1) How great is it that David Cronenberg is making crime movies?

2) How great is it that Viggo Mortensen is a movie star?

Loch Ness, Scotland, summer 2001

Back then I was an editor at Abercrombie & Fitch’s A&F Quarterly. I did a lot of great interviews for them, many of which can be found in that sidebar to your left, from Chuck Palahniuk to Underworld to Bettie Page to a TON of comics people, which is really how I became involved in comics in the first place. A travel story assignment for A&F was the reason I was in Scotland, in fact. While I was at A&F I had an employee discount to A&F stores, and one of the few times I used it was to purchase this little gem. It reads “I’m Easy” in baseball-jersey lettering. I don’t know what it says about me that my first thought upon seeing it was that it was a reference to the song Keith Carradine sings in Robert Altman’s Nashville, and that my second thought was that it was a reference to the Commodores song, and that my third thought was that maybe some hip person had actually intended it to be a reference to Faith No More’s cover of the Commodores song, and that only several weeks after I purchased and first wore it did it finally occur to me that it was most likely intended to proclaim that I was readily available sexually.

I bring all this up because, in the words of Stephen King…

Life was such a wheel that no man could stand upon it for long.

And it always, at the end, came round to the same place again.

…and I am in the way of knowing that Abercrombie & Fitch will be relaunching the A&F Quarterly in the U.K. with a Spring Break 2008 issue, and that I will be involved. That’s all I can say at the moment, but stay tuned.

Jon Hastings has begun exploring what he’s termed the Golden Age of American Action Movies. He’s starting by stating the films’ defining characteristics. Besides being action movies (duh), meaning that they’re driven by action scenes in terms of plot and character development, he says

They share two major stylistic/formal elements: (1) a commitment to surface realism and (2) spatial integrity is the cohering idea behind their action sequences.

By #1 he means that “no-nonsense spectacles” without the fancy (artsy?) camerawork of genre stylists like Sergio Leone. I like what he’s getting at here as it articulates something I’ve noticed in my hobby of watching ’80s action movies: they exist to show you the action. You know how most comedies are utilitarian, from a filmic perspective? Shots, lighting, sound, mise en scène are all designed so as to distract as little as possible from the jokes. This is why you can probably count the number of great comedies you’ve seen that also function as beautiful or striking movies on one hand if you remove the ones by Woody Allen or the Coen Brothers first. Well, I think the same is true of the action movies Jon’s talking about. They’re there to wow you with the “action” half of “action movie,” not the “movie half.” Because of this even slight, largely failed deviations from the norm become very noticeable; I was really struck by Sylvester Stallone’s strange freeze-and-dissolve cuts and almost comical overuse of montage sequences in Rocky IV, for example.

Jon’s second point is, he admits, kind of just a way of restating point one in the context of action scenes themselves, especially when he formulated point one thusly:

despite the craziness of the situation, despite the often superhuman feats, despite the frequent fudging of the laws of physics, Golden Age Action Movies present everything with a straight face. There’s no stylization or attempt to put quotation marks around any of the action.

In fact the two points are so blended together that I hope he tries to distinguish them a bit more in the futur, or else just mash ’em together. Anyway, regarding point #2 again, in terms of direct comparisons, he says that rather than Bourne Supremacy-style hand-held cameras and choppy editing (an “impressionistic” approach to shooting action) or John Woo-style operatic slow-mo and lighting (an “expressionistic” approach),

these movies aim for scenes that make sense spatially in terms of how everything is happening. Not that there isn’t fudging and not that the integrity isn’t really an illusion.

Of course. But I think where this criterion needs a little tightening is in the idea of the spacial integrity itself. Thinking of scenes from movies that obviously don’t fit in this category of action film–the House of Blue Leaves sequence from Kill Bill Vol. 1, the subway fight from The Matrix, the three-way lightsaber duel from The Phantom Menace, the treetop chase in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon–it’s clear that a sense of the spatial relationships between the characters themselves and between the characters and the objects in their environment is absolutely key. As a matter of fact I would assert that this is a necessary ingredient to any great action sequence. This is actually something I realized while reviewing countless superhero and genre comics every week for Wizard–a sense of place, a sense of space, a sense of where the characters are in relation to one another and to their surroundings, is the difference between, say, a memorable fight in Miller or Maleev or Lark Daredevil and some generic lasers-shooting-in-all-directions pose-fest from early-90s X-Men.

What I think differentiates the films of the Golden Age of American Action Movies from other great action movies isn’t so much the spatial integrity, which is always important, but how the bodies (or vehicles, which in these films are extensions of bodies) of the characters act within a space. Simply put, I’m saying that in these action movies, the actions and abilities of the combatants may strain credulity, but never do so in an openly obvious way. When John McClane ties a firehose around his waist, jumps from a rooftop, rappels against a glass window, shoots it out in midair and swings through it to safety, it’s something that’s unlikely to happen in real life to say the least, but it’s presented–in the performance, in the filming, in the special effects–as something a human being could conceivably do with his or her body given the right combination of strength, canniness, and luck. Compare that to bullet time, wire-fu, CGI Jedi powers–while when done right there’s still a palpable physicality to it all, it’s obviously intended to call attention to the superhumanness. The reaction from the audience there is “wow!” The reaction from the audience in the case of Golden Age Action is “whoa!” or more bluntly, “holy shit!”

It’s a really fascinating post and you should read it. I look forward to reading what else he has to say on the subject.

Cryptozoologist Loren Coleman defends the (in)famous Patterson-Gimlin Bigfoot footage–the one of the big ape walking through a clearing in the forest that you’ve seen a million times–as its 40th anniversary approaches next month. Actually, his list of points in its favor is more a defense of the entire sighting than just the film itself, which has me a bit puzzled since if the film is fake, we can assume that accounts of the creature’s effect on the expedition’s horses or its aroma are also bogus. This is all interesting to me because Coleman is extremely hostile to pranks and forgeries, yet still feels that this frequently analyzed, frequently alleged-to-be-phony-by-John-Landis film is the real deal. Then again, since it’s one of the few remaining non-debunked blockbuster bits of evidence for a major cryptid out there (Surgeon’s Photograph, anyone?), its importance to the field, and therefore to the field’s practitioners, may have an effect on analyses thereof.

I try it again. It is a bit like touching a red-hot wire, but there is no heat, only the sensation of heat. There is no burn mark or blister.

Its makers claim this infernal machine is the modern face of warfare. It has a nice, friendly sounding name, Silent Guardian.

I am told not to call it a ray-gun, though that is precisely what it is (the term “pain gun” is maybe better, but I suppose they would like that even less).

And, to be fair, the machine is not designed to vaporise, shred, atomise, dismember or otherwise cause permanent harm.

But it is a horrible device nonetheless, and you are forced to wonder what the world has come to when human ingenuity is pressed into service to make a thing like this.

[…]

When turned on, it emits an invisible, focused beam of radiation – similar to the microwaves in a domestic cooker – that are tuned to a precise frequency to stimulate human nerve endings.

It can throw a wave of agony nearly half a mile.

Because the beam penetrates skin only to a depth of 1/64th of an inch, it cannot, says Raytheon, cause visible, permanent injury.

But anyone in the beam’s path will feel, over their entire body, the agonising sensation I’ve just felt on my fingertip. The prospect doesn’t bear thinking about.

“I have been in front of the full-sized system and, believe me, you just run. You don’t have time to think about it – you just run,” says George Svitak, a Raytheon executive.

–Michael Hanlon, “Run away the ray-gun is coming : We test US army’s new secret weapon,” the Daily Mail

What happens when it’s used on someone unable to run? It won’t be long before we find out, will it?

Shoot ‘Em Up is a shitty movie. I mean that literally: At least two scenes involve the feces of an infant being smeared across someone or something in all its brownish-green, Vertigo Comics color palette glory. The ostensible reason for this is because the movie involves a gunsel and a prostitute attempting to save a baby from assassins, and hence the baby shit. But the real reason is for the filmmakers to show us that that’s how far out they’ll go! That’s if you didn’t catch the part where they jammed a carrot through a guy’s throat, or through a guy’s eye. Or where a john looks up from Monica Bellucci’s awe-inspiring breasts with her milk dribbling down his chin. Or where another john moans and groans up against a dumpster as Bellucci sucks his cock off frame. Or where a woman who’s just given birth is shot in the head and left in a stairway by the hero with one breast exposed, with said exposed breast of a dead woman getting a close-up as our hero leaves, and another as the bad guy takes a look at her, and a third and final one a while later as the bad guy checks it out, lasciviously fondles it, then sniffs his hand after the fact.

In other words, Shoot ‘Em Up is an icky movie in which the shit-smearing is all too appropriate, because yes it’s far out, but it’s also unpleasant and who wants to see that? The fact that it’s knowingly far out–it is called Shoot ‘Em Up, after all–only makes things worse. Why should Paul Giamatti engage in necrophiliac groping in a movie whose ostensible goal is to be Kung Fu Hustle with shooting instead of kicking?

Maybe that tonal inconsistency will hook fans of stuff like The Host, but for me the laughs (well, “laughs,” because nothing in this is terribly funny except for one bit about drivers who don’t signal while changing lanes, a bit that’s immediately undone by a bout of wanton property destruction that is a lot more inconsiderate than our hero’s pet peeve about signaling), anyway for me the “laughs” don’t leaven the icky stuff at all–they make me feel like I’m being either pandered to or condescended to or both by that icky stuff by filmmakers who know better. I got the same vibe from the gun-control message that pops up rather incongruously in the fourth act. I totally get the point–there’s nothing about enjoying gun violence in the movies that makes gun violence okay in real life–but first of all that’s a truism, and second of all, again, there might as well be a subtitle reading “we’re slumming” running across the bottom of the screen every time Clive Owen shoots someone in the torso.

Thanks to the periodic Manly Movie Mamajamas that my friends and I get together for every few months–in which we gather at someone’s house, eat junk food, get drunk, and enjoy a triple bill of extremely macho movies–I’ve seen quite a few action films of ’80s vintage in the recent past. At last I understand why Reagan-era culture warriors thought movies like Rambo were undermining America’s moral fabric. This is because movies like Rambo were undermining America’s moral fabric. Rambo, Red Dawn, Rocky IV, Tango & Cash, Road House–it’s almost difficult to describe how gratuitously violent these films are, how much these films are unimaginable without violence, how much the violence is woven unthinkingly into what makes them work so goddamn well, unless you’ve seen them. They make Shoot ‘Em Up look like a Noel Coward comedy of manners. How? Allow me to demonstrate with this scene involving Mikhail, the bad guy from the 1985 Chuck Norris vs. invading Communists actioner Invasion U.S.A.. (Originally found at the wonderful So Bad It’s Good.)

Don’t bother trying to out-batshit-crazy a movie that contains a scene like that. You can’t! It isn’t knowing, it isn’t camp, it isn’t funny, it isn’t pretty, it isn’t prettified with in-jokes, irony, or Looney Tunes references. It’s approximately 90 minutes of people being shot to death with machine guns–cops, bystanders, women in shopping malls, office workers, Cubans, fucking everybody. It’s insane, a gleeful kind of crazy you can only get from the movies. I love it. I’m sure it was made as a cheap cash-in that no one thought twice about, but that too is part of its magic. It is what it is, like Yahweh. You go po-faced or you don’t go at all. The second you add wink-wink nudge-nudge you confront the audience with idea that on some level you know better. And to hell with that.

I don’t know, part of my principled defense of those indefensible action flicks may just be blog bullshitting. I think those ’80s action movies are extraordinary films for how guilelessly manipulative they are, is mainly what I’m saying–today, in the post-Bay/Bruckheimer world, the popcorn explosion flicks are so much slicker about it, or they put it in quotes like Shoot ‘Em Up does. And maybe I’m inventing a principled objection to Shoot ‘Em Up where none exists. I think that ultimately my real beefs with the movie are simple. The jokes aren’t funny (late-period Pierce Brosnan Bond wordplay, mostly). Worse, the action isn’t really innovative or well-choreographed or even particularly bloody. For every memorably sanguine offing, there’s like forty miscellaneous goons getting popped in their black leather jackets in medium shot. It’s like the squib shipment got sent to the wrong set, and maybe if I go see that movie where the Rock has to take care of a little girl, all of a sudden her ballet class will erupt in a Wild Bunch orgy of bloodletting. There’s certainly nothing that’ll push boundaries or stick in your head like Sin City or 300 or Kill Bill, to use three idiosyncratic American action films to which this one will inevitably be compared. (I’d compare it to the John Woo Hong Kong action flicks that have been cited as inspiration, but I don’t think much of those either, to be honest. End already, Hard Boiled!) If there were, that’d go a long way to replicating the gonzo thrill you get from watching Sylvester Stallone and Dolph Lundgren punch each other in the face for ten minutes at the end of Rocky IV, but you don’t get anything like that. You don’t even see Monica Bellucci’s tits or Clive Owen’s ass. Instead, you get Paul Giamatti groping the exposed nipple of a mother who was shot in the head minutes after getting birth, and a baby’s shit smeared on a henchman’s face. The Bugs Bunny riffs can’t help you.

Ain’t It Cool News’s Moriarty is the site’s man in The Mist, Frank Darabont’s adaptation of Stephen King’s much-beloved novella. He’s seen an early cut and, unsurprisingly, is in total fucking love with it and wants to marry it and have a million of its tentacled babies. As good as this movie could be, it could also be really, really bad–slick and hamfisted and predictable and bad–and I’m reserving judgment.

After much anticipation I saw Dragon Wars (aka D-War) yesterday. It’s a strange beast because it really is about 50% eh, 50% awesome, and ymmv as to whether the latter outweighs the former.

In terms of the awesome, the monster material is really dynamite. I’m baffled by the complains alleging that the CGI work is SciFi Original-level terrible. You can certainly tell it’s CGI–at the risk of repeating myself around here, we’re not talking Weta Digital–but (again at the risk of repeating myself) you could tell King Kong was stop-motion animation, couldn’t you? The real issue is the visual imagination behind the effects, and in this case it was excellent. Several images made me gasp out loud or laugh with delight: A giant serpent weaving its way up a crowded city avenue loaded with cars, tossing them into the buildings lining either side with explosions and debris galore. A helicopter pilot flying low down a skyscraper-lined street, looking up to see the side of a massive building literally crawling with winged creatures, then a cut to a shot nearly straight-down the building right at the creatures themselves. Cut-away vistas of a bustling metropolis engulfed with combat between the military and the invading army of creatures and their demonic warrior handlers, on the streets, on the buildings, in the sky. A Korean dragon hovers vertically in the air against a backdrop of stormclouds. And most breathtaking of all, the two protagonists isolated atop a towering skyscraper as the giant serpent, coiled around it, rears its head yards above them, while the camera swirls around to offer a vertigo-inducing panorama of the city that surrounds the scene. At their best–and their best is very, very good–Dragon Wars‘ giant-monster images offer the same terrifying, awesome (in the original sense) sense of scale, sweep, and immensity as The Lord of the Rings, Peter Jackson’s King Kong, even that masterful bird’s-eye-view shot in the clouds from Hitchcock’s The Birds.

The problem, as you might have guessed, is a script that’s almost completely inadequate to the task of supporting these images with an involving plot or interesting characters. Time and again, when it comes to developing its leads, delineating relationships, or creating a sense of the stakes at hand, the film is content to assert or intone rather than establish through dialogue, performance, or visual framing. We’re required to believe that leads Jason Behr and Amanda Brooks are reincarnated lovers whose passion is destined by heaven, but it’s tough to imagine them calling each other after an awkward first date. Poor Robert Forster really phones in a role as the wise old man, with his tough-guy accent marring every attempt at playing Basil Exposition with regards to the Good Imoogi and the mark of the red dragon and on and on and on. Contrary to several reviews I’ve read, the constant mystical mumbo-jumbo infodumps didn’t bother me at all–I mean, I wasn’t expecting Ursula K. LeGuin, I just wanted some basic set-up for the giant monsters, and that’s what I got. But the film’s ability to sell the mystical mumbo jumbo, to create a sense of urgency without resorting to a giant snake showing up to eat a house or whatever, was nonexistent.

I hit a matinee (score one for unemployment!) and thought it was seven bucks well spent; the strength of the monster stuff was worth sitting through the weakness of the other stuff. If you’re an intolerant type you might wanna wait for a rental. I think all of us are waiting for someone to apply that visual imagination–a “what if the Battle of the Pelennor Fields took place in Manhattan?” imagination–to a film whose other aspects are its equal.

Man alive, I waited ever so impatiently to be able to post this, and now it can be done!

As readers of this blog, or anyone who knows me really, are likely aware, I am a big David Bowie fan. I also enjoy comics. When I discovered that several of my coworkers had themed sketchbooks in which they coaxed various artists into all drawing the same character–Nova or Lockjaw or Yoda or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, say–I knew what had to happen. And at MoCCA this past summer, happen it did. And so…

SEAN T. COLLINS’S DAVID BOWIE SKETCHBOOK

Jeffrey Brown: Jeff grabbed the sketchbook from me during an afterparty and furiously produced this elfin rendition. Bowie as homunculus.

Charles Burns: Even though I’ve interviewed him before, I was still enormously starstruck by watching Burns draw live and in person, not least because of how much I love the Bowie imagery in Black Hole. Burns didn’t use photo ref, but I’m not sure if that’s because he didn’t want to or just because he didn’t realize I had it. I don’t care either way.

Brian Chippendale: The only color image, and the only one to riff on early-90s bearded Bowie. “Bow down to Bowie” indeed–he looks like a real rock and roll animal here.

Becky Cloonan: Becky was extremely gung-ho about drawing David, perhaps more than any other artist. Given her Pirates of Coney Island and East Coast Rising gigs, she naturally went for the late-glam pirate look. “As a general rule…Bowie does it better!” Truer words, my friends.

John Cuneo: Cuneo is primarily an illustrator, and he’s a big honking deal in that world. MoCCA was his first comic con and this was his first sketch request, and he was really amused/bemused by the specificity. After some self-effacement, he tore the goddamn roof off the book, even matching the photoref he more or less randomly chose with the era (Diamond Dogs–note the tail) with no help. People who’ve looked at the sketchbook say “this is my favorite” a lot.

Robert Goodin: Goodin’s table was set up next to ours at MoCCA, and I grabbed him last minute. He’s the only guy to go for the “Space Oddity”-era perm.

Paul Hornschemeier: A definite Young Americans lounge-lizard vibe to this one.

Michael Kupperman: This was the most painstakingly drawn sketch in the book, at least of the ones I watched happen. I handed Kupperman the book open to Gary Panter’s sketch so as to be impressive, but he took this as a request to sketch on the same page, which he did. He handed the finished product back saying “This is NOT worthy of being on the same page as Panter’s,” which I think is selling himself short, but I was bummed out for making him feel that way nonetheless.

Vasilis Lolos: Vasilis, like Paul Pope and Charles Burns, eschewed photo ref. You could tell that this Bowie had been in his head for a while.

Anders Nilsen: From my standpoint on the other side of the table, watching Anders draw this upside-down, I couldn’t figure out what was going on in this sketch until he turned the book back around and gave it to me. This sketch seems to get to people.

Bryan Lee O’Malley: Bryan knew exactly which era he wanted to tackle–the Thin White Duke. This tends to be a lot of people’s favorite sketch, and Bryan took a picture of it himself before he gave the book back, so I guess he dug it too.

Gary Panter: Panter was the first artist I approached to do a Bowie sketch, thinking (correctly) that a) this would be awesome in and of itself and b) having Gary Panter in your sketchbook will go a long way toward convincing other artists to go along with this cockamamie idea. He was game but concerned that he wouldn’t remember what Bowie looked like–then blam, out came my book of photoref (BowieStyle), and off he went.

Paul Pope: Unlike virtually everyone else who was nice enough to draw for me, Paul a) dove right for the virgin first page of the book (and his idea coincidentally made a great kick-off image) and b) didn’t need photo reference at all. Note the mistaken label of “SPX” in the dateline–he caught this right away but didn’t want to screw up the sketch by scribbling it out.

Zak Sally: When I pitched him on the Bowie idea, Sally immediately brought up the recent incident where an audience member lobbed a lollipop at David’s eye during a show, and lo behold that’s what he drew. Note the microphone cord.

Frank Santoro: I was really excited to get a Santoro sketch because his comic with Ben Jones, Cold Heat, captures the Ziggy-era Bowie mystique and appeal as well as anything I’ve read, even though it isn’t about Bowie.

Adrian Tomine: I find Tomine’s work very sexy so I suppose I expected something glammer, but his Bowie (which I believe was the tiniest rendition) has a nervous, almost fragile air. And the surprisingly popular pirate look makes another appearance.

Then there were the ones that got away: Alison Bechdel (I missed her signing by literally 30 seconds), Bill Sienkiewicz (a no-show), Nick Bertozzi (he promised to do it at a future time when he could take it slow), and Hope Larson (she felt like she couldn’t do David justice). We’ll see what the future brings.

Here’s the link to the whole shebang as a Flickr set. Hopefully I’ll have more to add after SPX next month. And oh how I wish I’d made it to the superhero-artist bonanzas that were San Diego or Chicago this year. Again, look to the future!

UPDATE: See more of my Bowie sketchbook here!

Well, how’s this for a folly: I’ve been laid off. Hey, no hard feelings. The upshot around here is that I can blog about comics again, so we’ll see how that goes.

CIA Bans Water-Boarding in Terror Interrogations

(Via Andrew Sullivan.)

Never let it be said that goofball hipsters are good for nothing. This fine fellow is sporting a shirt that reminds me of that corpse they find upstairs in the Night of the Living Dead house, and good for him. (Misshapes, via the never-miss-a-week Blue States Lose.)

This week’s Horror Roundtable asks what horror-related event from the past we wish we’d been present for. My answer sort of begs the question: Is it possible to “be there” for what I’m pretty sure is an urban legend?

Underworld – Dark Train (Live Central Park 9-14-07)

In the shadow of no substance?

I will never understand so many comics readers’ apparent desire for “hugely popular” comics, and the implied belief that that popularity goes hand in hand with being “aesthetically vital”….I don’t care if comics in the future are aimed at 13-year-old girls or 31-year-old boy-men or both. I don’t care what genre they fit into, or what country they’re produced in. All I want are comics that are good.

—Timothy Hodler

Right on:

After all (the theory goes), one must be interested in what is popular and therefore relevant. (You see similar arguments being made against comics readers who don’t read a lot of manga, incidentally.) My question is, what is it about hip hop (and manga, I guess) that has enabled popularity to replace quality in terms of the reason why a listener/reader/critic should or should not get into a particular work?

—Me, March 2006

The need for my opinions on this week’s issues of B.P.R.D.: Killing Ground, Green Lantern, Daredevil, Punisher War Journal, Ultimate Spider-Man, and The Walking Dead is the disease. Wizard’s Thursday Morning Quarterback is the cure.

Just found this in my inbox: DeepDiscount.com is holding a “buy 2 get 1 free” sale on all of Anchor Bay’s horror DVDs, from Abominable to Zombi. Am I the only one who had no idea they had that many releases?

God bless America
Land that I love
Stand beside her
And guide her
Through the night with a light from above
From the mountains
To the prairies
To the oceans
White with foam
God bless America
My home sweet home

—–
As he followed her inside Mother Abagail’s house he thought it would be better, much better, if they did break down and spread. Postpone organization as long as possible. It was organization that always seemed to cause the problems. When the cells began to clump together and grow dark. You didn’t have to give the cops guns until the cops couldn’t remember the names…the faces…

Fran lit a kerosene lamp and it made a soft yellow glow. Peter looked up at them quietly, already sleepy. He had played hard. Fran slipped him into a nightshirt.

All any of us can buy is time, Stu thought. Peter’s lifetime, his children’s lifetimes, maybe the lifetimes of my great-grandchildren. Until the year 2100, maybe, surely no longer than that. Maybe not that long. Time enough for poor old Mother Earth to recycle herself a little. A season of rest.

“What?” she asked, and he realized he had murmured it aloud.

“A season of rest,” he repeated.

“What does that mean?”

“Everything,” he said, and took her hand.

Looking down at Peter he thought: Maybe if we tell him what happened, he’ll tell his own children. Warn them. Dear children, the toys are death–they’re flashburns and radiation sickness, and black, choking plague. These toys are dangerous; the devil in men’s brains guided the hands of God when they were made. Don’t play with these toys, dear children, please, not ever. Not ever again. Please…please learn the lesson. Let this empty world be your copybook.

“Frannie,” he said, and turned her around so he could look into her eyes.

“What, Stuart?”

“Do you think…do you think people ever learn anything?”

She opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, fell silent. The kerosene lamp flickered. Her eyes seemed very blue.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. She seemed unpleased with her answer; she struggled to say something more; to illuminate her first response; and could only say it again:

I don’t know.

–Stephen King, The Stand

Here’s another cataclysmically violent trailer for John Rambo.

Amazing.