Rambo: Last Blood (2019) | Film Review

No one seems to love a Sylvester Stallone character more than Sylvester Stallone. And no filmmaker had the foresight to grab ahold of the current wave of nostalgia by the throat, long before it was in vogue, and drop the visceral thrill bomb of ‘80s action movies into the more contemplative blockbusters of the last few years. Before anyone even understood how to recapture that early machismo magic, here was Sly cranking out The Expendables, a gloriously enthralling trilogy mixing the best-of-the-past with the not-quite-yet of the present that baked up a glorious offering of bombastic joy. He returned to Rocky several times, and took another stroll with a certain PTSD-addled murder machine back in 2008. And finally we have arrived at 2019, and the end – for now – of that very same Vietnam vet with Rambo: Last Blood.

I’ll tell you what I won’t do, I will not toss out random diatribes attributed to my own personal political leanings like far too many of my fellow critics have done on this title. Outside of First Blood (an astoundingly brilliant and topical take on the mistreatment of American veterans by its own citizens), the Rambo franchise has almost exclusively traded in the business of revenge porn. Period. The villains are one-note and the motives are simple: John Rambo wants to rest but peace always alludes him, and his violent nature ultimately succumbs to truly brutal acts of aggression.

The plot for this theoretic last stand picks up where his last journey ended, a farm deep in the heart of Arizona. John Rambo (Sylvester Stallone) is now a rancher of sorts, raising his beloved niece, Gabrielle (a charmingly naïve Yvette Monreal) since his sister passed away. Abandoned by her father, Gabrielle learns of his location south of the Mexican border. Ignoring Rambo’s pleas, Gabrielle hightails it to Mexico and is almost immediately snatched up by a sex trafficking cartel. Upon learning of his niece gone missing, Rambo – with the help of a journalist (Paz Vega) who should have been named Deus Ex Machina – decides to do whatever is necessary to bring Gabrielle back, even if it means waging a war on the cartel itself.

The story isn’t rocket science, but I ask you: does it need to be? Does every single action flick have to rise to the occasion of cerebral stimulation? And in terms of all of the politicizing of the movie in certain circles, if Rambo: Last Blood is doing almost exactly what all of the previous movies have done, and does not itself seem interested in coughing up a political lesson, why do so many choose to take it that way? Because that’s what those two issues are: personal choices.

Sylvester Stallone – despite his curled lip, bulging biceps, and caveman-level speech patterns – is an extremely intelligent filmmaker. No one knows this character more than he at this point, and clearly the team on this one were aimed at giving audiences one more cathartic punch to the gut as John Rambo wages a sadistic assault on anyone who wrongs anyone he chooses to care about, or throws him even a hint of side-eye. Generic storytelling? I suppose. There are a few narrative loopholes that induce a bit of eye-rolling like the total lack of law enforcement involvement, nor has the U.S. border ever looked so completely unsecured. But is it entertaining as hell? HOORAH!

Let’s be fair, when you are five movies deep into a series, you already know if you enjoy this level of brotastic man-slicing. If you are searching for an artistic accompaniment to La La Land, Rambo: Last Blood isn’t for you. Director Adrian Grunberg instead delivers an intense, balls-to-the-wall spectacle of carnage that builds slowly, brick-by-brick, until Rambo must unleash his utter wrath on anyone who ever had an inkling of an improper thought of Gabrielle. I was in the audience and was leery about looking too fondly at Rambo’s niece. Unlike far too many gun ballets these days, Grunberg tightens every aspect of the film and leaves us just on the edge of our seats as he tosses unnecessary side stories to the wind and rockets towards the finish line where we are treated to an exclusive peak at John’s very own amusement park.

It should be noted, Rambo’s war is not for the squeamish. Spikes to the head, carved faces, shotgun blasts to the skull, and even pulling out an exposed bone to aid in torture. Rambo is not waiting for anyone to express their inner feelings or explain their actions away with idle chatter. Get out of his way or welcome to the serving end of a machete seems to be his mission statement.

As for Stallone? In 1982, Sly gave arguably his best performance to date in First Blood. Since that film, Rambo has exploded into a cinematic folk tale of sorts. Everyone has an opinion on who John Rambo is, but no one is more acquainted with the aging savage than Stallone himself. Much like war is in John’s DNA, Rambo is in Stallone’s. He walks with the weight of his actions on his enormous shoulders. He seethes with the rage of a tortured soul. And he avenges with the might of a barbarian.

Rocky might be his baby, but Rambo is Sylvester Stallone’s id. And it was an honor to head back into action with him one last time.