First Blood (1982)

  I have seen hundreds of movies. I have seen the weird, the obscure, and the independent. Sometimes my taste for the weird leads me to overlook some of the more mainstream fare, sometimes I just miss stuff because of timing. But now, by the grace of God and the glory of Netflix, I can begin to remedy these glaring holes in my film experience.

I have never seen any of the Rambo movies. I know, I know, I was a child of the 80's, how could I have missed all three of them? Well, my friends, I have been to the mountaintop. Last night, I watched First Blood for the very first time.

Holy shit, did I love this movie. I mean, an unhealthy sudden admiration for this movie. Not just because I am a violent little anarchist monkey, but because I could identify, man. I am no stranger to the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I was in the Army for nearly six years, went to Iraq, got the t-shirt, blah blah blah. Now, before some Internet troll jumps my shit, I'm not comparing my relatively painless encounter to a POW in Vietnam. Not even close. I'm just saying, I understand. I, too, have harbored the desire to start poppin' some caps in well-deserved fools' asses while running around draped in a bandolier of bullets with a grubby bandana. I never would... Mostly because I hate camping, the woods, and dirt. (Yes, I still joined the Army.)

So much of this movie made sense to me. The National Guardsmen all happy because they got to shoot their rocket launcher? Yep. What's the point of having shit that goes boom if you don't get to use it? Even them taking a picture in front of their handiwork. I knew guys just like that! I knew Special Forces guys. None of them looked like Rambo, though. They were either whip-thin rawhide motherfuckers or pot-bellied bearded guys who wouldn't be out of place at a biker rally.

There was so much to love in this movie. Baby David Caruso! Aww! I'm so glad he transferred over to the Miami CSI team. I don't think he had much of a future as a deputy in the Pacific Northwest. Especially considering everyone else who worked there was a card-carrying psychopath. Um, Galt? Hello, therapy.

We cannot ignore the modern morality play inherent within, as well. Sheriff Teasle, in refusing the most basic charity to a poor lost soul on the highway, damns himself to destruction. COL Trautman, as the Voice of God, appeals to him again and again for redemption but he will hear none of it. He is unrepentant in the face of his town getting shot to shit by an angry (so angry) spirit of vengeance, throwing away his chances of ever being elected sheriff next term. He has become the face of Wrath, just like in Se7en, but instead of shooting someone in the face, he gets fucked up by a half-starved, mostly-crazy Medal of Honor winner.

The moral here being: wait for the background check to come in before you spray someone with a firehose and beat them with a billyclub.

I can't wait to watch the second movie!