# 10 — First Blood

This is part of an illustrated countdown of my 49 1/2 most essential action movies. Last week I talked about Jean-Claude Van Damme’s masterpiece about a blue collar bayou boy forced to play a most dangerous game in…HARD TARGET.

*Captain America pulls up a chair* SO. You thought you could create the ultimate soldier without any consequences.

This is the movie where John Rambo was born. It’s real emotional, as the birth of any action son would be, but even more because this son is really going through some stuff. First Blood hits like a ton of bricks, and its dramatic opening and closing scenes cradle a tight, sub-90 minutes of visceral action thrills that are as stressful as watching a dog run into traffic.

There’s been lots of blood since then, but this first blood is the very best. It’s also dramatically different from everything that followed. I love the title, because it could easily make you think this was some kind of GI Joe power fantasy, but it’s actually alluding to the rules of engagement. John Rambo left home to fight a war, and when he came back he was pushed into another.

There’s very little blood to be found though. The body count is like, one. That’s amazing. There’s something about this choice that feels closer to the mold of 70s filmmaking. The violence isn’t huge, but the emotional weight of carrying it out is. Rambo gradually unravels into a sobbing, lonely victim who needs help, as opposed to the one that would single-handedly resolve military conflicts in the next two sequels — not unlike how the Rocky sequels were more about being a champion than facing the initial test of getting in the ring. There’s something about those first entries that hits different. This is not the 80s action extravaganza the poster promises. It’s a kind of action movie I haven’t really talked about before.

That first scene is a real heartbreaker. John, who is somewhere north of Portland (the movie was filmed in Canada), tracks down the home of one of his old war buddies. He had nothing to go on but an address, and there’s no social media to see what dear old Delmar is up to, so it’s hard to gracefully absorb the knowledge that his friend had been claimed by cancer, courtesy of Agent Orange. There’s nothing left for John to do, and he drifts into a little town called Hope, which seems cruel in this context.

Rambo’s encounter with Sheriff Teasle ignites the whole franchise in a way that is very memorable, tragic, and sadly relevant. Stallone’s performance is so impressive. He’s this icon of macho lizard brain cinema, but his best work features some of the most understated and naturalistic acting out there. He’s the dramatic action counter to Arnold’s huge, cartoon presence. I can’t believe we were lucky enough to have both turning out their best work at the same time.

Then you have the late Brian Dennehy creating a pitch perfect depiction of authority figures, reacting to Rambo’s every question with the terse aggravation of a parent or spouse being called out on their bad behavior. You can hear him making up his reasons for not wanting Rambo in town in between every pause and sigh, and we know it’s all bullshit because we’ve seen this before — from teachers, bosses, cops, or anyone trying to control whatever little world they think belongs to them.

The increased provocation of a man that is clearly dealing with some baggage leads to a mental break where John goes into protection mode. However, the movie never trades drama for action. Ted Kotcheff directs, and that’s not a name you would instinctively put alongside McTiernan, Cameron, or Woo, but I think he’s on the right wavelength for this story. Between this and “Wake in Fright”, he seems to have a knack for capturing the psychological trauma of being isolated — that feeling like the walls are closing in. First Blood is obviously more action oriented, but the characters feel trapped in a similar headspace where nobody seems to hear their voice, recognize their needs, or acknowledge their fear.

First Blood is also a beautifully shot film, in that old school way of not desperately calling attention to what genre it is. John slowly becomes more animalistic in his fight to survive, relying on his training, instincts, and any rudimentary tools he can forge from the landscape. By the end of the movie he has become the machine gun-toting poster image, but it represents his rock bottom. I don’t know if this misdirection was intentional or just the usual marketing to sell extra tickets, but I like it. You might have come to see some fireworks, but now you gotta reckon with the consequences of violence. Well played, movie.

The final scene is stunning and still affects me whenever I watch it. Stallone’s gut-wrenching monologue is perhaps the most notable thing in the film, but Colonel Trautman is a crucial part of the equation. He’s been talking up Rambo’s competence the entire movie like a proud father who heard his son beat up the bully at school. Now his perfect son is in tears at his feet and he’s clearly uncomfortable with it. He cares for Rambo, but he wasn’t prepared for this. Richard Crenna, like Dennehy, conveys so much in these little moments, telling whole stories of experience with a single expression.

This archetype is common in action movies, and this is easily my favorite version of it. There’s always this high ranking official who spends his time talking up his guy. My guy can eat things that would make a billy goat puke, my guy can run on his hands for two miles while making shadow puppets with his feet, my guy can chew a fork into a Bowie knife, you wouldn’t believe the things my guy can do, and if the world had ten more of my guy there would be no more evil in it, so please let me continue creating more guys like this for the greater good! They’re just obsessed with their guy, but there is a cost.

Trautman’s language is key. “You’re the last of an elite group! Don’t throw it away like this!” That’s the last thing he says before John shuts him up with the truth. He doesn’t understand how sad this assessment is. The last, meaning all his friends are gone and he is alone. Elite group, meaning he was really good at killing people, but never got the opportunity to be really good at just about anything else. John has reached a place where there’s nothing left to lose.

“I can’t get it out of my head. A dream of seven years. Everyday I have this. And sometimes I wake up and I don’t know where I am. I don’t talk to anybody. Sometimes a day — a week. I can’t put it out of my mind.”

In a way, Rambo is delivering the bill for people that never want to look at the numbers. I haven’t read the novelization, but I’d like to believe this is the beginning of Trautman’s deepening relationship with John that would continue in the sequels — and that his companionship would be part of his way of paying the debt for what he helped create. This is when he would begin to know Rambo as a man, and not just a weapon.

This is one of the most important action films out there. It’s also a fascinating launching pad for an era where the genre ran in the opposite direction philosophically and stylistically. Exciting, sobering, and essential.