Movie Review | Rambo: First Blood Part II (Cosmatos, 1985)
This is so blatantly a Reagan era cartoon that calling it out as such seems redundant, but the reason I don’t think it plays entirely as a political object, and the reason I find this enjoyable without ironic distance (well, mostly; the part where Rambo unloads a machine gun on all the computers is still pretty funny) is the way the movie is able to make this all feel personal. For all the mockery Sylvester Stallone has gotten for these movies, he does something pretty tricky, in that he’s able to convincingly portray the mythic qualities of his character, yet make him feel vulnerable. Rambo’s betrayal stings because Stallone is believably wounded. It’s obviously a very physical performance, but he’s doing wonderful things with his eyes and the tone of his voice. “You’re the only one I trust.”
And Charles Napier too is giving an unexpectedly physical performance, a dipshit bureaucrat consisting entirely of a tugged collar, loosened tie, sweat on the brow, cans of Coca Cola (a poor choice for the heat as it’s full of caffeine and will dehydrate you) and pit stains. Shockingly, Richard Crenna is more naturalistic in this one than in the lower key original.
This one and the next are blatantly jingoistic, but the series as a whole is about what happens when you’re shaped into a perfect killing machine by a country that no longer has use for you, about navigating a sense of identity that’s molded by the tension between the individual and the state. It’s an idea that arguably culminates in the fourth movie, where the interventionist foreign policy ideals that shaped the earlier movies are no longer foregrounded, and violence and repression have thrived in their absence.
And I think the action is similarly able to reconcile the movie’s contradictory impulses. You have a hero almost created in a lab to relitigate the psychic wounds of Vietnam (“Do we get to win this time?”), who can out-VC the VC, yet there’s a grandeur to his violence. His body is almost a natural wonder, framed against the wilderness as if part of it. He is both cunning and grandiose in his methods, like when he lures a group of soldiers into a field with the blood of a chicken, and metes out a disproportionately explosive demise. Somehow a helicopter rampage manages an element of surprise.
The movie’s fetishistic style has a way of distilling this into its purest elements, of musculature, of weaponry, of ammunition, of gunfire, of explosions, of physical struggle. And of finding a sense of musicality, of the perfect beat to puncture the stillness, Rambo sneaking up on the Spetznaz in the disarmingly placid jungle, captured with a raw, primal power by Jack Cardiff’s cinematography.
This is an early James Cameron screenplay, and it’s tempting to assume the mindbogglingly stupid plot (putting aside the popular at the time but since disproven theory of American POWs left behind in Vietnam, it seems that rather than mounting an expensive mission to rescue POWs and bury any findings, it would have been a lot cheaper and easier to not do it in the first place) would have been an intentional jab given his more left leaning politics, his knack for crowdpleasing gestures is still well defined even at this early stage. There are moments, like Rambo’s escape, that must have been sensational to see in the theatre. And for what it’s worth, both instances cited in the movie of the betrayal of Vietnam veterans took place during Republican administrations. It would be so funny if it turned out Stallone voted for Mondale in ’84.
Anyway, I’ve seen this a ton of times, and I’ve reached the level of Stockholm Syndrome where I tear up when Julia Nickson tells Rambo that he’s not expendable or get outraged when Napier gives the order to abort the rescue, but it was nice to put this on after a long day and chew over why exactly it resonates with as much as it does.
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