“Are you Charlie’s friend? The guy in 2-C?” “Yes.”
“…what are you doing in there?” “I’m taking care of Charlie’s things, that’s
what I’m doing here.” “Charlie don’t need no help. He’s dead. Just
like you’re gonna’ be. I’m watchin’ you.” “Who is this?!”
“JERRY!” You know what I hate? Fucking hipsters.
*RANT ALERT* Far from the most original sentiment, I’m
well aware. But the fact is, they ruined tight jeans,
they ruined scarves – well, okay, mimes ruined scarves – but they ruined the music of the
Beatles, piercings, tattoos, the pompadour hairstyle, the entire Pacific Northwest, and
worst of all, with their self-aware snarkifying… no one… ruins movies like goddamn hipsters
do! ‘Well, you see, RazörFist. Death Wish 3 isn’t
an action film. It’s an unintentional comedy. A psychic portrait of contemporary morasse
and a subtle indictment of the pro-firearm pseudo-patriotism of the Reagan/Thatcher era–‘
no, shitbird… Death Wish 3… is a fuckin’ documentary.
We follow Charles Bronson in the process of being Charles Bronson.
Take your analytical bullshit… and your 2008 Yugo with the Obama/Biden ’08 sticker
still plastered to the back windshield… and head on back to the taxpayer-subsidized
communal flop house to cast dry, ironic chuckles at episodes of fuckin’ Portlandia! Just because
your spindly prepubescent 14th century Spanish Conquistador mustache refuses to connect…
does not mean you are permitted to opine on the subject of Bronson. Your mustache doesn’t
connect… because your balls have yet to descend. Bronson’s doesn’t connect… ’cause
it’s fucking afraid to. *WE NOW RETURN TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED
PROGRAM* To suggest that Death Wish 3 has a bad story
is to imply that it fucking requires one. Paul Kersey – having narrowly avoided capture
in Los Angeles after being forcibly removed from New York City – figures the safest place
to hide isn’t so much on the mantlepiece… as in the fucking fireplace. Returning to
a New York City that looks very different, not least of which because it wasn’t fucking
filmed there. If you find yourself transfixed by the faint aroma of bland, starchy foodstuffs,
it’s only because Death Wish 3 was shot in London. Which gives it something in common
with every minority in this movie. Bronson is in *ahem*… “New York” to visit
an old friend who has – once again – made the mistake of being associated with Charles
fucking BRONSON. “Give us the money, home boy. Give me the
money now.” Well, I guess we can add ‘walking out of a
goddamn bus terminal’ to the list of things Charles Bronson cannot do without being punctuated
by a brooding synthesizer riff. He legs it back to his pal’s apartment only to realize
his old friend has found a new calling as a plot device!
“Hey, Charlie! Jeez, Charlie, what happened?” “Move and you’re DEAD, asshole!”
“He’s dead. The son of a bitch killed him! Get him out of here!”
He’s hauled back to the station, where he’s interrogated by Lieutenant DUDE.
“Who’s this dude?” “Dude, you’re in big trouble.”
“What would I do with you, dude?” “You always violate peoples’ constitutional
rights?” “This is my jail, Kersey. And I’M the law!
That means I get to violate your constitutional rights!”
Take it easy! It’s a police station! Not the NSA!
Of course the D.A., and her shoulderpads, perhaps feeling her life isn’t in enough danger…
insists on becoming involved with Paul Kersey. She demands his immediate release!
“You’re going to have to let him out…” –Inside of her, but now we’re getting ahead
of ourselves! With Kersey in the clink, the harsh reality
of policing a burgeoning metropolis comes into incredibly sharp, incredibly bald focus.
‘3 murders… 4 rapes… 8 muggings… 9 acts of random violence… some of the most orderly
drug trafficking in the city… more robberies than I care to mention…’
…and that’s just BRONSON! Of course, an immediate solution is just one
salt & pepper combover away… “You got it. I’ll minimize the ‘vigilante’
stuff in the press. Tell them it’s creeps killing creeps. Nobody cares, anyhow. It’ll
be just like before, Mr.Vigilante. With one important difference: You’re gonna’ work for
me.” “…you’re letting me loose?”
“I’m letting you loose.” No, that isn’t the soundtrack. That what it
sounds like when 8 million criminals shit their pants in unison.
“What about the gun?” “The gun? I didn’t see a report of a gun,
did you? If there was a gun, I’d have to charge you with possessing a firearm… they’re illegal
in this city.” Yeah, that seems to be workin’ out well for
you. You should stick with that. Back at Good Time Charlie’s, he introduces
himself to a man by the name of ‘We’re-Terribly-Sorry-We-Can’t-Afford-Ernest-Borgnine’. “Who are you…?”
“…I was Charlie’s friend…” “…me too…”
“…you must be Paul…” “…yeah…”
“…I’m Bennett…” But awkward pauses and faint homo-erotic sexual
tension isn’t all he’s after. “I’ve got the keys to his apartment. The rent
is paid till the end of the month.” “Do you know if I can pay in human blood…?”
But then it’s time for a fresh episode of To Catch a Shitbag!
“What’s that for? The new car?” “That’s bait.”
…and with that, he sits down for a quiet, uneventful dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Goldsteinowitzenjewenblatt,
that is until– “Excuse me, please…”
If Paul Kersey is using his table manners, it can only mean only one thing…
…he is about to excuse someone… from the burden of being fucking alive!
“Hey… what’s the problem?” “What?”
“…with the car! What’s the problem?” “Who are you?”
“We’re stealing the fuckin’ car, what’s it to you?!”
“…it’s MY CAR!” “Now you gon’ DIE!”
The streets running red with the blood of hearing-imparied kleptomaniacs, Ethnically
non-threatening hispanic sidekick Guy and Counsellor Troi can at last shop at the Bodega
in peace… …for about 5 entire minutes until they’re
accosted by Khofi Kingston. When, suddenly– BRONSON!
“Hey!” “YEAH! Right on, man!”
Okay, WHO THE FUCK GAVE CHARLES BRONSON A LEATHER JACKET?! There will not be a brown
person standing by the end of this film! Upon returning to the apartment building that
class forgot, he discovers a prowler’s been slipping in through the window… evidently
with INK on his fucking shoes… and solves his problem the Bob Vila way.
…and did somebody call for a hamfisted, thoroughly-doomed love interest?
“Well, I’m not usually this… BOLD… taking a taxi to a place I think somebody might not
be to ask them out, but…” “…but the raw chemistry of our 5-second
long conversation had my panties like a fuckin’ Humidor, so I figured ‘what the hell?”
They set a date for Friday, and oh, by the way, this movie is still named fuckin’ DEATH
WISH! Luckily, it turns out she only has a broken
arm. They race to the hospital only to learn that…
…well, you see there was… …sometimes the human body can…
…oh fuck it, Death Wish 3. YOU explain it! “Mrs. Rodriguez… has expired…”
“Over the phone, they told me she had… just a broken arm”
“…It was badly injured.” HAHAHAHAHA! *Sigh*
You know, I’d say women in the Death Wish series were made of tissue paper, but so far
two of them have survived sex with Charles Bronson.
“My friend Wildey is coming.” Five words that could flash-freeze a blast
furnace! Bronson is referring, of course, to the .475
Wildey Magnum… but you, of course, may refer to it as ‘WHY DOES THAT HOWITZER HAVE A HANDLE
AND FUCKING TRIGGER?’ “Wildey’s here… fires a .475 Wildey Magnum…
real stopping power.” “…is that like a .44 Magnum?”
“No, a .44 Magnum is a pistol cartridge… and a .475 Wildey Magnum… is a shorter version…
of the African Big Game cartridge.” “Well… I think I’ll go down the street and
get myself some ice cream… this is America, isn’t it?”
“I’m not allowed to stand up for myself?! I thought this was America! Huh?!? Isn’t this
America!?! I’m sorry, I thought this was America!!” With a pricey Nikon slung over his shoulder
as bait, it’s The Giggler’s turn to nibble on the proverbial cheese…
Well, I figure he’ll just give chase and– THOR’S FUCKING BEARD!
While satellite imaging attempts to track down the rest of the Giggler’s buttfuckin’
sternum, Lieutenant Dude surveys the devastation. “Christ, not much left of this sucker, is
there? How are things around here?” “Better! I feel more relaxed!”
…he said, while perched before the corpse of a moldering drug addict.
In response, the Kurgan gets himself and the supporting cast of the Final Fight franchise
hopped up on amphetamines and points them in the direction of the man who relocated
The Giggler’s chest cavity. When his portable naval cannon slips from his grasp, his only
recourse is to get grabby with a nearby toolbar and take refuge on the only roof that double
as a fuckin’ tetanus culture. STILL better effects than the new Robocop!
“I’d buy THAT for a dollar!” And, hey you know what Bronson hasn’t done
in awhile? Deflowered a woman 1/17th his age! “Do you still think you don’t want to get
close to someone…?” “No, but YOU should.”
Bronson decides the best way to bask in the post-coital afterglow is to… pick up his
mail and– Have I mentioned lately that ‘Knowing Bronson is a glorified DEATH SENTENCE?!’
“…my car…” For the safety of the entire city of New York,
Bronson is placed in protective custody… which the Mad Gear take as their cue to make
a move on I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Ernest-Borgnine. But if there’s one prevailing moral undercurrent
coursing through the vericose veins of this franchise… it’s that you do not fuck…
with people who remember when your neighborhood was an orange grove!
“Damn you… where is it…? No, it’s not where it should be…”
“It’s not working! KILL the motherfucker!” …It’s okay, it happens to lots of guys your
age. The Mad Gear gang try to stimulate his bloodflow… by dropping him off of a second-story
balcony. …and yes. He fucking survives!
So, wait– William Riker’s girlfriend dies of a broken arm after some shitbags’ dick
sneezes on her, but a guy who knew Nebuchadnezzar on a first-name basis is doing Spider-Man
flips out of a fuckin’ fire escape and he’s up and about by the next goddamn day?!
Bronson flees police custody and legs it on over to the post office… because apparently
Wildey’s friends are in town. And hey, you remember that quip Yosemite Sam made in Death
Wish 1 about… guns being an extension of a man’s crank…?
“It’s a LAWs Missile Launcher. Anti-Tank / Anti-Personnel Weapon. The round arms three feet out of the
barrel.” “…all I’ve got is a zip gun.”
‘Well, you’re Latino, that’s to be expected…’ “DAS RACIST!”
“YOU’RE racist!” With the Kurgan having phoned in reinforcements
– because that is totally how down-as-fuck street gangs conduct business – it isn’t long
before the streets are swarming with an improbably high number of murderous caucasians. They’re
shattering windows, assaulting pedestrians, torching buildings… yes, it seems the good
times will last for–HOLY FUCK IT’S BRONSON! Oh, they try to run, but running from Bronson
with a machine gun is like… …well, it’s like trying to run from Bronson
with a fucking machine gun! HEAVY… MACHINE GUN!
Treyarch and Infinity Ward, lend me your cauliflower ears:
THIS is what your desaturated, sepia hallway simulators are fuckin’ missing:
A machine gun. A 1985 alleyway. A perpetual supply of suspiciously multicultural shit-heels…
…and a protagonist with a leather jacket, a mustache, and a cock the size of your development
budget. Fund it… or be BRONSON’D! …and then there was that time Charles Bronson
got in a fight with a car… …and fucking WON! I don’t give a fuck if
you eat raw tiger testes and wash it down with a tall glass of rocket fuel. You will
never be this fucking manly. It is without the faintest trace of hyperbole
that I proclaim that EVERYONE fucking dies in this movie!
Oh, you may think you’re seated with your arms crossed, enjoying some light YouTube
viewing, but you were – in fact – killed in Death Wish 3! Just accept it! I mean, look
at this fuckin’ carnage! I have no idea how the documentary crew weren’t more seriously
injured. But waves of homicidal minorities also means
a margin for error thinner than Bronson’s mustache…
“I owed you that one, dude!” LIEUTENANT DUDE WITH THE SAVE!
No, that’s not a river of blood. It’s placenta. Because you have just witnessed the birth
of the entire Buddy Cop genre. I’d smack the baby’s ass, but I was killed
in Death Wish 3. Alas… Bronson’s out of ammo. But before
he can reload his musket, he’s reacquainted with an old friend…
…who is promptly reacquainted with the floor. Well, that ought to keep hi– HOLY FUCK, HE’S
A ZOMBIE! “Bulletproof, asshole…”
It appears our geriatric hero has his balls to the proverbial wood-paneling… god, if
only he remembered to bring a GIANT FUCKING ROCKET LAUNCHER!
Bronson blows his arch nemesis back to a time when his movies still had plots. Cindy Lauper’s
not pleased, but that’s just the punctuation mark at the end of a great, big long sentence
that reads ‘FUCK CINDY LAUPER!’ Roll credits.
Fucking FIN! ‘They killed… The Giggler, man!’
‘THEY KILLED THE GIGGLER!’