"No smoking, no drinking, no drugs, no women...
unless, of course, you're married... no guns,
no fowl language, no red meat."
"...Land of the Free."
Kurt Russell: Your time is now.
Now, I know what you're sayin': 'Razör!
You're reviewing Escape from L.A., but you
haven't reviewed Escape from New York, yet!'
Your command of the obvious is knockin' me
on my ass, slick!
The simple fact is: I may one day review Escape
from New York.
It's a bitchin' movie, a balls-out classic
and I have no shortage of opinions on the
subject.
But Escape from L.A., I firmly feel, is one
of the most underrated, unjustly reviled,
and mythologically misunderstood action films...
in the history of this spinning, cerulean
orb.
Fuck Kung Fury!
Because Blood Dragon: The Movie has already
been made.
Its name is Escape from L.A., it had the misfortune
of being made in 199-goddamn-6... and nobody
at the time understood what it truly was.
Not a chronological sequel.
Not a dark, cyberpunk epic.
But one of the finest examples of a simultaneous
parody and celebration of the action film
genre, as a whole.
And let's be real...
Rex Power Colt?
Cybernetic genitalia and all?
...is Kurt Russell's bitch.
In Escape from New York, Snake Plissken was
renowned the world over as a bank robber,
gunfighter, and all-around uncontested badass.
But by Escape from L.A. - which takes place
in the distant future of 2013 - his sheer
badassery and renown borders on the goddamn
messianic.
As such, he's plucked up by the newly-formed
U.S. Police Force, injected with a bio-chemical
timebomb, and plopped into a major American
city which is now walled off from society
and functions as an open-air penitentiary
for the 'dregs of human society' or alternately:
Californians.
His mission: To secure a potential doomsday
weapon from the clutches of the President's
runaway daughter and her bangin' titties.
Sound familiar?
No one gives a fuck about you or your powers
of basic pattern recognition.
Shit's about to blow the fuck up.
Identify that pattern, ass-face.
The president's daughter, incidentally, is
boning down with the most historically accurate
filmic depiction of Che Guevara in recent
memory, hence the danger of total annihilation.
Of course, before we can commence with the
combustion, Con Stapleton from Deadwood has
to process the bastard, leading to the first
of many moments of unbridled 'fuck yeah'.
"So what happened to you, 'war hero'?
You were the best we had.
Now you're just like one of 'them'.
What do you have the say, Plissken?"
"...call me Snake."
After learning he's been unwittingly infected
with a virus more fictitious than our president's
origin story, and outfitted with firearms
the size of a small child... it's time for
Snake to change into his... 'stealth gear'.
A... polycarbonate weave of durite malfusi--
Oh fuck it, it's goddamn leather.
Which naturally leads to a 'gearing the fuck
up' montage.
I'm not even going to pretend this isn't what
happens every fucking morning in the Kurt
Russell household.
Soundtrack and all!
If you just achieved orgasm and evacuated
your bowels in unison - a process that, over
the course of watching many a Kurt Russell
film, I've come to refer to as 'ejacuating'
- don't be frightened.
It always hurts the first time.
"IIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
Now, let's see... protagonist named Snake,
loaded into a one-man stealth submersible
to infiltrate an enemy stronghold for the
purposes of frustrating a deranged and incendiary
madman's plot to fire a doomsday weapon at
the United fucking States...?
It's... it's ENTIRELY possible I've seen this
somewhere before... except with glacial pacing,
shittier acting, and less gameplay, but that
couldn't possibly be the fucking case!
"Metal Gear...?
It CAN'T be!"
"...you KNEW??"
Just remember, Kojima fanboys, in penning
your predictable rebuttals... 'homage' is
spelled with an H!
You're welcome!
Now make like that H... and be silent.
"His reactor's starting to overheat."
"Slow it down, Plissken, you're overloading
the power plant!"
"You slow down, dickhead, I'm the one who's
dying."
After crashing through a sunken skyscraper,
careening past the sunken ruins of Universal
Studios and dodging a goddamn shark - because
this is Blood Dragon the fucking MOVIE - Snake
at last washes up on L.A. beaches that are
only marginally more polluted than they are
today and encounters the nosiest roving surf
hippie on planet earth.
"You look kinda' familiar..."
...aaaaaaaand FUCK Solid Snake!
Following his GPS to a tranny whorehouse in
search of one of the missing team members,
he's unsurprised to discover the man's found
his new calling as a Cutlery Block.
And that cutlery block's knives belong to
a man who - from the very moment of his introduction
- is hell bent on being murdered by Snake
fucking Plissken.
Ejacuating a second time is perfectly healthy,
rageaholics.
"Hey, one-eye!
Look at my face when I talk to you, shit-heel!"
Sauntering onto Sunset Boulevard, Snake unwittingly
stumbles on Faux Guevara and the President's
Daughter - who, thanks to changing into those
leather booty shorts I will, hereafter, be
referring to as 'Nnnnnffffff'.
Flanked as they are by a gang of bikers, this
presents the movie with the opportunity to
fashion literally the most mountain-smashingly
amazing combination in this medium's long
and storied history:
Snake Plissken.
Wielding a gun roughly the size of James Cameron's
ego.
RIDING A MOTHERFUCKING HARLEY!
Of course the gun doesn't last long, but then...
neither does anyone the fuck ELSE!
But naturally, when he comes upon a drunken
mariachi musician on fucking horseback going
the speed the American legal system... he
knows he's met his match.
And thusly... he must do... the following.
Shield your eyes, rageaholics.
The first three rows may get wet.
"Nobody rolls into town and disrespects me.
Not Snake Plissken, not nobody."
Sadly, Plissken is soon defeated by a... length
of weighted rope and bucked off the iron horse...
into the waiting clutches of Faux Guevara's
henchmen...
...who are about to take part in one of the
most punch-me-directly-in-the-testes kickass
pistol duels you will ever witness.
Snake Plissken... you may proceed...
"What do you say we play a little...
Bangkok Rules...?"
"Nobody draws until this hits the ground."
"...Draw."
Having now enseminated the entire moviegoing
audience, Snake finds himself hot on Cuervo's
trail once again, where he happens upon reason
#2 for why it should be illegal to say this
is a bad movie.
Because nothing with Steve Buscemi in it can
be remotely construed as ba--
--THAT DOESN'T COUNT, TERRAN GELL!
'Map to the Stars Eddie' sells, you guessed
it!
Maps to the stars!
Which seems like a prime opportunity for Snake
to discover where the fuck he - and the plot
- should be going... but plots?
In Blood Dragon: The Motion Picture?
Fuck THAT noise!
Snake happens upon a gaggle of ringwraiths
having a chinese fire-drill at a local medical
plaza, but crouches in the bushes to observe
them from cover, presumably because he's tuckered
out from single-handedly wiping out Hell's
Angels!
Only to discover he isn't alone:
"Shhhh!
Stay down!
They're gonna' see you!
This is their second shift.
You make ONE move and we're done!
And don't make noise.
If you wanna' make noise, go and find another
bush."
"You're the one makin' all the noise."
Thanks to JoanJett Von Sloppytits, the noise,
and presumably titties - attracts said ringwraiths,
who promptly abscond with the pair and bring
them back to their operating theater...
"What are they...?"
"Surgical failures.
They live here.
Too many implants and face-lifts over the
years.
Their muscles turn to jell-o.
The only way they survive is to have fresh
body parts transplanted over and over again."
--But enough about Nikki Cox.
Because it's BRUCE CAMPBELL O'FUCKING CLOCK!
"I can do nothing with this one.
Ahhh!
Wheel it away!
I can't work with garbage like this.
Now these two... they look very good."
"...my God, they're real!"
Let's see: Working opposite Kurt Russell in
a John Carpenter film, being paid millions
to savage Valeria Golino's cans in her prime...
I don't know what kind of womb-rending liquid
machismo is coursing through your veins, Mr.
Campbell, but bottle that shit and sell it.
Because I believe the rest of us are entitled
to a solid mill and a 5-minute no-pants grope-off
with Kristen Bell, good sir.
Snake, however, is unimpressed, and flies
the coup, with JoanJett Von Sloppycans in
tow.
But it isn't long before she's developed a
taste... for snake meat.
"I know a place where we could crash... if
you want.
My boyfriend and I broke up tonight."
Yeah, sure.
Let's pretend that fucking matters.
You'd mount this cycloptic fuck in a crowded
airport terminal if you had to, bitch.
Memorize the look in her eyes, rageaholics.
Because that's the look that says 'I don't
give a fuck where it happens, it is imperative
that you wear me like a tank-top in the next
five seconds.'
After moseying past only the second worst
L.A. traffic jam this week, Snake has another
run-in with Sloppycans... who promptly has
a run-in with a stray bullet.
And the coincidences keep right on coming,
as Snake stumbles on Steve Buscemi a second
time.
Well this seems too good to be--
--an obvious setup from Cuervo.
Emboldened by Plissken's capture, Faux Guevara
promptly hatches the most diabolical facet
of his plan for the complete domination of
the human race:
Playin' fuckin' B-Ball!
Surrounded by gun-wielding, cranky minorities
and using a court slippery with human blood,
if Snake fails to score 10 points in 40 seconds,
he's filled with enough lead to pass as a
chinese children's toy.
So Philadelphia rules, then?
And in full, leather fetish gear and knee-high
motorcycle boots... he fucking does it.
How?
Because Snake.
Fucking.
PLISSKEN.
Which is, naturally, Faux Guevara's cue to
say fuck it and open fire with a sniper rifle!
When his vengeance is abruptly thwarted by
Michael Bay cinematography.
"NNNGGGG!"
After setting off a car bomb and disrupting
Cuervo's get-away, Snake flees down a sewer,
where he has a heart-to-heart with 'NNNNFFFF'
and - despite technically being hired to assassinate
the shit out of her... takes one look at dat
ass and says 'eh, the hell with it'.
...for about 5 seconds, before John Carpenter
remembers he's 2/3 of the way through a Snake
Plissken film... and for some reason the man
still has the use of both of his fucking legs.
"Oh not another one!"
"AHHH!"
"He's dead.
He's history.
And I did it!
I killed him, man!
I shot him!"
"Good.
So then you know where he is.
Bring me his head."
Apparently all of California's sewage ends
up in the same place, and shockingly, that
place isn't Charlie Sheen's bedroom.
Washing up on Wilshire Blvd, Snake once again
encounters his Hippie Stalker... who informs
him that, thanks to the rash of suspiciously
well-timed earthquakes... it's tsunami time.
Yes.
That means exactly what you think it means.
That Snake Plissken... is about to surf down
Wilshire fucking Boulevard... on a god damn
tsunami!
Savor this moment, rageaholics.
Because, like Miley Cyrus hitting a note that
isn't flat... this happens once in a motherfuckin'
lifetime.
Surf's the fuck UP!
That is, until he spots a runaway plot device
and crests a fucking tsunami so he can carjack
the fuck out of Steve Buscemi, who leads him
to Faux Guevara's only major rival in the
region: An archetypal sassy black woman with
a weave that doubles as the fuckin' AIDS quilt.
He soon learns the bitch is packing some major
heat, and not merely of the .32 calibur variety.
"You're Carjack Malone!"
"Not anymore..."
"Do you two know each other?"
"Well, the more things change, the more they
stay the same, huh, Carjack?
Glad to see you're still packing a little
gun between your legs."
"...it's a MAN, BABY!"
But with Cuervo set to ambush a stealth helicopter
at Disneyland, their problem becomes one of
simple transportation.
That is, until John Redcorn pipes the fuck
up with the suggestion of the century.
"No.
Use the air.
Burn the Santa Anas.
The night wind."
"What are you talkin' about?"
"Death from above."
One day, I will own a physical copy of Escape
from L.A.'s script.
Because before I die, I need to see the words
'Snake Plissken... wielding an uzi... on a
fucking hang glider' actually typed on a sheet
of paper.
We've got hand-to-hand combat, more explosions
than participants, uzi-toting, hang-gliding
trannies and a mid-air rocket-launcher duel!
Smoke 'em if you've got 'em, because this
ain't even a climax.
It's a ten-minute cumshot with bullets.
When the dust settles, Snake finds himself
all alone with...
'Nnnnnfffff'... narrowly avoiding the Matterhorn
in a burning helicopter.
The helicopter slams into a field just moments
after 'Nnnnffff' had the good sense to bail
the fuck out.
Snake walks away from the burning rubble,
because fuck you and your physics.
Cornered by the President and a General who
is literally only in this film because Lee
Van Cleef is not immortal... it looks like
Snake has no choice but to hand over the remote
for the doomsday device... that is, until
the General smells a rat and thinks to check
in the girl's jacket... and discovers Snake
has pulled the old switcheroo...
...or has he?
"This is the President of the United States.
I now demand an immediate retreat of all forces
now threatening this great nation."
"Mr. President, the Cuban Theater Regression
remains mobile."
"E.T.A. in minus four minutes."
"Four minutes... bring the aiming coordinates
for Cuba and Mexico online."
"Cuba.
7-7-9."
"7-7-9.
I now render... this Final Solution..."
"Welcome to your very own Map-to-the-Stars!
Sure we all know the Big One--"
"I hope it was worth it.
For now you ARE going to die."
"...everybody does."
"Kill him!
And bring me... the REAL unit!"
"Sir, we're still broadcasting."
"Good!
Let 'em watch!
Do it!
DO IT!"
"DO EET!
DO EET!
COME ON!
KILL ME!
I'M HERE!"
"FIRE!"
"He's not even here, he's a hologram!"
Weeeeeeeeell sheeeeeeeeeit!
Snake has the remote, and either he's a Metal
fan... or he's about to invent the canon ending
to the original Deus Ex...
"WHO ARE YOU?!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
"D-daijobu desu ka?"
"...Katta.
Keikaku douri!"
"He's entered the World Code.
Sir, that will shut down the entire planet."
"For God's sake, don't do it, Snake!"
"...the name's PLISSKEN!"
Well, it's no rocket launcher-induced exploding
antagonist, but destroying the planet Earth'll
fuckin' do.
Cut... and goddamn print.
I don't give a fuck what Gene Siskel, you,
or anyone the fuck else has to say about this
movie.
Escape from L.A. is the greatest action parody
EVER.
Whereas other films - like Machete or Shoot-Em-Up
or literally anything Quentin Tarantino has
ever pinched out - are constantly handing
out fourth-wall-shattering winks and nods
in-between dismemberments...
Escape from L.A. is a parody without the condescension
of a wink and a nod.
It trusted its audience to get what it was
trying to do.
And trusting movie audiences of 1996 to get
anything predicated on ironic subtext... was
John Carpenter's first fucking mistake.
Watch this movie.
Love this movie.
BUY this movie.
And, if at all possible, Mr. Russell... make
a goddamn sequel to this movie.
Escape from Las fucking VEGAS is exactly what
Bruce Campbell ordered!
Call me RazörFist.
God - fuckin' - SPEED!
