I SAW A WORKING MAN

From the director and star of 2024's cult hit, The Beekeeper, comes A Working Man. 

Directed by David (Suicide Squad) Ayer, who coscripted with Sylvester Stallone (each having pulled from Chuck Dixon's novel, Levon's Trade), A Working Man depicts a humble gent, Jason Statham's Levon Cade, who enjoys supervising his daily, construction work, grateful that the Garcia family has hired him (a family that has, in fact, become like his own). However, when the Garcia's daughter, Arianna (Black Phone) Rivas' Jenny, is kidnapped by human-traffickers, ushered by high-tier Russian gangster Wolo Kolisnyk, who's played by Statham's Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels/Snatch costar, Jason Flemyng, Cade's military skills kick in, exposing a vengeful, fighting machine that won't rest until Jenny is rescued and the cavalcade of fiends bites the dust. 

Though A Working Man is a "pulpy" slice of fiction, its concept rises from hard truth. This is important, since an arrogant portion of our society dares to pretend that human trafficking doesn't exist or at least is overplayed among social concerns. On this bold basis, Cade's work-until-the-job-is-done crusade resonates with pragmatic impact, and for those who do hold a sincere, humanitarian perspective, his Dirty Harry/Billy Jack-ish assaults aren't only therapeutic, but perform as a message of awareness, in which a loathsome, biker-bureaucratic front promotes a horde of deep-rooted sins for profit.  

Statham shines in his tailor-made role, and Rivas grants the required sympathy and spunk to counter her tormentors. When Jenny is harmed, it gives the audience all the more cause to cheer Cade on. However, the surrounding cast also makes the Taken/Rambo: Last Blood-type plot engaging, creating characters, both good and bad, who are always believable, even when placed within the explosive extremes. 

These folks consist of David (Hellboy/Stranger Things/Black Widow) Harbour's Gunny Lefferty (a blind pal, who like Cade, spent time in the military); Michael (Ant-Man) Pena's Joe Garcia (an honorable patriarch); Noemi Gonzalez as Carla (Joe's warm-hearted spouse); Isla Gie as Merry (Cade's optimistic, little daughter); Richard Heap as Dr. Roth (Merry's hateful grandfather); and as the intersecting, syndicated antagonists: Emmet J. Scanlon, Eva Mauro, David Witts, Piotr Witkowski, Greg Kolpaki, Chidi Ajufo, Andrea Vasilou, Cokey Falkow, Ricky Champ, Andrej Kaminsky, Vanko Kharchenko, Merab Ninidsi, Maximillian Oskinski, in addition to a strange and dastardly extension of others, who stir the pot from all ends of the hellish spectrum. (Be warned: The many participants do make the content more complex, but this should work to its advantage on repeated viewings, giving one extra layers to inspect.)  

I give Ayer, Stallone and Statham a lot of credit for making this movie and Dixon for conceiving the literary foundation. Sure, the stuff-shirts and magic-wand proponents are likely to scoff at it, but if so, shame on them. Like The Beekeeper, A Working Man is a fantasy-revenge yarn first and foremost, but that doesn't erode the manner in which it'll resonate with those smart enough to appreciate it. That it makes wise use of good, old-fashioned virility works, too, particularly in light of the recycled, anti-macho debris that we've been shoehorned as of late, not only in the movies, but thanks to a dictatorial spread of annoying, cultural bias. 

I saw Armor

Armor, directed by Justin Routt and scripted by Cory Todd Hughes and Adrian Speckert, is a lean, powerhouse melodrama, which combines the need for redemption with the gusty tenacity to survive. 

In this entry, Stallone is the surprising villain. (He's only played full-fledged, nefarious characters prior in Death Race 2000 and Spy Kids 3-D, though the latter is a tad debatable.) For this villainous turn, he's called "Rook," and leads a band of bad guys to seize an armored truck transporting gold bars.

Driving the truck is Jason Patric's James Broody, a former, police officer who, due to an impulsive decision, "caused" his wife's death in a roadside mishap. He's accompanied by his son, Josh Wiggins' Casey, an expectant father who's mindful of his dad's guilt and that his old man has, alas, found solace in the bottle. 

Even as James conducts alcoholic, support groups, he still leans on the dreaded sauce, which proves detrimental when he and Casey are halted by Rook on a bridge out in nowhere-ville (with the factions zooming in from inadvertent, opposite ends). After the truck is left incapacitated, James and Casey must fortify themselves in the vehicle to withstand the gang's fierce arsenal, with Casey left wounded and James relying on his frayed wits to keep them alive. 

Like George Arnaud's The Wages of Fear and its loose remake, William Friedkin's Sorcerer, Armor becomes a metaphoric tit-for-tat, as well as an underdog movie, with the odds pitted against the father and son. James' resourcefulness, despite his handicap, also gives Armor a Die Hard feel, with a broken man going the extra, respectful mile. 

It must be noted that Rook's calculating coolness works to the movie's benefit, as he distinguishes himself from his men. He's not as austere as them, in this regard, only desiring the gold and never wanting to kill his opponents. This causes a rift between the leader and his henchmen, in particular their most hostile, Dash (Ray Donovan) Mihok's Smoke. (Joel Cohen is equally vexing as a bank manager who brackets James' beleaguered state, while holding the key to Rook's bumbled assault.) 

If Armor has any drawback, it's the fact that no one appears anywhere near the bridge beyond the warring men. Granted, the locale is isolated by implication, but its off-the-beaten-trail relegation should have been emphasized more, since the guys stay there for several hours without interference. Beyond this, the shaky spot works well for the story's stark symbolism.

Armor is a movie for those who prefer adventures without whiny fringes and that are empowered by characters (both good and bad) who want to get the job done. I plan to re-watch Armor as soon as I can and will surely add the title to my physical-medium library in the near future. 

I saw Tulsa King #2 (Season Concludes)

It seems like only yesterday that Paramount+'s Tulsa King: Season 2 began, and here we are, in the aftermath of its bold conclusion. The perceived rapidity of the season was due, in no small part, to its engrossing plot and interesting characters, identifiable for their devotion to a cause, but also their flaws. And to distinguish Season 2 from 1, it wasn't so much a fish-out-of-water fable this time, as it was the story of a man who's shed his outsider relegation to become in every way the insider.

As with the prior season, Season 2 was sometimes Faustian and in most other ways, pulp-ish in the best hard-boiled manner. Its Godfather/Sopranos/Boardwalk Empire flair makes for good melodrama, but man, is Sylvester Stallone ever exceptional as Dwight Manfredi. Here's a guy who's tough and stoic when facing his foes, but bright and erudite (self taught in prison, serving time for a crime he didn't commit). He's also a family man, principled and protective, and what's wrong with that? (That's right, I'm directing that to all you bums who claim that such is something ho-hum and would be dismissible in today's pushy, cold-hearted factions.)

The guest-star standout for Season 2 was Neal McDonough's slick "businessman," Cal Thresher. Gosh, I thought McDonough was menacing as CW/DC's steely-eyed Damien Darhk, but Thresher was nuanced to the chilling max and an ideal, interceding adversary for Manfredi, creating a kind of elitist-vs-regular-Joe undercurrent, which only helped to make the storyline more credible. (I must also add that I'm glad Stallone and producers recruited McDonough, since he's a diverse and outstanding actor, who's taken some flack, as I understand it, for his moral views. He's my kind of guy no matter what, and Thresher is my kind of villain.)

I was surprised, though, that Andrea Savage's Stacy Beale was only in a small portion of Season 2. (Maybe she'll weave back in for the third.) All the same, Dana Delany's Margaret Deveraux did a swell job becoming Manfredi's main squeeze. 

I want more of Tulsa King, and though I'm confident Season 3 will surface, I'm also hoping that it'll contain more episodes than the previous runs. Sometimes shows can be padded to a fault, but Tulsa King's rough grace presents a foundation that propounds a virile expansion. 

HAPPY ROCKY DAY 2023

 

I saw The Expend4bles

The Expendables franchise is valorous fun: unblushing in its for-the-boys creed and yes, sometimes clichéd as such, but even so, through every thunderous, benevolent step, tip-top entertainment from start to end. 

The Expend4bles is the latest no-exception (and if rumors are true, the last in the high-adrenalin queue). Some of the older/prior characters are no longer employed for this non-costumed Suicide Squad, but thanks to Scott (Act of Valor) Waugh's crackling direction and a pragmatic script by Kurt (The Misfits '21) Wimmer, Max Adams and Tad Daggerhart, the leanness doesn't hurt the connective construction one bit.  

Sylvester Stallone's upstanding Barney Ross returns, along with Jason Statham's blade-maestro, Lee Christmas; Randy Couture's forever-reliable, Toll Road; and Dolph Lundgren's short-fused (though now sober) Gunner Jenson. 

They're joined by Andy Garcia's CIA operative, Marsh; Lucy Newman-Williams' Agent Russo; 50 Cent's Easy Day; Tony (Ong Bak) Jaa's Decha; Jacob (Last Looks) Sipio's Galan (son of Antonio Banderas' Galgo from Expendables 3); and in the irrepressible, eye-candy department, Megan Fox's ultra-limber Gina (Christmas' big squeeze) and Levy Tran's lethal Lash (Toll Road's potential, big squeeze). 

The plot is basic and viable in its what-if relevance: The band is dispatched to Libya to stop a mercenary, arms dealer, Iko (The Raid) Uwais' Suarto Rahmat, who steals detonators to create a larger, earth-shattering weapon, all for implied, financial gain. (Rahmat, in truth, takes the weaponry torch from Mel Gibson's cultivated but scorned Conrad Stonebanks of Expendables 3, only the former is much more ruthless in his Luthor-ian plan.) 

The race-to-the-finish is rendered through sizzling, action sequences (spirited shootouts, careening cycles, mega-explosions and dagger duels), which more than hold their own with any cathartic DC, Marvel or 007 installment. To rephrase, we're talkin' over-the-top thrills through ninety-percent of the run, and when the action isn't swinging high, the melodramatic bridges still captivate. 

The bond shared by Ross, Christmas (who spearheads most of the action this round), Toll Road and Gunner stays cozy (equivalent to Kirk, Spock and McCoy, plus one), forging an ambiance of old friends and family, which though fictional, still strikes close to the homespun bone. We care about these ballsy eccentrics and come to care about their nuanced descendants, embracing them with equal respect. The pact defines Expend4ble's shared peril, energizing its heart-pounding ascent, even though we're pretty assured that all, or at least most, will survive. (For the record, the plot features a misleading kill, but it's best not to spoil the catch.)

Expend4bles is, above all, duty-bound, which let's face it, also characterizes the previous chapters. The movies' let's-get-'er-done execution isn't as earnest as in the Rambo features, but each chapter presses enough vigilance and principle to make any red-blooded American proud, recalling the cinematic anthems that John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Clint Eastwood, Steve McQueen, Tom Laughlin and Charles Bronson made great. That's reason enough to see Expend4bles, but hey, for those who believe this brand of escapism too austere, there's more than enough Disney-princess and Potter fodder to pluck.

I saw Tulsa King...

As many Bizarrechats readers know, I despise that which drives home a tap-your-feminine side adage and not because I'm closed minded. I mean, live and let live, and I'll say that until the cows come home. I just object to those dictatorial know-it-alls who decree the feminine drop the only sensible path to take, and if one should object, then one is bigoted, shallow, old fashioned, et al. Talk about the multifacets of reverse discrimination, eh?

So, why am I rehashing my view? It's because there are too many products now in circulation promoting the aforementioned angle, but Paramount+'s brassy Tulsa King acts as an inadvertent weapon against such sappy advocation. As such, I feel compelled to spotlight it. Tulsa King is two-fisted, unapologetic, amusing, pulp-ish, cowboy-ish, Godfather-ish and because of all of the above, an oasis of testosterone mythology. 

Tulsa King stars Sylvester Stallone as Dwight Manfredi, aka The General, who after spending twenty-five years in the clink for a murder he didn't commit (but took it on the noble chin for the "family") is dispatched to Tulsa, Oklahoma after release. The ungrateful mobsters would like him to perish out there, but old man Manfredi is too resourceful, too proud, to stay idle. Little by little, he begins to reap the monetary rewards of his new terrain, thanks to his superior brawn and brains. 

The saga is a matter of Manfredi moving from one dangerous family to form another, as he nurtures his bloodline clan and fights a motorcycle gang that's a family in its own to-a-fault way. With family values at the series' hub, Tulsa King makes utmost use of loyalty, purpose, identity, comeuppance and might-makes-right on an epic scale, demonstrating the necessity of squashing any wrong aimed against "kin". 

The cast is perfect for establishing the conceptualization. In addition to the sensational Stallone, who conveys a rugged sophistication akin to Burt Lancaster's Prince Don Fabrizio Salina of Luchino Visconti's The Leopard, we're introduced to Andrea Savage as attractive ATF agent, Stacy Beale (Manfredi's occasional lady friend); Dana Delany as equally attractive rancher, Margaret Deveraux (Beale's indirect competition); Scarlet Rose Stallone as Spencer, a by-chance "horse whisperer"; Titiana Lia Zappardino as Manfredi's estranged but forgiving daughter, Tina; Jay Will as the appreciative and ambitious valet, Tyson Mitchell; Michael Beach as Mark Mitchell, Tyson's conscientious father; Martin Starr as meek but advantageous, pot peddler, Bodhi Geigerman; McKenna Quigley Harrington as jittery and punkish but later steely and strong, Grace; Garrett Hedland as friendly bartender/ex-con/rodeo star Mitch Keller; Max Cella as the anguished but redemption-seeking Manny Truisi; Alan C. Peterson as seasoned, mob kingpin, Pete Invernizzi; Domenick Lombardozzi as Invernizzi's dangerous, ready-to-reign son, Chickie; Vince Piazza as Chickie's top gun, Vince Antonacci; and Richie Coster as the ruthless, motorcycle-gang/money-grubbing captain, Coalan Waltrip. (These principals intermingle even when they don't intermingle, with one bold character, one bold action, impacting the other to forge interlocking events that bang with slow-burn excellence.) 

As should (perhaps) come as no surprise, the series is helmed by Terence Winter, executive producer of The Sopranos and Boardwalk Empire. Tulsa King captures their irreverent, semi-sardonic flavor, with the proceedings often turning Shakespearean in their emotional and vengeful scopes. 

In case I haven't made myself clear, this nine-episode extravaganza fires with true grit, but if one's spineless and weak (part of the mainstream's nauseating need to shrug and retreat), then re-watch The Little Mermaid and call it a ball-less day. But for those who dangle a weighty pair, this one's gonna please, and the door is wide open for a second season (reputedly green lit). I sure as hell hope it happens. Manfredi's refreshing story is one that guys like me (and believe me, we're legion) damn well deserve.