Action Jackson: Hot, Hotter, Hottest

This screening was part of the Alamo Drafthouse’s Weird Wednesday series. For upcoming shows, click here.

On April 26. 2023, I watched Action Jackson (1988) on 35mm at the Alamo Drafthouse on South Lamar for Weird Wednesday. What followed was a brain-free joyride of sexy danger, stylish stunts, and non-stop irreverent one-liners. Rumor has it the film was conceived on the set of Predator over a mutual love of seventies blacksploitation flicks shared by producer Joel Silver and lead actor Carl Weathers. How else could one arrive upon such aimless adrenal whimsy?

In the framework set out by the antagonist’s supercar commercial, let’s look at four elements of Action Jackson parsed out in terms of “Hot, Hotter, and Hottest.” Spoilers ahead.

ACTION!

Surprised? Well, you shouldn’t be—the title’s a clue. American action movies lost something of their original spark when the industry developed sophisticated methodologies. Gone are the days where ex-professional athletes (Carl!) do most of their own stunts. It’s probably better for our society that actors aren’t risking their lives for our entertainment. But isn’t there something visceral to a good old analog car crash where cars actually crash? Doesn’t the filmmaker’s love pass through the screen to the viewer when low budgets necessitate creative problem solving? Word is, the crew didn’t have the bucks to blow up a car, so they printed out a photo-facsimile on cloth and paired it with wood-strewn background fireballs and cleverly edited cuts. Such wonders are to be expected in a situation where Richard R. Baxley, who was the stunt coordinator on Predator, is called on to direct. Dear Hollywood: can we put more people with stunt backgrounds into the big chair?

Hot: A cold open where a man gets shot by an incendiary round via grenade launcher, causing him to plummet, while on fire, from atop a skyscraper, and then through the glass ceiling of a shorter adjacent building. Talk about starting out with a bang.

Hotter: A boss fight where Action Jackson abandons his gun in favor of honorable melee fisticuffs. 

Hottest: Jackson driving a supercar through a mansion during a lawn party—down hallways, upstairs, through walls. “How do you like your ribs?”

EYE CANDY!

It’s no secret that no one cares who does what or what’s happening, onscreen or off, unless the people involved are really, really good looking. Sure, virtue is fine—kindness, genius, craft excellence—as long as said virtuosos are also really, really good looking. Lucky for audiences, the Action Jackson stars and starlets, from top to bottom (double entendre), go easy on the eyes. What film wouldn’t be improved by a big-haired secret assassination squad that could pass for an REO Speedwagon cover band?

Hot: Vanity. Admittedly, she would rate higher if she didn’t have two, full cat-in-a-blender music performances with twitchy dance performances choreographed by Paula Abdul. But isn’t it something that we still enjoy looking at her, even after such atrocities? After her first performance, she tells the antagonist (very inspired by the director’s hatred of Steven Seagal) that she expected to receive a standing ovation. In a not-so-subtle phallic innuendo, he answers that she has. Quick cut to the next scene with them in private and he, sitting at eye level with the bosom of her strapless dress, tells her to give him two reasons to give her what she wants. And… the boobs come out. So, yeah, the film is more than a little horny.

Hotter: Sharon Stone. Anyone who thinks she peaked in Basic Instinct with the famous re-crossing of her legs never saw her half-turned in a backless cocktail dress with her hair up, telling Action Jackson she’ll try to think of something to change his mind. Don’t be surprised if you look down and find bite marks from your own teeth across your knuckles. 

Hottest: Carl Weathers. He puts the “jacked” in “Jackson.” All right, “jacked” isn’t in there, but it should be—Jacked-son, as in, “he’s jacked, son!” He’s still cut like Apollo Creed, with the same signature jabs and sways. Whether he’s dabbing himself off with a towel in a hotel room, freshly wet from a shower, or flexing his bulging biceps against chain-restraints, also shirtless, this chiseled muscle-mounded man takes the cake but doesn’t eat it—because he can’t maintain his perfect physique by eating cake, duh.  

WITTY REPARTEE!

Often forced, always pithy or florid, with the tendency to be tonally inconsistent, the lines deliver… something—laughs? noise?—even when they don’t land, characterize, or advance the plot. However, the writers have correctly surmised that we care little what the pretty people say between explosions. In fact, all investigative plot gaps are summarily and somewhat sloppily tied together towards the end by an omniscient barber-shop gossip while Action Jackson gets a shave. That’s comic relief for the audience because of the fun absurdity—the film has no self-delusions. And comic relief for the narrative throughline, because who has time to figure everything out when faces need punching?

Hot: Two patrols cops rag on each other in the first post-credit scene, after the fall of the flaming man. The first says, “It was a regular fuck-o-rama at my place last night.” The second answers, “Can the shit, Kornblau. There ain't been any pussy at your pad since your mother helped you move in. They oughta call your place the House of Whacks.”

Hotter: In the morgue, Action Jackson stands with a mortician over the body of his ex-track teammate and long-time friend. Jackson criticizes the mortician’s bedside manner. The mortician says, “In this job, I need bedside manner like I need a second nose.” The department considers the death a suicide. Jackson says the chief wouldn’t know suicide if it crawled up his ass and died. No time for hurt feelings, even standing over his friend’s cold body.

Hottest: Before Jackson ever appears on screen, a pair of police give him an extended introduction in attempts to intimidate an arrested teenage purse snatcher. This amounts to a prolix exchange of bad Chuck Norris jokes, with oh such beauties. One speculates that Jackson is the mutant offspring of Bigfoot, who molested his mother.

SUPPORT CAST!

Even Shakespeare knew your side guys are more important than your main ones. (Yes, Shakespeare.) Sure, detractors might argue that giving such emphasis to the periphery is unnecessary, indulgent, and derailing. But let’s be honest: the whole film is unnecessary and indulgent. And where are the rails, even? So, why not lean into it? A nameless extra, when the police try to seize her car for pursuit, says, “The fuck you are!” and drives off. If “film perfection” follows formula, then maybe we’re better off without it.

Hot: The teenage purse snatcher. Because of the intimidating lead up, it becomes a running gag that the boy faints every time he sees Action Jackson. So, it follows (or doesn’t) that they should keep running into one another.

Hotter: The grey-bearded ex-boxer who runs a poor motel, poorly. Somehow, he has a rasp, a lisp, and a slur. You can’t tell what he’s saying half the time, but his cheery bayou garble is always fun to hear. Of course, he must be recruited for the fight squad.

Hottest: The 270 pound sumo-like bouncer who can absorb even Action Jackson’s blows. He’s using his high salary to pay his way through medical school, apparently, and struggles with reconciling the violent demands of his work with his Islamic beliefs. None of this becomes relevant, but the long aside is enjoyable for its own sake. Hashtag “right hand guy.” 

There you have it, the essence of an era. Populated with low tech: classic Impala, answering machines, boom boxes, and box televisions. If you can forgive its gay-panic ass references, crass quadruple-amputee jokes, and the facile ease with which it depicts recovery from heroin addiction, you’ll be rewarded with such scenes as a man having a briefcase-bomb handcuffed to his wrist while Pagliacci blares from a desktop radio, seconds before his luxury yacht explodes and an overmanned hit squad escapes the overkill on flame-lit dark waters in a motor-driven inflatable raft. Love is acceptance, warts and all. And there’s a lot to love in Action Jackson. And lots to accept. “Mellow out.”