“This is my town. Don’t you forget it.”
In all of 80’s Action, no man is more tied to his town than Brad Wesley. Though Chicago born and bred, a stint in Korea changed him. Forever, as the saying goes. Having seen the world, he could have put down roots anywhere. The Big Apple, for one. Maybe Hollywood. Even the Alaskan frontier made sense. Instead, he chose Missouri. Jasper, Missouri, naturally, as it was then what it is now: wide open and free. Up for discussion. Ready for a man of talent and ambition to shape its ends. Upon his arrival, maybe a gas station. A few ramshackle homes in need of repair. After, a paradise. Shangri-la. The home of the most bone-cracking establishment this side of hell. The Double Deuce. No Brad, no bar. But no thank yous, please. Just deference. And a little coin. Tribute, like the old days.
You see, Brad runs it all. “Jasper” on the maps, but “Wesley” in the hearts and minds of the faithful. He is mayor, sheriff, president, and pimp, all at once, just to avoid confusion. From sunup to the sundown that he greets from his cowhide rocking chair, he is the eye in the sky. Open for business? He’ll be at the ribbon cutting. New face just over the county line? His men will be there as a welcoming committee. It’s at the point where a man can’t even make love without him knowing about it. And if it’s the girl of his dreams, he’ll not only know about it, but have detailed notes for the file. Because he’s watching. Always. And information is power.
If you doubt his reach, consider his speech to Dalton. The Speech, for 80’s Action aficionados. The defining moment for a true visionary. It’s worth quoting in full:
“Christ, I’m just like you. I came up the hard way, from the streets of Chicago. You know, when I came to this town after Korea there was nothing. I brought the mall here. I got the 7-Eleven. I got the Fotomat here. Christ, JC Penney is coming here because of me. You ask anybody, they’ll tell you.”
He brought JC Penney, for chrissakes. Jobs. Quality corduroy at a decent price. He’s no armchair capitalist from the school of detachment. He’s on the ground, watching the cement pour and crowds get in line. There’s pride afoot, and no one’s shaking it loose. Absent Mr. Wesley, maybe a tourist trap or two peddling trinkets. Locked in place, lording over his fiefdom, he’s selling the dream. Unchecked commerce unrivaled in the Show-Me-State. How many towns you know have a 7-Eleven and a Fotomat? Normally, you’d have to venture to St. Louis or Kansas City to get that kind of action. And who wants to do that?
When I think of Brad Wesley, I think of The Godfather’s Moe Greene. More than that, I think of Hyman Roth’s steely tribute. “This was a great man,” he offers. “A man of vision and guts. And there isn’t even a plaque, or a signpost or a statue of him in that town.” Vegas, for old Moe, and Jasper for our man Brad, but one can see it in the offing. Once gone, they’ll all forget. Empire builders are like that. Taken for granted and reduced to an anecdote. Maybe a few words in the literature down at the Chamber of Commerce. They’ll undoubtedly question his methods. Pick apart the means. Dare to challenge the wisdom. Jasper got him, but they sure as hell didn’t deserve him.
More than employing the entire village, Wesley was an eccentric wonder. The richest, yes, but also the most interesting man in any room. Especially that trophy room. From orangutans to llamas, he has it all. If it’s walked or crawled at one time or another, he’s shot it stone dead and stuffed it for display. Only for who’s benefit? The room doesn’t appear to be open to the public and talk of turning it into a museum long ago slipped into the ether. All for one man’s ego, then? Absolutely. Real men are like that. It’s enough that he knows it exists. Most importantly, he understands that additions can always be made. He even has a shelf cleared away for Dalton, when the time is right. As he says during the battle royale that ends the film, “Only thing that’s missing is your ass.”
Which brings us to Wesley’s psyche. His inner life. This being the 1980’s, it’s no exaggeration to say, as we always have around here, that men fight so as not to fuck. From the smallest stab wound to the mightiest atomic blast, every last act of violence is inspired by homoerotic longing. It’s so axiomatic that they were forced to add the diagnosis to every subsequent update of the DSM. It’s science, baby, so leave your effete challenges at the door.
Take Wesley’s destruction of Red Webster’s general store. He wasn’t paying tribute, so action had to be taken. As Wesley states, “Everybody digs deep except for him.” Solutions are plentiful: change the locks, board up the windows, plant round-the-clock guards to keep the cash register nice and empty. All fine and dandy. So what does Wesley do? Blow that shit up. A blast so magnificent, the stock footage could approximate Hiroshima. Too much, even, for every last fire truck in the region. The ultimate in burning down your own house to kill a rat. The bigger the explosion, as they say, the deeper the love. Overkill, because you really mean it.
Still, the greatest love of all was reserved for Dalton. Maybe he saw something in the lad that reminded him of better days. Youthful exuberance, with the abs to match. Wesley knows. He watched every last second of that rooftop session with Doc. Frustrated, denied, it’s in the stars that they’ll end up toe-to-toe. A final stand to determine Jasper’s future. The final fight, as expected, is epic and grunt-filled, but as if by some Freudian edict, a spear emerges. Thrusting wildly, it’s still not enough. Wesley, predictably, is impotent. He’ll have to use a gun. The weapon of choice for flaccid times. The last refuge of a decade’s scoundrels. But it is not to be. Wesley is bested, fired upon by every last man he’s extorted. Airborne and onto the glass. Gone. Without even a statue to tell his story.
With Wesley dead and buried, one assumes Jasper can move forward. Rebuild tomorrow on the ashes of yesterday. Wrong on all counts. Jasper is no more. A mass exodus, including the Double Deuce. Because once the folks have tasted caviar, they’re not about to accept Hamburger Helper. Sheep need a shepherd, and yours is pushing up daisies. Not only did he keep the shelves stocked, he remains the one and only sumbitch to take down Sam Elliott. Most don’t even have the nerve to try, and this man sent him to Jesus. Balls like that don’t grow on trees. The sort of balls that carve civilization from chaos and make America more than just an idea for storybooks. Sure, the bribes are gone, but so are the dreams. The hopes. The 2-for-1 jeans at JC Penney. Wesley’s town, reduced to myth. Sometimes, pain does hurt.
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