Is it a marketing conspiracy? Two films opening thisweekend could not have been more carefully crafted to appeal exclusively to one sex and not the other. While Eat, Pray, Love will pack theaters with sentimental ladies, any guy with a drop of testosterone in his veins should be instantly excited about the cast list for The Expendables. Sylvester Stallone, Bruce Willis, Jet Li, Jason Statham, Dolph Lundgren, Mickey Rourke, Terry Crews, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Randy Couture, even Arnold Schwarzenegger – they are all in this movie. All of them. Stallone, who wrote and directed The Expendables, wanted to include even more legendary action stars, but Jean-Claude Van Damme, Wesley Snipes, Steven Seagal, Kurt Russell, and Chuck Norris, turned him down. As it turns out, whoever turned down this film should give himself a big pat on the back for refusing to take part in this inane piece of junk.
Stallone’sExpendables are a group of inexplicably well-funded, loner mercenaries who only have their assignments, their scars, and their over-the-hill hom*oeroticism. For the first half-hour, they kill a bunch of Africans, ride motorcycles, and throw knives at walls. Then they get a mission from a mysterious man (Bruce Willis). The mission is vague, but it’s essentially this: go blow things up on a small South American island. The film’s villain is a rogue C.I.A. agent who has established a dictatorship over said small South American island. He’s played by Eric Roberts, whose work here is a carbon copy of his turn as Sal Maroni in The Dark Knight. I can almost see Stallone in the director’s chair telling Roberts in that dead-toned drawl: “Eric, more like that Batman stuff, yeah, that Batman stuff you did.”
Ultimately, the film is nothing more than a poster novelty: “Look at all these manly men.” Then it hits you—none of them can act. Statham is good if he’s allowed to be a Guy Ritchie cad. Here he’s the dramatic lead. Li is good if Zhang Yimou is directing him. Here he’s the butt of the movie’s one (repeated) joke: Asians are short. Dolph Lundgren is hopelessly wooden. Crews, Austin, and Couture, with a few lines each, all turn in the grunting, huffing performances that we expect from ex-jocks. Bruce Willis’s performance is limited to five minutes, during which he throws around his patented “what am I doing here” look. Schwarzenegger’s screen time is even briefer, a coffee break with “ze” boys. He looks distracted and almost guilty to be taking it. What’s the governor of California doing in this movie? Returning the favor to Stallone for a campaign appearance?
Then there’s Mickey Rourke, pitiably present after The Wrestler. He plays an ex-Expendable/tattoo artist, who still hangs out with the old gang, giving them tattoos. Stallone must have seen The Wrestler because he tries to capitalize on Rourke’s proven acting chops and tough guy vulnerability. Stallone gives the actor a weepy monologue about how his soul is dead through years of killing. It is the longest scene in the film, and so random and ineffective that it seems like a joke. If only it were.
The film should have been a comedy. That’s painfully clear. Why else would Stallone be so set on rounding up the greatest list of B-movie action stars possible? The cast list alone promises some sort of commentary on the action genre—an assembly of dignitaries to hash out what it all means and have a fun, ironic time doing it. But Stallone directs them with such extreme sincerity. The script is lazy and boring, and the combat scenes are lifted straight out of the 80s, back when Stallone was the king of the genre. There are almost no redeeming qualities to The Expendables. It looks bad, it sounds bad, and it’s badly acted. You could even say it lacks the heart of Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot and the thrills of Demolition Man. Read that sentence again. That’s pretty bad.
By the end, the only thing you are thinking about is Sylvester Stallone. The film makes it seem like he is grasping for some validation of himself as a action hero, even though his body is grotesque, simultaneously bulging and sagging, and his face pummeled and misshapen after years of Rocky sequels. It’s sad, really, that somewhere underneath those muscles and dyed head of false hair is Sylvester Stallone the wannabe auteur, still begging to be taking seriously, yet clueless as to how.
