80’s Action Hall of Fame: Rosario, Death Wish II

Whenever the 80’s Action Hall of Fame committee meets to vote on new inductees, the primary argument that sends sessions deep into the night usually involves the heroic nature of those under consideration. They can be classic good guys or crudely drawn bad guys, but as men (or women) of action, their particular moral compass is largely irrelevant. They simply need to act. Serving the cause of violence, if you will. With a weapon, if possible. Wielding a gun, knife, or tire iron? As good as the 3,000-hit marker for big league ball players. Standing around giggling while others do the work? Legally complicit, yes, but far from a slam dunk around these parts. Still, even those who simply join in once someone has been knocked unconscious are relatively easy to define, as they are still acting in service of evil. They are criminals. Scumbags. Pillars of the ass end of the community of your choosing. 

But what about victims? The innocent members of the 80’s Action landscape that do little but get bloodied and battered while remaining voiceless and passive? Can they ever hope to make the cut? Is getting a bullet to the face enough? In and of itself, no, but one need not have a Shakespearean monologue to warrant praise. One can, like Rosario from Death Wish II, simply inhabit her minor role with such stereotypical perfection that aficionados can’t help but sit up and take notice. She’s as ill-defined as anyone in the canon, but I’ll be damned if she doesn’t live on with that unique blend of ethnic caricature and defiant martyrdom. But for her, the plot may have faded into oblivion. But by dying – as well as submitting to one of the most savage gang rapes of the decade – Rosario pushed Paul Kersey to a level not even he could have anticipated. Sure, his daughter’s demise motivated most of all, but he never had to see her post-mortem. Rosario, on the other hand, was right there on the living room carpet for all the world to see. There’s no escaping the implications. 

Make no mistake: director Michael Winner, against the desires of the actress herself (Silvana Gallardo), demanded that when she portrayed stone dead, she must be naked. No, you can’t use a towel. And sure as shit you’re not allowed to lie under the torn rags of your station. You must be utterly exposed, the ultimate symbol of crime in the big city. Her humiliation, then, is our collective demand for revenge. Rosario had to have but three functions in her all-too-brief existence: cooking, cleaning, and dying. Had she been merely hospitalized, Kersey may have tempered the rampage to come, given his obligations during visiting hours. Between buying flowers and talking her back into shape (“trauma, schmauma, how’d you like to do the maid thing again?”), he might never have tracked down every last rapist and killer. By doing him the favor of dying, she could ensure that justice be served. Society benefits, as does the audience.

Still, a query from the cheap seats: might Rosario have fought back? Scratched a cheek, kneed a groin? Something to go down with a bit more pluck? A fair question, but consider: the bastards who broke in that day never really intended to kill Rosario. Only when she stumbled and crawled towards the phone did she receive the coup de grace. Had she played possum, she might have lived another day. But as we know – both from reality and as an 80’s Action maxim – she’d have been interviewed, doubted, harassed, and ultimately, blamed for the whole mess. Did she flash a smile? Encourage the assault? Sound just breathy enough at the door to send pulses racing? And forget about taking her place in line for the clown show that is the criminal justice system. Even if there had been an arrest, indictment, trial and conviction, it’s just as likely the sentences would have been suspended, and Rosario would have been hunted down for daring challenge the code of the streets. No, her death was the most merciful of options. Clear-cut, no shades of gray. 

So as it stands, Rosario didn’t break any new ground, nor did she strike a blow for those who suffer in silence. She scrubbed Kersey’s boxers, washed his sheets, and spent many an afternoon crafting the kind of guacamole you’d usually have to send out for. A good maid, sure, and a loyal helper, but nothing to generate lasting tributes. But it’s her very ordinariness that sets her apart. We might not have believed a no-account domestic who fired off a round or two before being tossed through a window, nor would we have accepted a throaty clapback that caused the intruders to turn tail and run. She was there, took her lumps, cried in fear, and was no more. There’s an undeniable humility to it all, and whatever you want to say, I’ve never forgotten her. Not everyone inducted has to be covered in glamour and flash. On occasion, against the odds, we bestow the greatest honor upon those at the margins. Especially a woman murdered by a man named Nirvana. Fine, we’ll tuck her plaque near the back, but she’s there. Immortalized for all time.