Beaver Creek, Utah is a real tough town - I mean, it makes Park City look like Disneyland. Naturally, it's gonna take a real touch chick to clean up this real tough town. Enter ex-"big city cop" China O'Brien (Cynthia Rockrock) - a "chop suey fighter" with all the right moves to survive this war zone of guns, chainsaw attacks and 3.2 percent alcohol limits.
This straight-to-VHS action blast sold quite a few cassettes back in '91. Why? Why not? Remember, this was the Year of V.I. Warshawski. If you wanna see a 5' 3" redhead beat a redneck across the balls with a mic stand, there's worse uses of 90 minutes. Like China O'Brien II.
Watch it here.
Watch a "Making Of" featurette here.
It's pretty standard police procedure: if you think your problem's weapons and gangs, it's probably just a magical Japanese man. Red Sun Rising pairs action superstar Don "The Dragon" Wilson (Hollywood Safari, Cyber Tracker 2) with Lieutenant Worf's ex Terry Farrell (Paper Dolls, Becker). Wilson plays a Japanese cop, Farrell an American one. You'd think these two would get along swimmingly. Trouble is, Farrell hates "Japs" more than your typical Pearl Harbor vet. Somehow these two are gonna have to get along to defeat James Lew and his mastery of basic black casual attire.
Will Terry Farrell discover the truth? Will Don Wilson discover the truth behind the truth? And will either of of them discover the truth behind the truth perpendicular to the other truth slightly to the left of the actual truth? Find out in Red Sun Rising.
Watch it here.
Like a porcupine fucking a basketball, Samurai Cop must be seen to be believed. From the editing to acting, it's a pastiche of all varieties of cinematic incompetency. Little wonder it rendered lead Matt Hannon's career stillborn.
The film oozes sexual innuendo from front to back. No situation is too bizarre for some sort of ribald exchange. Often these come out of nowhere. As in this case, where a nurse - apparently finding it impossible to resist Hannon's smokey eyes and cascading hair - engages in some wildly unprofessional crotch grabbing. I smell a lawsuit.
The Movie: Under Siege (1994)
The Perp: Casey Ryback (Steven Seagal)
The Victim: Bill Strannix (Tommy Lee Jones)
SPECIAL ACTION NOTE: For our readers South of the Border, today’s death is presented with Spanish subtitles.
Under Siege kicked off a three year-period known as Tommy Lee Mania – in which character actor Tommy Lee Jones would appear in every other film the Hollywood Dream Machine churned out. In this one, Tommy plays tie-dyed harmonica blower Bill Strannix, who fronts a rockin’ white blues band with a little sideline selling Tomahawk cruise missiles on the black market. Steven Seagal, more of World music fan himself, takes exception to Tommy’s brand of the blues. He expresses this sentiment with a knife through the Coronal suture. After filming, Steve retired to his trailer to cut a few hot demos for his genre-spanning meisterwerk, Songs From the Crystal Cave.
80’s cinema was rife with inspirational anthems of victory. Lyrics chronicled men and women with their backs against the wall - whose indomitable American spirit allowed them to triumph over the odds and defeat Communism, ninjas, high school bullies, power mad industrialists, narcoterrorists and guerilla insurgents.
Some of these rousing melodies still resonate with us today (“You’re the Best”, “Winner Takes All”, “The Touch”). Some are long forgotten (“Fight to Survive”, “Tales of Power”). And some are “Talons of the Eagle”.
Talons of the Eagle was a tepid effort from “The Lebanese Steven Seagal”, Jalal Merhi. It marked the first of his three collaborations with Tae Bo huckster, Billy Blanks. The movie is of little interest unless you’re curious about what ever happened to “that chick who replaced Suzanne Somers on Three’s Company”.
The theme song though, is something else entirely. To a chugging, mid-tempo backdrop of Toronto’s least-enthused studio musicians, Jonas J. Patricko implores that “you’ve got to learn to play the game, always stay cool” and that “you’ve got to stay strong to survive.” As it blares past the two-minute mark, one longs for the lyrical profundity of Stan Bush…the studio wizardry of Jan Hammer…and then with the last off-key wailing of the wedding band reject back-up singer it ends – and peace once again falls upon the land.
But how long before Patricko strikes again?
Keep your firearms at the ready, Actionettes.
In these tough economic times we must be prudent and confine ourselves to a strict budget. That’s why, although we may have certain moral objections, we may find ourselves stalking the soulless, fluorescent-lit aisles of Wal-Mart; and while there, we may stop ourselves from purchasing that 32 oz. bottle of crisp, refreshing Dr. Pepper and instead reaching for a bottle of tepid, uninspiring Sam’s Choice Dr. Thunder.
"Consider yourself forewarned, Mr. Grunier: while you’re sleeping I may sneak into your hotel room, rend open your chest with my bare quivering hands and consume your still-beating heart. I apologize - this is a compulsion I cannot control."By the same token, if you’re a producer who’s assembling an exhilarant action package tailor-made for the talents of one Jean-Claude Van Damme but budgets are tight, you may find yourself casting the Sam’s Choice equivalent of Monsieur Van Damme: Olivier Gruner.
The Circuit (2002) ups the ante, by not only starring the budget-line JCVD, but by also lifting the plot from his classic 1988 effort, Bloodsport. Olivier stars as the improbably named Dirk Longstreet (nom de porn?) former "Eastern Seaboard Champion" of an illegal underground fighting society. Dirk’s since gone straight, as a track coach at Generic Local College State University Polytech A&M - but alas, T-R-O-U-B-L-E has a habit of finding the harried French Shotokan Master.
"My brother scores a cameo in the new Rocky movie and I can only swing a role in this PIECE OF SHHHIIIIIIIIITTT!!!"See, his little brother Jeremy (Ilya Melnikoff) has gotten himself in gambling debt to some pretty rough customers and the only way to pay off his debt is compete in the Circuit, a deadly underground fight club. Now the only way to get his brother out is for Dirk to fight! Thank Satan the living corpse of Billy Drago is there to help him freshen up his kill skills.
Yes, this plot is as well-worn and toothless as meth-addicted Atlantic City boardwalk whore and no, director Jalal Merhi does little to inject it with any fresh ideas or compelling twists. It’s further dogged by glacial pacing and bland fight choreography, in spite of including several of your favorite fighting stars you’ve only sweated over in the pages of Black Belt Magazine including, but scarcely limited to, the Dragon Twins and Billy Blanks’ brother!
Laverne Montoya as Circuit Audience Member 37: Ms. Montoya gives by the far, the standout performance of the entire film.Apparently, The Circuit made the prerequisite $235 in profit that merits a sequel in the Direct-To-DVD world, as it was immediately followed by The Circuit 2: The Final Punch later that very same year. This film has the habit of popping up on cable every once in while - and if you should see it in your program guide, avoid it like a charging Ebola-infected rhinoceros during mating season.
The Movie: American Samurai (1992)
The Perp: Andrew ‘Drew’ Collins (David Bradley)
The Victim: Kenjiro (Mark Dacascos)
After losing in the final round of Live Blade, Kenjiro tries to pull the ol’ hara-kiri fakeout - but you gotta wake up pretty early in the morning to fling a Samurai sword through Drew Collins’ back...
From the title you might mistake this for some sort of precursor to Tom Cruise’s Glory-meets-Mr. Baseball epic The Last Samurai (2003). You’d be wrong. It sucks just as much (Oh yeah, I said it!) but this is just another in series Bloodsport-come-latelies that flooded the direct-to-video market in the early 90s.
Move locations to Los Angeles. Ace reporter Drew wakes up one balmy night to be assaulted by thugs sent by Kenjiro to retrieve the sacred katana. Now swordless, Drew flies out on assignment to Istanbul to investigate the death of a fellow reporter. Turns out the dude was filleted ... with a sacred katana!
You can pretty much guess how all this ends. Bolo kills Ogre. Frank Dux kills Bolo. FIN.
Responding to the collective yawn of VCR owners everywhere - Bradley slipped back into the role of the American Ninja once more. For his part, Dacascos would make a personal vow: never play a villain again. Leave that to the experts.
Cinema history is filled with classic director-actor pairings: Fellini and Mastroianni. Ford and Wayne. Scorsese and DeNiro. Art Camacho and Don ‘The Dragon’ Wilson is not one of them.
Beginning in 1995, the duo has bumbled their way through four outings, each worst than the last, but their 2004 offering X-Treme Fighter just might mark their lowest of low points.
"Oh my God! I just had a nightmare that I made SEVEN Bloodfist sequels!"Imagine some bastard hate child of Tron and a martial arts demonstration at your local mall and you’re on the right track. Even the ill-at-ease Lorenzo Lamas seems to have too much ‘artistic credibility’ to show up for more than a day of shooting ... but I guess this was BEFORE Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus.
Someone long ago said that writing about music is like dancing about architecture, the same can be said for writing about movies. So in that spirit, I’ll tarry no further. Ladies and gents, X-Treme Fighter in all its truncated glory:
Okay, here’s the scenario: You and your new husband are engaging in a little he-in’ and she-in’ on the kitchen counter when suddenly a helicopter hovers into your backyard and kidnaps your only daughter. A man calls demanding one million dollars. What do you do?
If you answered call up your domestically-abusive cop ex-husband and bed-hopping kickboxing instructor ex-boyfriend you’re following the line of logic that writers Jenö Hodi and Paul Wolansky have drawn through American Kickboxer 2. And what an odd couple these two make! Kickboxer David (Evan Lurie) is a self-loving, health food-eating libertine. Policeman Mike (Dale “Apollo” Cook) is straight-talkin’, beer-swillin’ good ol’ boy. Talk about a clash of personalities! These two unlikely partners just might save the day ... that is, if they don’t kill each other first!
Anyway, Lillian (Kathy Shower) ropes in her two former suitors by telling each of them that they are the father of little Suzie and then, as they say, we are off to the races. It seems wherever these two go, trouble follows and it manifests itself in hilariously incompetent fight choreography. Of particularly note is the roadhouse ruckus at the “secret mercenary hangout” (which is inconspicuously located right on Hollywood Blvd.). Casting - judging by the wooden acting and obvious punch-pulling - seems to have been pooled from whatever regulars just happened to be in the bar that night.
And if David and Mike’s adversaries can’t beat ‘em with their fists, they try to slay ‘em with their wit. Or maybe just sucker punch them while they wrap their brains around such inscrutable Zen koans as: “You know the difference between justice and revenge? Justice is when somebody does it, revenge is when you do it!”
Lurie and Cook may be the stars here, and David Graf (Police Academy’s Sgt. Tackleberry) may provide the celebrity wattage, but the film indisputably belongs to one man:
He strides the film like a Filipino Colossus - tongue flicking, roaring exultantly, gracefully propelling his impressively brawny bulk through two epic screen battles.
What became of him? Perhaps he lost his life combating Communist insurgents in the Bicol Peninsula. Or possibly he lives a quiet life with family and children in the Manila suburbs. This matters not, for he’s preserved forever in celluloid for future generations to bask in his eternal glory.
Last lines. Those parting words that echo on as we fade to black. “Well, nobody’s perfect.” “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” "Forget it, Jake... it's Chinatown." Often a single pithy phrase can elucidate the essence of an entire film.
Consider the last line from Rage and Honor (1992). Australian ex-pat cop Preston Michaels (Richard Norton) hitches a ride to anywhere from a nameless good ol’ boy in a mustard-yellow pick-up. The trucker, in a flabby stab at small talk, inquires if the Aussie is enjoying his visit to the States. Michaels stares right through him. The trucker turns and issues a thick stream of chaw out the window. He turns back and shrugs, “Aw, who gives a shit?”
There’s not much to “give a shit” about in writer-director Terence H. Winkless’s middling effort. At its heart, it’s a story of sibling rivalry. As children, Kris Fairchild (Cynthia Rothrock) and Conrad Drago (Brian Thompson), were the victims of a vicious family assault that turned the little darlings into a pair of orphans. They were adopted by a sensei who schooled them in the martial arts. But our young Conrad, he had hate in his heart, and he took his revenge upon his parents’ murderers. This did not please the sensei - for revenge is an act without honor - and he set Conrad free to the mean streets of Los Angeles.
Flash forward two decades. Roll film. Kris is now an inner-city school teacher who also runs her deceased master’s dojo. Conrad has become a crime kingpin. He spends his days ensconced in his shady criminal lair - engaging in various forms of self-abuse, chop-sockying ice-blocks in half and bedding his psycho-sexual moll, Rita Carrion (Terri Treas). Inevitably, brother and sister will meet for one final confrontation - but in between we are treated to a convoluted plot of drugs, dirty cops, voyeurism and a lot of dull, poorly photographed fight sequences.
Brian Thompson’s sinisterly subdued performance is one of the few things to recommend here. As our leads, Rothrock is glassy and vacant - thankfully, partner Norton has his own raffish charm and he’s wisely been given all the best lines. Their comic-foil, Stephen Davies turns in a cheerily loose-limbed burlesque as Baby, a drug-addled former junk bond trader. But the film’s best moments belong to Alex Datcher. Her Hanna the Hun is the Grande Dame of a Sapphic sisterhood of lace-and-leather toughies. She plays it big: like a back-alley Eartha Kitt in a pair of torn fish-nets. She slowly savors every carefully elocuted line, letting them hang in the air with lip-smacking relish. She genuinely seems to be having fun. If only we were.
The history of ‘yellowface’ in cinema - a practice in which white actors would tint their skin with makeup and tape back their eyelids to appear ‘Oriental’ - dates back to the Silent Era. Richard Barthelmess had famously lent a gentle dignity to the character of Cheng Huan in D.W. Griffith’s Broken Blossoms (1919) - even in the face of such tasty bons mots as “What makes you so good to me, Chinky?”
Several of the major stars of the Studio Era had at one time or other ‘yellowed-up’ for the Silver Screen, including Katharine Hepburn, Fred Astaire, Edward G. Robinson and even the Duke (improbably enough, as Genghis Khan). The practice reached its ‘nadir’, as it were, in Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961) with Mickey Rooney’s blustery, buck-toothed Mr. Yunioshi - a performance so mind-bendingly offensive it still draws protest from the Asian-American community whenever the film is screened.
Remo Williams began life in 1971 as the hero of The Destroyer novels. The series - written by Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir - was the sort of hawkish, Right-leaning literature one might imagine John Milius reading whilst sinking his toes in some far-off Polynesian beach.
In late 1984, British director 62 year-old British director Guy Hamilton was hired to bring Remo to the Silver Screen. Hamilton was no stranger to the Action genre, having directed some of the better James Bond offerings of the ’60s and ’70s, including Goldfinger and The Man With Golden Gun. Another Bond vet, screenwriter Christopher Wood, was brought on board to pen the screenplay (after Murphy and Sapir’s draft was soundly rejected by the MGM suits). Consequently the movie has the sort of light touch and Byzantine plotting of a Bond, rather than Destroyer adventure.
Long story short: Fred Ward plays an NYPD cop, who, following a bizarro assault awakens in a hospital with a new face (well, they’ve shaved his mustache) and a new identity: Remo Williams, the latest recruit for CURE, an top-secret organization “dedicated to preserving the constitution by working outside of it.” Under the tutelage of a kooky Korean martial arts master, he must take down millionaire corporate turncoat, George Grove (Charles Cioffi).
The film is littered with memorable set pieces - particularly Remo’s fight atop the Statue of Liberty (itself a crib from Hitchcock’s Saboteur) - but it doesn’t quite gel as a whole. It has the feeling of an appetizer rather than complete meal. Chiun’s training sequence takes up approximately half of the film. The romance plot-line between Remo and Major Fleming (Kate Mulgrew) is left unresolved. Baddie George Grove seems like the warm-up to some supervillain of Blofeldian proportions. This was all probably due to the overly optimistic sequel innuendos of the title.
It’s easy to see how this movie got lost in the shuffle in the fall of 1985. This was an adrenaline-and-anabolic-fueled era where Rambo was slicing up Vietnamese like a Cuisinart. By comparison, Remo is positively tame. The effect of violence never extends beyond a blood-stained shirt or a superficially lacerated forehead. Granite-faced Ward is not an action hero for the Reagan decade - his modest physique seems underfed compared to the muscular megalomania of Sly and Arnie. Guy Hamilton’s deliberately-paced production lacks the frenzied, run ’n gun verve of First Blood Part II and its ilk. The end result feels as exhausted as Roger Moore looked in A View to a Kill.
Needless to say, plans for a sequel were nixed and Remo soon retreated back to the pulpy print from whence he came. For his part, Joel Grey would emerge from the detritus unscathed - receiving a Golden Globe nod for Best Supporting Actor. Three years later Chiun would be recast for a television pilot with none other than Roddy McDowall ... yellowface and all.
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