Don’t bother wondering who among us wanted a new Rambo movie. Rambo never asks to be drafted either, yet every conservative president since the character’s film debut has pressed him into service — First Blood and First Blood Part II were released under the watchful eye of Ronald Reagan, the third installment a few months before the inauguration of Bush Senior, and the fourth at the tail-end of Bush Junior’s second term. Now almost three years into the Trump presidency, Stallone has stumbled back on to movie screens to shed the last drop of blood he’s got. Perfect timing. Rambo: Last Blood opens today.
A more truthful version of this movie, in which Rambo’s cultural status as the savior of forgotten veterans really comes full circle, would likely see him schlepping it as a rideshare driver or in and out of shelters struggling to maintain access to his health insurance. Instead, Rambo, ever the lone ranger, has retreated from society, residing on his late father’s Arizona horse ranch with his friend Maria and her granddaughter Gabrielle. To no one’s surprise, John Rambo has developed quite the survivalist tendency in his decade off-screen, outfitting his humble home with numerous booby traps and a complicated system of cavernous tunnels.
Gabrielle’s mother passed away years ago and her father left to start a new life in Mexico, and Rambo has become a surrogate parent in the intervening years. When she expresses interest in traveling to Mexico to track down her father, Rambo and Maria advise against it — of course she disobeys them, otherwise there wouldn’t be a reason for Rambo to seek unholy revenge. As I’m sure you can probably predict, Gabrielle is kidnapped and sold into sex slavery, and Rambo has to go do some violence against a gaggle of Mexican traffickers, the current demographic du jour when Hollywood needs to trot out some good old-fashioned racism. The Rambo movies have never specialized in ideological coherence, but Last Blood relies on reactionary tropes that are right-wing dog whistles. Rambo doesn’t kill a single white person in this movie, and the first person he violently threatens is a woman; the sex-trafficking plot device is just an excuse for Rambo to invade another country.
Despite all the hubbub about this being Rambo’s last go-round, this is basically just a Taken movie in the Lone Wolf’s clothing, with a plot as insipid and boilerplate as that implies. Stallone brings his usual broken gravitas and awkward tenderness to the role, but there’s basically no reason why this had to be a Rambo movie. Save, of course, for the absolutely vicious carnage: stabbings, beheadings and bone-crunching galore. Rambo has always been a bit superhuman, but in this latest entry he’s gone full slasher. The body horror here is relentless, and Rambo’s Bowie knife earns a place alongside Freddy’s finger blades and Jason’s machete.
Anyone looking for emotional resolution from Last Blood has come to the wrong place. Though Stallone is, per usual on his productions, credited as co-screenwriter, I have to wonder if the lack of feeling here has something to do with his decision to pass directorial duties off to journeyman Adrian Grunberg, who has little sense of vision beyond the absurdly complicated action set piece that closes the film. Everything else in this movie is mere window dressing to sinew and flesh, with only the faintest impressions of story and style.
There’s little genuine affect to be found in Last Blood, but its final moments do give our weathered hero something close to an emotional farewell. After literally ripping a man’s beating heart out his chest, Rambo takes a rest in a rocking chair on his front porch, presumably rocking into eternity or until the sun sinks from the sky, whichever happens first. It’s a little like the end of a Western, but I also couldn’t help but think of the many now-sedentary boomers who worship Rambo, sitting on their couches until the end of time, microwaving their brains with the “fair and balanced” perspective. It’s probably safe to assume that Rambo will rise again; that’s how Hollywood works. Whether or not America’s aging generation will stand up and break out of their slumber remains to be seen.
