Mary, Cyborg

Not worthy of a last name, but certainly worthy of
recognition among the elite 80s action one-hit wonderfuls is Mary (Terrie
Batson), pictured here cradling her treacherous little sister in the 1989 Van
Damme classic, Cyborg. We see her
gardening. We see her sleeping. We see her fumble through what few lines she utters
and then we see her die. Though overshadowed by Debbie Richter through most of
the film, it’s our wide-eyed Mary who remains the driving force behind Van
Damme’s blank stares, his murderous intent, and above all, his absolutely
blazing, wildfire gayness. To put Mary’s importance in perspective we must
recall what is arguably the most homoerotic scene in 80s action history. During
an intimate moment by the campfire, Richter reaches into her shirt and presents
JC with one of her tits— a lopsided, leathery thing assuredly, but a tit
nonetheless. Without blinking, as if he were offended by the gesture, JC
reaches over and covers up the cleavage with more conviction than anything he
displays in his fight scenes. After denying Richter (and the viewer) the
pleasure of his taut Belgian ass, he quickly flashes back to none other than
Mary, the woman who persuaded him to give up the life, put away the knives, and
forever put away his cock.

Mary hires JC to escort her and her siblings out of the
plague-riddled wasteland, chock full of bandits, lowlifes, mercenaries, and
some of the meanest mullets this side of the Double Deuce. After finding a quaint cottage in the countryside,
she asks JC in the sweetest of voices to “stay awhile,” and so he does. Time
passes, they get to know each other, settle down, and presumably have sex,
though we don’t actually see any sex
as this is a Cannon enterprise.
Awkward sex is definitely implied though. So of course JC retires his weapons, trims
the roadkill on his head and relaxes his guard. Things appear tranquil for a
time; days, possibly even weeks pass until the “flesh pirates” show up and reduce
JC to a bloody mound of whimpering pulp. Shortly thereafter they tie him to
Mary and one of the children before hurling the trio to their muddy deaths at
the bottom of an abandoned well. JC survives the fall through sheer cast iron
will, emerging from the squalid pit with retribution on his mind, the kind of
retribution that demands swiftness, savagery, and many ounces of baby oil.

Mary’s death, while tragic and gruesome, is necessary to bring
our hero full circle and preserve his rippled abs. As a dutiful woman of the
80s action age she must die or be maimed, because to settle with a female is to
toil in emasculation. Mary pays with her life for her seductive transgression,
thus giving JC the option, the only
option, to reinvent himself in the combative arms of another sweaty, grunting
man. Be it her petite frame, her quiet desperation, or her ability to somehow
slip in and out of a southern accent, Mary must be given credit because, after
all, it is her memory that allows JC to kick through a boat mast and survive
his crucifixion. Mary indeed. From what I gather Terrie Batson has, sadly,
appeared in only three other movies outside of Cyborg as an “infected woman,” a “photo double,” and the all
important “street person.” It is also possible she may have been a background
dancer in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II.
Likely saddled now with a throng of ungrateful children, a demeaning job, and a
flabby husband, she can always return to her brief moment as our beloved Mary
in a time of true purpose and sacrifice—a time before the darkened, bottomless,
and boob-filled well of the 90s and beyond.

Johnny, Showdown in Little Tokyo

Brandon Lee might be a famous name, but he’s a one-hit wonder in more ways than one. He had one actual box office hit with The Crow. Most thinking people, of course, recognize that The Crow is terrible. However, he had one legitimately good film that was a hit among more astute viewers in Showdown In Little Tokyo. Also, he got hit by one bullet. Everyone knows this was because his father stole a jar of powdered giraffe penis from the Hop Sing Temple back in China, providing the potency that would allow Brandon to be conceived. But the monks put a retributory curse on his family and both Brandon and his father died under bizarre circumstances. Tragically, the curse of the Hop Sing Monk was not powerful enough to kill The Crow franchise itself, and it would go on to be more prolific and profitable than Lee was in his own, short career.

You might not realize how little work Lee actually did before his death. He has 10 acting credits on IMDB. One of them is “uncredited,” another is “Man in Line to Nightclub,” in a video released years after his death, and surely done with the best taste possible. Four are spot TV work. Besides Showdown and The Crow, he really only had one role that shows up on radar, the small, 1992 blip, Rapid Fire.

Lee did leave a positive mark on the world. In Showdown In Little Tokyo, he utters the gayest line in 80’s Action history. Lee and Co-Star Dolph had previously engaged in a literal bathhouse battle with the Japanese mafia and facing probable death, Lee turns to Dolph and says, and I quote verbatim, “In case we don’t make it, I want to tell you, you have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.” Where do you go from there? It’s the G.G. Allen of gay lines. The film has much else to recommend it, but Lee has earned a place on the 80’s Action walk of fame with one line and one starring role.

Perhaps the Hop Sing Monks are wiser than we know. Had Lee gone on with The Crow franchise, he might now be known as an icon to noncommittal goth type kids around the world, and a source of shame to the 80’s Action family. He clearly lacked the acting chops to do much else, although perhaps he would have eventually been relegated to direct to video glory and turned out more quality work there, as so many of his contemporaries have. We will never know. Good night, gay prince.

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CIA Bartender, Above The Law

Perhaps the defining trait of the One-Hit Wonders of 80’s Action is that they clearly have no business appearing on film, but manage to steal the show, and a little piece of our hearts.  CIA Bartender, played by Ronnie Barron, is about the seediest looking guy I’ve seen.  No special make up was required, nor a fake eye-patch nor a gaudy tattoo.  He simply looks, sounds and acts–though he is clearly not acting–like a bartender who primarily serves residents of the YMCA.  Except it’s even worse, because these clientele are mostly Italian.  He makes the bartender Homer encounters after not being allowed in Flaming Moe’s look like Tom Cruise in Cocktail.

The directer must have loved him too, in spite of his total lack of acting ability or charisma because, in a stroke of neo-realism, Barron is forced into as many scenes as possible,: always a belligerent scumbag, tormenting our hero and obstructing righteousness at every opportunity.  CIA Bartender even winds up being affiliated with the CIA at the end.  Because CIA agents so often plant themselves in cheap, low-life bars for no reason.  Once revealed as being in league with the CIA, this spit bucket of a man lords over the restrained might of Seagal in the most unjustified display of arrogance ever captured on film.  It’s a moment of great dramatic irony, for we know what will come next.

It turns out that among Barron’s lesser accomplishments, he was a prominent New Orleans session musician and a staple of Dr. John’s band.  Barron also had three other film roles: Executive #6, “uncredited,” and one in a musical R&B film where he probably just played some music. It’s called Stony Island and boasts 19 votes on imdb.  Yet thanks to his performance here, Barron was on the receiving end of one of the most satisfying shotgun blasts in the history of film.

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John Grizzly, Over the Top

One movie. One character. Cinematic immortality. Few in the history of the silver screen have ever dared a “one and done,” but for Bruce Way, there never really was an alternative. He came to us without any preconceptions, unasked and unknown, like Shane from the wilds of a still untamed West. It was 1987. We were weary from nearly eight years of Reagan, and we needed a hero. One was born the day Over the Top hit theaters, and because he left as quickly as he arrived, his legend would be secure. The man was John Grizzly: the roughest, meanest, toughest, most wild-eyed maniac in the entire run of 80’s Action. He blew in like a bearded hurricane and left no man standing. Though arm wrestling was his craft, he was the ultimate visionary; a gifted, sweaty icon who went beyond performance art to achieve a burly, near-mythical transcendence. He wore fatigues. He inhabited a F.U.B.A.R. tank top like a second skin. He smacked himself about the face and head without pain or regret. He chewed – and swallowed – a lit cigar. He drank motor oil like it was squirrel piss. Valvoline, if there was ever any doubt. And when he emerged victorious – and my god, how he emerged – he was more than triumphant; his roars were the guttural cries of a wounded race, and he was their champion. Our champion. With the biceps, body hair, and flared nostrils to prove it.

But when he relaxed, say, for a casual interview at the event that would define his very soul, he had the sweet tone of an angel. Though his words were callous – murderous, even – he was simply a businessman in a rough and tumble game. “When I get to the table,” he reasoned, “That person, I don’t care who they are, they’re my mortal enemy…I hate them.” Who would dare disagree? He was the decade made flesh, winning at any cost – money, friendship, love, and sanity be damned. Few from the era had a greater sense of self; a knowing look at the world and his place in it. Grizzly was boorish, selfish, sick, and twisted into a parody of machismo, but who didn’t want to be like him? He pushed ahead without fear or trepidation, and though barely literate and likely not long for this world given his unorthodox diet, there wasn’t a challenge he couldn’t meet. He was everything the Reagan years aspired to be and often weren’t, given the limp-wristed opposition. One shudders to think what could have been accomplished with a mere battalion of such men. And though few, if any, know where Bruce Way currently resides, below ground or in a fortified bunker in some unnamed forest, he has the unique distinction of cashing his modest paycheck, turning away all comers, and taking leave while fully on top. Over and above it, Mr. Grizzly.

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Charlotte Chong, Assassination

Similarities aside, the above image is not, obviously, Jan Gan Boyd. Fittingly, no such picture exists anywhere in cyberspace, making her brief flirtation with 80’s action that much more mysterious. In the course of her time in the sun, she played a Wong, a Cheng, a lab tech, and a waitress. Here, in the Charles Bronson vehicle Assassination, she is all Chong. Charlotte “Charlie” Chong, if you must know, and few could have done it better. None but the proud would have had the stomach for it. For not only does she stand toe-to-toe with the decade’s most stoic warrior, she trades quips and sexual barbs without breaking a sweat. To hell with pleasing her man; she’s in this for herself. She’s a sidekick, a Pal Joey, a mascot; and all she wants to do is fuck the mustache right off Bronson’s face. Though shuffling through a sad career shorter than a Chinaman’s chopstick, she did so with feet decidedly unbound. Nobody’s fool, her refusal to bow and bend like the stereotypically demure Asian of old allowed her to take the best of the Orient, channeling both that region’s primitive lust for bodily fluids and its perverse, dark sexuality, and emerge not only whole, but high-heeled and horny to boot. She’d have Chuck’s Polish sausage, even if she had to set the nation’s capital aflame to get it.

Her hunger, as restless and desperate as any random peasant during the Great Leap Forward, permeates the film like a thick, bordello stank; the First Lady might be in danger, but her safety is a solid second to Ms. Chong’s frenzied need to clamp her Commie thighs firmly on Chuck’s grizzled, cigar store Indian of a mug. Strange, too, that she has more on-screen chemistry with the legendary badass than he ever had with his own wife, Jill Ireland. Still, her heroism stems not only from an independent streak a mile wide, but also her steadfast repudiation of anything remotely naked or dead. For once in Charlie’s cinematic life, someone else is in charge. And, in a truly novel turn, not once does she try to murder her lover in the sack. Instead, at the peak of her career inside the White House, she thinks of little else but the bump and grind with a man at least 53 years her senior. An older, mustier man for its own sake, not as a means to move up the company ladder or inspire more sinister deeds. A black chick would have been too sassy, a white woman too ordinary, and a Latina simply unbelievable in a job not involving deep fryers and drive-up windows. No, it took an Asian to win Charlie’s loins. He’s intrigued, but too flummoxed to commit.

There’s much to the theory that Boyd’s career stalled because she was the lone Bronson love interest who survived to live another day, or at least put head to pillow without being raped. At one point, Chuck cries, in response to her request to move in, “I don’t want to die of a terminal orgasm.” These are bold words indeed, impossible to imagine in any of the Death Wish films. Why continue when you’ve forced such a man to his knees in resignation? As an actor, he never was the same again, displaying a suffocating indifference until he faded away into dementia and death. In her own right, the performing bug was cured for good by 1991. What of her legacy? At a time when Asian girls stripped bare simply to spend long shoots as dumpster meat or “Whore #2,” she was a cocky renegade who not only didn’t service G.I.’s or ronery businessmen, but managed to push for lovemaking within the confines of a committed relationship. Not only was she dressed, but dressed sharply, and she spoke not with a forked tongue, but the King’s English, albeit laced with grade school innuendo. She’s the one who got away. But not without a fight.

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Soviet Leader, Rocky IV

There’s a great cross to bear if you happen to be the actor who singlehandedly ended the Cold War, and no, I’m not talking about Ronald Reagan. Or Sylvester Stallone. I refer, of course, to David Lloyd Austin, the unknown and unsung man in the shadows who, in 1985, stepped into the limelight of a gargantuan Hollywood production, spoke no lines, and yet managed to ignite a bloodless revolution that took down the world’s most hated empire. The film is Rocky IV, and the official character name is “Soviet Leader,” though we know damn well it’s Mikhail Gorbachev. With a single, iconic image – standing proud and warming up the “slow clap” – he grabbed an entire civilization by the lapels, shook it this way and that like a dime store snow globe, and at last brushed away the dying embers of a totalitarian regime.

He was their courage, he was their strength, and he no doubt inspired the actual flesh and blood participants to sit at the table of peace and brotherhood. No David Lloyd Austin, no Geneva. And to hell with
Reykjavik. And that glare? The one that stared down the Soviet hardliners and sent them quaking right down to their spit-polished boots? Arguably the decade’s single most important cinematic gesture, encompassing the entire philosophy of glasnost in a split second of moral authority. And only Mr. Austin could have pulled it off. If only the ghost of Alfred Nobel had been listening.

It speaks to the brilliance of the performance that just three years later, Mr. Austin would appear on screen for only the second time, once again as Gorbachev. So what if it was a Naked Gun movie; this was the start of something big, a changing of the guard for impersonation and historical re-creation. The inevitable bio-pic awaited him like so much just desserts; a final payoff for a life dedicated to the craft of acting and its capacity to inspire global change. Only that call never came. Austin did but a handful of minor television roles after that, and nothing whatsoever since 2000. How could this be? Where’s his Quentin Tarantino to say, “You matter. You have heft. We need you, crags and cracks be damned.” Only no one knows where the hell he went. I can’t even prove he’s alive. But if Sly sensed his ability those many years ago, where’s the spirit of reinvention in this, our hour of need?

Again, we think Balboa’s marble-mouthed guttural cries to the
Moscow faithful were the turning point. Not so. Had the people cheered and been met by a stoic, decidedly ill-tempered leader, the entire arena would have felt a wrath that would have made the siege at Stalingrad a mere Tupperware party by comparison. No, Gorby had to stand. He had to let them know it was okay. He gave them their country back, without fear of reprisal. So while the natural instinct is to laud Rocky IV for its well-oiled beefcake, James Brown sideshow, and de facto assassination of Apollo Creed, let us not forget the wise old man in the rafters. He saved the world from itself.

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Carol Kersey, Death Wish II

After her devastatingly one-note performance as Carol Kersey, Paul’s put upon daughter, in Death Wish II, Robin Sherwood never acted again. Not even on deep, deep background in some forgettable 80’s sitcom. She staggered around glassy-eyed, uttered not a peep, drooled over a glass figurine, pawed her ice cream cone, remained insanely stoic throughout a vicious, nauseating gang rape, jumped to her death, and simply closed the book. Though there’s nothing to support my hypothesis, I can only suspect that the role was so thoroughly exhausting that she couldn’t survive another shoot. Who but the heartiest, most seasoned thespian could endure take after take of suffocating sweat while trapped beneath Laurence Fishburne’s dead-weight thrusting? No doubt the nightmares kept her away from future cattle calls; being thrown into a van, beaten about the head, face, and neck, and believing that crashing through a glass window to fence spikes below is preferable to welcoming another care package into her ravaged vagina. Did she dream of ratty beards, dirty fingernails, and the foul breath of the unwashed? Were her nights consumed with blurry visions of surly Mexican housekeepers being stripped to the bone, smashed with bats, and pounded like morning-sun cornmeal? I’ll leave that to the therapists.

Still, Ms. Sherwood could not have been a sane woman after her star turn, but let’s be thankful that we have it at all. While the Jane Wymans and Holly Hunters of the world collect Oscars for their wordless wonders, no one pays any mind to the action movie mutes who scratch and strain to curry our favor. Who weeps for those who, a decade prior, watched their mother forced to chug thug cock, only to survive just long enough to feel the cold splash of spray paint upon the buttocks? From that day on, Carol never spoke again, and though the screenplay lacks details, what of surviving a divorce and being sent to an institution where the only salvation is a bevy of humorless nuns who see rape as the ultimate heavenly cleansing agent? Her martyrdom is beyond dispute, for had she not been led away by that gang of thieves, only to die by her own hand, what would have inspired the mad architect to keep on killing? Had she lived, even though she’d been raped so many times that ejaculate could double as perfume, it’s doubtful that Paul would have gone to the Big Apple to visit an old Korean War buddy. In that sense, Carol died so that Part III might live. Rest in peace, sweet Carol. Now, you belong to the ages.

Let us also consider Carol’s symbolic power as an 80’s-era feminine negation. Because this film came at the onset of the decade’s eventual slide into cock-filled fascism, her role arguably ushered in the unapologetic misogyny to come. Throughout Reagan’s administration, women of the silver screen existed solely to be mocked, attacked, sodomized, victimized, brutally dumped in various staged of naked, and, when the gods were generous, used to reignite the masculine juices of our flaccid heroes. At no time were they consulted, debated, engaged, or treated as equals. Yes, they could scream for help, roar in agony, or beg for a second round of uppercuts, but no conversation, please. Simply ask the man to remove his skin-tight jeans, and make yourself scarce. Carol made it even easier: don’t say a word, shuffle around like a dope, and end your life to spur on the gents. Yes, papa will do. He’ll kill for you in kind, though we’ll know he’s trying like the devil to recapture the erection he lost when Nixon stepped down. The babes of 80’s Action were our barometer of belittled humanity; as our societal pin cushions and voodoo dolls, they failed to register unless on their backs, topless, and utterly blank. Carol, against the odds, was our pathfinder; the Amelia Earhart of action lady emptiness.

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Rodriguez, Death Wish 3

Consider the life and times of Joseph Gonzalez. He appears in but two movies other than the enshrined classic Death Wish 3, playing some cat named Zorro in Frankenhooker, and wrapping up the indignity with 1988’s Brain Damage, listed only as “Guy in Shower.” Guy in shower. Was that it for this too-brief candle? I mean, was he a bullet-ridden corpse at least? Was full-frontal arranged? And did he register in either case? Having found no evidence that Mr. Gonzalez either died by his own hand or left the country due to tax problems, it can only be assumed that he was unable to find show business work ever again. Sure, he’s but one of thousands to taste brief glory, only to fade away into irrelevance and the perils of the punch clock, but is such a forced march to the hinterlands deserved? I say not. For during that endless summer at the height of President Reagan’s power and influence, J.G. stood proud as an unsung champion of what it means to be an 80’s Action character actor. His cause is the cause of all those who back-flip through obscurity as the grenades fall. He is the man who roars across the screen, bleeding or on fire, all in the hopes of being able to tell the grandchildren, “Look! There I am! Rewind that shit.” And so we will. For Joseph. Wherever he may roam.

Though a man of few words, Rodriguez is all action. He is the ultimate victim, but in the end, he satisfies a murderous craving equal to the eternally aggrieved Paul Kersey. Think of his introduction. He speaks, though only for his wife, who appears to be deaf, dumb, and mute. Or she simply can’t speak English. Still, she howls in pain during a brutal rape, so strike the mute part. He is charming, gracious, and though by all appearances a black man, his apartment is stuffed to the gills with Catholic symbols and statues, revealing the Mexican within. Though he could be Puerto Rican. As always, it does not matter. He is but a man, waiting for the right time to express himself as such. Before the fall, he is weak, untested, and lacking the proper accoutrements of an assassin. Having not the courtesy to escort his wife to the grocery, despite the store being found amidst the rubble and stench of a warzone, Rodriguez loses his beloved to a gang of thugs. And Bill S. Preston, Esq. She is manhandled, slobbered over, kidnapped, raped, and left for dead. The liberal, limp-wristed security guard left his post at precisely the wrong time, and now the perpetrators cannot be identified. Clearly, it’s up to Rodriguez. To quote another movie, “They fucked with the wrong Mexican.”

Still, he is allowed one last dance with his softer side. Though nervously concerned (and muttering, “They raped her…they raped her…”), his ride to the hospital after the assault is relatively smooth, as he is initially told only of “an injury.” A broken arm, perhaps. At least she’s alive. Upon arrival, however, the doctor casually informs him that the little lady “has expired” due to the catch-all “complications.” He reacts as if shot in the ass with a dart, then falls to a chair with inconsolable grief. His righteous fist pounds a table. The tears flow, but the rage soon builds. In her name, and for the sake of his masculine authority, he must avenge the loss. While Paul takes on more extreme weaponry (and a more disinterested tone), Rodriguez is armed only with a zip gun, which limits the range, but kills just as dead. And though sending far fewer scumbags to their rendezvous in hell, he blasts away with the glee of a schoolgirl skipping through an open field. Murder and cruelty have come easy, and throughout, he’s always just around the corner, ready to save the day if need be, or simply provide a life-affirming fist pump. But as an 80s Action icon, it’s the face that does the trick. His fatigue now a thing of the past, he is forever changed. A man of iron; a wiser, more callous thoroughbred of violence. And that is how he should be remembered, preserved on DVD as though in amber; a case study in phallic empowerment. The Everyman made whole through the gauntlet of death.

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