The Escalation of Pop Culture Violence ...

By Kevin Gibson
January 31, 2008

I’ve seen the new movie “Rambo” twice now. And I desperately want to kill something.

OK, not really. The truth is, I am so numbed to movie violence now that when I watch someone be cut in half with a hand-made machete, and see his intestines come spilling out all over the ground, I just have to laugh out loud.

Why? How can this be considered humorous? Well, for one thing, I’m a guy. Secondly, it’s so over-the-top that it doesn’t seem at all realistic. And deep down, the truth is it probably makes me a little nervous.

But it’s interesting how violence becomes more and more prevalent in popular culture, while we in turn grow more and more numb to it. Before long, it won’t even stimulate us unless we’re actually watching real people be gored and murdered. Haven’t other societies experimented with such entertainment only to later say, “Whoa, guys, what the hell were we thinking?!”

But seriously, “Rambo” is good, clean, wholesome fun by American standards. Nevertheless, if one looks at the Rambo Death Chart as compiled by John Mueller of the L.A. Times, one sees the escalation clearly illustrated. It’s a little disturbing, actually.

Number of deaths in “First Blood,” the 1982 film that kicked off the Rambo series? One. Number of deaths (by Rambo alone) in the latest installment? It’s 236, or nearly three deaths per minute of film. And the movie starts slowly, folks. Hell, the film has probably 20 minutes of violence-free footage of Rambo riding around on a damn boat. So you can imagine what a festival of slaughter the climactic scene is when Rambo and a handful of mercenaries take on an entire Sudanese army unit.

Rambo is so bad, he makes his own blood sausage. And he uses the blood of the innocent.

As my friends and I sat in the theater watching the gore, we and people around us laughed hysterically as the bad guys’ brains went spraying everywhere. The first time I saw it, some ass-tard was there with what appeared to be his children, a boy and a girl no older than five or six years old. They were chewing popcorn with dad, drinking soda, and watching an aging Sly Stallone cut people’s heads off and rip out their throats with his bare hands.

There are no disabled people. Only people who have met Rambo.

Rambo, about to rip a brother's throat out with his bare hands. Pass the popcorn.

I mean, remember when hockey-mask-wearing Jason would gut people in the “Friday the 13^th” series to the tune of 10 or 12 camp counselors per movie, and that was considered “slash horror”? Twelve kills? That’s a belch for Rambo; the guy kills people like it’s a bodily function. Plus, Jason was a bad guy, and compared to Stallone’s “good guy,” he now looks like a pussy. Pucker up, Jason, you whiny little girly-bitch. Rambo is going to kick your ass from here to Camp Crystal Lake, and take out the entire Sudanese army during the intermission.

Seriously, if Rambo cut a fart in a bubble bath, 40 people would lose their lives.

Perhaps most telling is that you watch this guy on-screen, and he looks nothing like the emotionally feeble Rambo we saw in the underrated “First Blood” way back in the early 1980s. That guy you actually felt for; he was a Vietnam vet who was spurned by society, and he was like a lost child in many ways. When the time came to fight, he wounded the opposition, intentionally opting not to kill them, and when it was all over he blubbered in Col. Trautman’s arms like a virgin prom date in a cheap hotel room.

The new Rambo? He hates the world and has no respect for humanity, and the movie makes no bones about this. When the final scene ends, and the last Sudanese bad guy lies dead, his intestines dangling from Rambo’s machete (not exaggerating here, folks), Rambo looks at the one truly sympathetic character in the movie as if to say, “See, moron? I was right.”

Rambo drinks napalm to cure heartburn.

So what was he right about at the end of the movie? That the world isn’t worth saving. That people kill each other and cultivate hatred because it’s the human way. Nice. My friends and I, as we left the theater, agreed that we’d earned so many testosterone points from watching “Rambo” that we could go to the ballet, watch “When Harry Met Sally” and get a manicure, and we’d still feel like men.

When Rambo kills someone, what’s the last thing that goes through their mind? A machete.

Apparently, our children and their children will continue getting this testosterone overdose of which I write. I’ve never advocated blaming movie or video-game violence for society’s ills, but it’s clear there are a lot of parents who won’t bother monitoring their children’s intake. That’s a bit worrisome, given the blood orgy available at the local Cineplex or video store.

Rambo is so bad-ass, his testicles have moons orbiting them.

Every time Rambo listens to a song, Apple pays HIM 99 cents.

(I could do this all day. My apologies to Chuck Norris.)

E-mail me at kgramone@aol.com. Bang.