Perhaps in some alternate universe it
would be possible to watch The Last Stand
as anything other than the vehicle for Arnold Schwarzenegger’s comeback
after a political career that you could call unlikely if it didn’t transpire in
the state of California. But in that alternate universe there would be little reason to
even watch a movie as dopey and conventional as The Last Stand, aside
from some chuckles and whatever pleasure is supposed to be derived from
watching bodies flail under automatic rifle fire. So let’s stick to reality here:
it’s an Arnie movie. And not a memorable one.
I’ve
defended Schwarzenegger in the past—not his acting chops, obviously, but his
rightful place in the movies. But the roles we’ve needed Schwarzenegger to play
have uniformly been extraordinary, superhuman, or nonhuman. Who else could
be Conan? (Certainly not Jason Momoa.) So just whose idea was it to cast
Schwarzenegger as the county lawman in sleepy Summerton, Arizona? Whether
shooting the breeze with the local diner staff or drinking beer on his front
porch, Sheriff Ray Owens seems to have been written as a man of ordinary,
humble heroism. When did they sneak in the bit about Owens having spent five
years working narcotics in Los Angeles? Was it before of after they added that
line, delivered near the film’s end, that cryptically acknowledges the fact
that this Owens is, like his Sinaloa cartel overlord opponent, a foreigner? Was
Owens written for Tommy Lee Jones and then later retrofitted for the Terminator?
Or was Owens always meant to be a massive bodybuilder with an Austrian accent
who looks awkward trying to answer the phone and pour a cup of coffee at the
same time?
Maybe
it was all a joke from the beginning. But if that’s the case the joke is a
pretty limited one, however many laughs The
Last Stand might generate from our sheer awe at witnessing the return of
this singular mega-star. He always said he’d be back, but now that he’s back he
actually seems stiffer than ever, with line readings that make it seems like
he’s hypnotized, and lines that are anyway so baldly expository as to defy
belief. “Someone needs to stay and keep the peace,” says Owens in the first
scene. Turns out he’s quite serious about that. Even when an impossibly wealthy
criminal organization, trigger-happy and armed for megadeath-overkill, invade
his town of senior citizens, Owens won’t back down, even though he's only got three bright green deputies and almost no firepower. And he’s totally immune to
corruption, even when the Mexican sleazebag villain offers him $5-million to
look the other way. (Though really, doesn’t sleazebag know what this guy takes home on a
single picture?)
The supporting
cast is mostly overqualified and underused: Harry Dean Stanton shows up to put
on a farmer outfit and say “Get off my land” for three minutes; Forest Whitakker
plays an ornery fed and chews scenery like an underfed dog; Luis Guzmán gets to
fire big guns, make a few jokes and wear a ten-gallon hat. Korean director Kim
Jee-woon (The Good, the Bad, the Weird)
keeps things fleet enough but hardly seems interested in the story. In short,
it’s just a paycheque for all involved—though no one’s cheque is likely as fantastically
large as Arnie’s. Here’s hoping his next movie is a lot more fantastic too.
IMDb has him slated for another half-dozen within the next 12 months.
