Worst of all, the film's underdeveloped script strives to generate empathy for the Afghani rebels, but never really develops their role in the story. The cavernous terrain of Afghanistan could have provided a wealth of new battle scenarios, but the filmmakers merely recycle familiar scenes we already caught in First Blood and First Blood Part II. Even the strategies he employs in his assault are paper thin. He still relies on explosive arrows, reams of bullets and pure, unadulterated brawn to save the day. Stallone's character hasn't evolved in the slightest - early glimpses of his new life in Bangkok are little more than a setup for the fighting skills utilized later in the film. Suffering from an anxious pace, unintentionally hilarious gore, and a ludicrous series of action beats, Rambo III feels more like a parody of the series than a genuine entry. However, when Rambo learns of the mission's failure and Trautman's subsequent capture, he makes his way to Afghanistan to rescue his friend, assist the rebellion, and administer his particular brand of justice to the Soviets responsible for a number of heinous atrocities. Trautman asks Rambo to join him on a mission to deliver weapons to Afghani rebels resisting hordes of invading Soviet forces, but the world-weary warrior refuses. Hopped up on a haphazard blend of adrenaline and absurdity, Rambo III opens as Colonel Trautman (series regular Richard Crenna) finds our reclusive hero (Sylvester Stallone) hiding out in a Bangkok monastery, earning money by way of illegal fighting tournaments in the city. To my surprise, First Blood hit me as an instant action classic while First Blood Part II undermined everything the first film had established, and Rambo III put the proverbial bullet in the trilogy's head. This year marked the first time I had sat down to watch the Ramboseries in. First Blood was too slow to keep my attention, but its sequels were the craziest R-rated cartoons I ever snuck into my parents' basement to watch.

At the time, the Rambo sequels were the pinnacle of action films in my young eyes. With a strip of red fabric from mom’s sewing kit, a smear of red paint across a tattered shirt, and a clunky Star Wars action figure case shaped like a machine gun, I was John Rambo.

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