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Rambo: Last Blood

Rambo: Last Blood nobody writes letters, informs a twilight John Rambo the innocent character who will Rambo: Last Blood awaken the demons of the wrathful antihero par excellence of the 20th century. It is logical then that in these virtual times of asepsis, by Elois, oblivious to the Morlocks that lurk from the subsoil, a handmade letter opener (that same hand that will become the ultimate weapon) serves to penetrate someone’s brain through temple.

Craftsmanship is the one that advocates the latest installment of the most successful chronicle around the contemporary history of the United States. A film made for those who still write letters and know how to appreciate John Ford’s classic calligraphy (those respectful, serene wide shots linked to death) and the furious crooked lines of all the lonely renegades of old Hollywood. Sylvester Stallone (he’s more of an author than the willful Adrian Grünberg who signs the film) is, along with Clint Eastwood, the last classic filmmaker. And the most disturbing: turning Rambo into an insane, savage, and bloody Vietcong tunnel rat should be hailed as the ultimate lucid heresy.