes Stallone’s Rambo and Clint Eastwood’s High Plains Drifter in turn, a mysterious stranger of few words and lightning-quick moves who makes no bones about breaking vertebrae and blasting bad guys out of their pajamas. A highly recommended title for die-hard action buffs, if a little difficult to locate on the shelves. Malone II anyone?
Raging Thunder. Artistry is seldom a factor for serious consideration in true-blue action films, and karate movies have never been repositories of intellectual plunder. Strangely enough, the worst of them are destined for cult status, riding the tills on a decade of Third World reruns. This wildly mundane, war-mongering contemporary melodrama has found its way to the underground box office charts with a constipated flurry of prosthetic gore, flying kicks and crackerjack ribbing that could make a cheap Hong Kong movie shine like a rare gem. A cocky, apparently retarded Taekwondo expert from the land of milk and honey comes to mythical Thailand, primarily to show off his biceps and to relive old times with a maverick hometown buddy. Eventually, the both of them are caught up in a hare-brained rescue expedition into wartorn Laos, where the gooks resemble grunting extras from an old Bond flick. There is much eating of mice and stewed snakes, and all the while, the script could make a corpse squirm. Just how bad is bad enough?
Innerspace. Executive Producer Steven Spielberg makes this breakneck comedy-cum-thriller as good as money in the bank. Blending a memorable science-fiction plot from the ’50s with a wholesome, upbeat tempo in the patented Disney manner, the film boasts of credible special effects, high-speed chases, gadgetry galore, 12 laughs a minute, and enough vicarious adrenalin to keep you on the edge of your seat from the opening bell. Dennis Quaid plays a lovable, drunken test-pilot who could be Harrison Ford’s twin brother, reduced into microbe size for a medical experiment and inadvertently injected into a neurotic supermarket-teller’s plump behind. An international spy ring determined to snatch the miniaturized Quaid for the arms market sends the flick into high gear. Also stars Martin Short, Meg Ryan, and perennial supporting actor Kevin McCarthy.
Hangmen. Talk about bloodbaths in ’88, this one oozes crimson-magenta and then some. A virtual fashion preview of hi-tech assault weaponry bandied like spring underwear on parade, the murderous storyline makes the killings in El Salvador look like a small-time massacre. Danny Green is a typical college sophomore whose father is a thoroughbred CIA operator. When a shady rival faction of renegade agents goes gunning for his dad’s head, Danny gets sucked into the melee by birthright. His mom is pounded into chopped liver within earshot, and his girlfriend is taken hostage with the use of tranquilizer darts. In desperation, Danny links up with his father’s old Vietnam buddies and the battle escalates into a nuclear war. Director, producer and scriptwriter J. Christian Invordsen manages a fairly tight film despite a lean plot, banking on the credible ferocity of Rick Washburn, Jake La Motta, Dog Thomas and Cosmo Vinyl. Bedwetters beware!
Born American. The ticker at the start of this HBO flick tells us that “accidental border crossings” into Russian territory are really quite commonplace, which is probably meant to reassure us that the basis for its extraordinary plot is more believable than we might otherwise imagine. It hardly succeeds in this capacity, however. Like Midnight Express before it, this contemporary descent into hell is so bizarre and nerve-racking that it straddles the incredible. Three American teenagers cross into Soviet soil on a dare, are framed for murder by a direct descendant of Rasputin, and then further compound their troubles by attempting to Rambo their way past a backwoods military dragnet. As though this weren’t nearly bad enough, the three are arbitrarily tortured as suspected spies, are incarcerated in a subterranean prison for snarling half-wits, and are later abandoned to their fate by a lecherous yankee diplomat. A great argument for staying home this summer.
Case Closed. The snide repartee has taken the classic police drama to unprecedented heights in popularity a-la Eddie Murphy. This 1987 CBS double-header stars Charles Durning and Byron Allen as a retired police detective and his youthful crack counterpart, an unlikely if thoroughly enjoyable pair sent in hot pursuit of a murdering diamond heister. Particularly noteworthy because it attempts to do so much with so little, the spectacular stunts alone are remarkable for a studio quickie made for television. Durning and Allen are perfectly cast as the back-biting, dynamic duo, and may yet see an extended tour of duty together by popular demand. The barbed exchanges are delightful, the pace is quick, and even the hardened rogues are lovable. A wholesome alternative to blackmarket video if ever there was one.
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Cesare A.X. Syjuco, “Guns, Goons and Ghouls” (page 1 of 1), Sunday Globe Magazine, March 27, 1988
