Machete and the return of action done right

It's about goddamn time. This summer has been full of preening, snarky assholes pretending they knew how to get the job done and bloated, steroid ridden has-been's phoning it in. I have been shocked this last month to see all my fellow internet movie geeks fawning like brain dead 12 year-olds over The Expendables and Piranha, the two worst movies I've seen all year. It's as if everyone suddenly forgot about the necessity for sound narrative mechanics, even in lowbrow entertainment. Sure, I enjoy grade-A bull plop like VanDamme in Lionheart or Seagal in Hard To Kill and Out for Justice. Not just cause I actually saw that shiznit in the theater and have fond, nostalgic memories of broken arms and gratuitous splits, but because as simplistic and elemental as those films were, they told stories a 10 year old could understand and were populated with larger than life heroes and hissable villains. It isn't difficult to make bone headed morality tales drenched in brutal violence entertaining, but I'll be damned if Sylvester Stallone didn't find himself a way with The Expendables.

For the record, Stallone was a god to me growing up. I'm not exaggerating that assertion even one bit. He was more important to me than God, Jesus or Ronald Reagan. The only person as mythic and all consuming a presence in my warped, adolescent imagination as Sly was of course Arnold, but that is another (no doubt coming soon) post. Rambo: First Blood Part Two was the first VHS tape I purchased with my own money and I probably watched it 75 times over the course of the summer of 1987. I could, upon request, act out the entire film as a one man play, replete with sound effects, musical cues and accurate character impersonations. So, before I move on, let me make sure no one is requesting that, cause I'll do it. No takers? Ok, forget it then. The point is, I should have LOVED The Expendables. I adored Rambo 2008 and am a big time Statham fan, so what gives? I'll tell you what gives. It falls apart before even getting out of the gate with the most excruciatingly unwatchable credit sequence ever filmed. Not even a minute and a half in and I was looking at my watch (I don't wear a watch, but you get the idea).

It only gets worse from there. The hallmark of action films is simplicity and this turd drops us face first into a poorly lit, poorly shot and poorly edited Somalian pirate (topical!) rescue by a group of, oh, I don't know, let's say 38 mercenaries, all of whom have different personalities, hang ups, weapons expertise and interpersonal baggage and then expects us to fend for ourselves while it goes about ham fistedly plowing ahead though their incomprehensible and shockingly dull adventures. Everything from there on doesn't make a lick of fucking sense. Whatever the hell is going on between Eric Roberts and the Hispanic dude from Dexter is NOT the makings of a loathsome, two tiered bad guy structure for the good guys to ass kickingly take revenge on. It doesn't make sense and it doesn't inspire our hatred for anything other than Eric Roberts agent. If your action film doesn't have a bad guy you want to see get his, there is no point in watching it. These films are about righteous vengeance and serve their purpose as wish fulfillment because no such thing exists in the real world.

Also, there is a PAINFUL scene where Mickey Rourke tells this pitiful story to Stallone that's supposed to serve as the powerful emotional push for Sly getting over his reservations about MASS MURDER as a way to save a life. Rourke clearly hadn't done more than peruse the script as he mumbles, doubles back over his lines, drools and generally makes an ass of himself, all of which Stallone frames in extreme closeup on Rourke's ruined face. It was hands down the most miserable five minutes of film I've sat through this year and to read Harry Knowles go on about the deep meaning and significance of it in his predictably moronic review was nearly enough to make me want to stop watching film forever. It's an ugly, pointless, horrible film with jagged action scenes that never manage to exhilarate.

As for Piranha, well, fuck that movie. Fuck its post conversion 3-D hatchet job giving me a splitting headache. Fuck its pandering Comic-Con mentality. Fuck its laziness and obvious distaste for its audience. Fuck its ingratiating, faux for-the-fans hi-fiving. Fuck it being a film made for fanboys without any consideration given to telling a story. It's boring, it has no likable characters and it has no wit. It is a film that is so overtly pornographic in its display of female flesh, it somehow becomes un-sexy. An endless parade of indistinguishable, plastic, blow up doll women grinding robotically to crappy techno so as to pad the run time until the obligatory KNB effects reel. I've seen rubbery limbs and gallons of fake blood done before and done better with the added bonus of actually giving a fuck who was getting torn to pieces.

Of course, people will say I'm just being contrary and prudish and a buzzkill. I will not drink the Kool-aid on this film, folks. You can't just show me boobies and bloodshed and expect me to give a damn. Piranha has no tension, no development, no arc. It's not exciting and since you don't ever once care about anyone surviving, there are no stakes. Alexander Aja went from being the most promising horror stylist of the new millennium to an indistinguishable Hollywood sell-out in less than a decade. There is no indication of any individuality, heart or purpose in Piranha. It's a callous, mean film that treats its audience like date rapists, sadists and perverts. So, if I may iterate again, FUCK THAT MOVIE!

When I stated above that it was about goddamn time, I was referring to Machete showing up with little fanfare and kicking the ever loving shit out of these wanna-be exploitation and action films. Now here is a movie that understands simplicity and structures its story accordingly. You have Machete, a stoic, threatening and bad ass (that Rodriguez need only film Trejo in close up to convey this is astonishingly indicative of his magnetism and star power) ex-federale wronged by Steven Seagal's portly south of the border drug lord. He gets wrapped up in a double cross by some political goons and sets out to settle the score. Throw in a puffy Don Johnson as a shady shitkicker and Michelle Rodriguez as the legendary freedom fighter She, and you've got the makings for a rollicking, rock concert of a movie that moves breathlessly from one action set piece to the next with purpose and style to burn. It also manages to be sexy by having attractive women who aren't vapid whores playing actual characters and not shoving their gyrating torso's in our faces every time the film maker had nothing to offer in the way of character or story development. You see, the titllation is supposed to be a by-product of the films overall aesthetic, not the kleenex box that the wags the dog.

I infinitely respect the film makers for crafting Machete as a response to a real world issue they genuinely feel strongly about. Maybe that's what lowbrow film or just plain genre film in general needs more of these days, a reason to exist outside of arousing its leering core audience with explicit sex and violence, which lets be honest here, can be found in more hardcore and plentiful variety elsewhere. With Machete, Rodriguez has created an entire world of gritty cool that will always be fun to visit. A satisfying diversion from the banality of existence that manages to raise a question or two about the way our country works and posits an entirely new kind of hero through which we can vicariously, murderously vent our frustrations and enact our imaginary revenges. THAT is the point of movie like this and Machete did it a damn sight better than anyone else all year long. Here's hoping we get the trilogy promised before the end credits rolled!