Action Jackson

A determined dedicated cop reservédly reputed to authentically infuriate, suddenly finds himself assigned to the plutocrat who disturbingly demoted him way back when.

Still not one to mince words he reestablishes their acquaintanceship rather discourteously, like a lot of hard-edged tales from the time blunt criticism confronting stately acrimony.

The ne'er-do-well in combative question is secretly murdering people to gain control, of a powerful union generally known to pursue social justice regarding the Presidency.

Hoping to control the union and thereby take over the White House, he comports himself tyrannically behind the scenes in his trusted realm.

Jackson learns of his malevolence and sets about applying aggrieved aggravation, but Dellaplane then kills his wife for having talked to him and lays the blame squarely on his shoulders.

With nowhere to go and few to rely on he finds himself adjudicating offbeat stages.

With the help of a nightclub singer.

And reliable visceral absurd awkward instinct. 

This film was severely critiqued upon its release in 1988, so I unfortunately never watched it, and always thought it lacked production values.

It's not Aliens or Die Hard or The Terminator but it holds its own with Rambo 2 or Raw Deal, meaning I'm surprised Weathers wasn't more of a leading man, as he took the fall for its praise of unions.

Thus, even though the How do you like your ribs? line is an instant classic for the action-packed ages, Action Jackson said positive things about forbidden gatherings in American culture.

It even makes unions look powerful and at the same time honest and proactive, it doesn't shortsightedly vilify them or call into question their versatile communities.

Cult status still effectively emerges along with the unsung unionist accolades, too bad Weathers never became a leading man, or had a career like Treat Williams or Roddy Piper (racism perhaps).

Still fun to see him whenever he popped up even if he wasn't leading the way.

Cool careers made in Hollywood like none other. 

Back in the hardboiled uprooted day.

BigBug

Dystopian yet familiar realities lugubriously haunt Jean-Pierre Jeunet's BigBug, as a future wherein which AI predominates officiously contends with the bourgeoisie.

I suppose there's the theory that what's presented on television or in film will be regarded as fact, or at least find an adoring audience, and that audience will proceed to advertise.

Thus, if the irate right was slowly replaced by cantankerous A.I, due to the bipolar resonance of the popular matrix unobservant citizens unconsciously consume, and the bizarro ways in which so many people trust disingenuous initiatives designed to cheat them, a manifest sadomasochistic uniformity could one day emerge and in the darkness bind them. 

Within BigBug, one of two major political parties has been replaced by octogenarian robots, who have slowly used advanced cybernetics to brutally suffocate a robust culture.

The bourgeoisie still attempts to flourish within the mechanized meticulous structure, having adapted to the ubiquitous rules and incumbent authoritarian connectivity. 

Additional robots not associated with politics worry they're becoming obsolete, and genuinely confer to find a way to consistently maintain their resolute use-value.

Thus, both The Terminator and ye olde Data find themselves concretely represented within, a potential future embraced through comedic horror alternatively critiquing cold-hearted lockdowns. 

Artists are lampooned and books are burned, it's like a blasé happy-go-lucky thrill ride through prognostic annihilation. 

Could reality television take on such extremes is it already that bad I never really got into it (I was planting trees in the forests of Northern Canada when Survivor came out), I've never been able to just watch people interact on television, I prefer old school creative storytelling and mockumentaries.

The ruthless sadist who seeks to control every aspect of postmodern life, with duplicitous totalitarian reckoning, is still sincerely critiqued within.

As are cultures that would turn their institutions over to robots to become more efficient, the human factor obliviously overlooked in the superlative practices, grandstanding bravado.

In an obtuse condescending way BigBug reminds its audience of the value of criticism, and that critical strategies should be taught in school to hold back the onslaught of pervasive credulity.

Robot politicians? Robot police? It doesn't have to happen, it's not inevitable.

Prefer the old school humanistic methodologies.

Round the campfire.

Settlin' in.