Some have since attempted to portray this picture as a misunderstood classic whose scathing, devastating depiction of the corrosive memories of Vietnam was undermined by mediocre sequels. I can’t agree now that I’ve returned to it. True, the movie has a point to make, and it heroically sacrifices an action conclusion for a rapid-fire wailing monologue from Stallone about pals being blown up and hippy filth spitting on him. Ted Kotcheff’s sombre and unforgettable depiction of a wet, dismal Pacific Northwest is atmospheric and memorable. However, the film suffers from divided impulses, trading reality and seriousness for action-movie value, replete with cliffhanger climaxes, snarling music hall villains, Stallone’s martyr/demigod complex, and Jerry Goldsmith’s heroic martial soundtrack. In some ways, Rambo: First Blood Part II more clearly realizes this film’s goals — to be a whoop-ass Commie-kicking, eat-shit-Abbie Hoffmann good time.
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