The three Bantam Brothers (Walker Boone, Tony DeSantis, and Dave Mucci) have just gotten out of prison and they’ve all already stolen several pounds of explosives. Pretending to be international terrorists, they try to blackmail banker Adam Beardsley (John Vernon) into paying them off. Deputy Police Commissioner Ray Melton (Robert Vaughn) wants to go by the book but his superior, Thad Evans (Leslie Nielsen), realizes that this case is going to require a cop who is willing to break all the rules. It’s time to call in Jack Calhoun (Bruce Fairbairn).
When this movie started, I assumed that it was a comedy. The title sounded like a double entendre and Leslie Nielsen’s name was right there in the opening credits. The opening heist scene also felt like a comedy, up until the Bantam brothers started shooting people. That was when I realized that this movie was supposed to be a drama. Why would you cast a post-Airplane! Leslie Nielsen in a serious cop film? This film did come out before The Naked Gun but it was still after Nielsen sent up every cop show ever made with the original Police Squad television series. .And then, on top of Nielsen, the film gives us Robert Vaughn and a very grumpy John Vernon. All it needed was OJ Simpson as Calhoun’s partner.
Even though the movie was a drama, it still felt like a comedy. Bruce Fairbairn wasn’t much of a cop but luckily, the three Bantam brothers weren’t that much of a group of criminals. Jack Calhoun had a girlfriend (Kerrie Keane) who constantly reminded him that he could have been having sex with her if he wasn’t constantly searching for the Bantam brothers. “I can’t be in two places at once,” Calhoun said with a sigh. I’m still not convinced this wasn’t a comedy.
Nightstick was originally made for Canadian television. When it first aired, it was called Calhoun. The name was changed to Nightstick for the video release, even though no one in the movie uses a nightstick. Calhoun uses a gun and, at one point, a binder but he doesn’t carry a nightstick. Maybe his character should have been named Jack Nightstick to make the title work.
Did I hallucinate this movie? I’m pretty sure it was a comedy.
Bruise Brubaker (Mr. T) spends his nights as a bouncer at a club owned by his best friend (Dennis Dugan) and his days running a center for at-risk youth. Bruise is a former Marine drill sergeant who is now determined to make Chicago a better place. He’s so cool that his name is Bruise and he even has his own theme song, which plays whenever he patrols the streets and alleys of Chicago. But when it looks like the youth center is going to get closed down unless it can quickly raise some money, Bruise faces the challenge of a lifetime when he enters a competition to prove that he’s the toughest man in the world!
Is Mr. T the toughest man in the world? I pity the fool who even has to ask.
This made-for-TV movie is exactly what you think it is. Mr. T barks out his dialogue with his signature growl but he still seems utterly sincere when he orders the kids to say in school and stop trying to mug old men in the alleys. At first, it seems like Bruise should be able to easily win the Toughest Man competition but it turns out to be tougher than he thought. There’s an extended sequences in which Bruise tries to learn how to box and it turns out that he’s no Clubber Lang. There’s also an extended subplot about some broadly-played mobsters who are hoping that can drug Bruise so he’ll lose the contest.
Probably the funniest thing about the movie is the idea that everyone in Chicago would stop what they were doing so that they could gather around the television and watch the Toughest Man contest. The second funniest thing is Dennis Farina showing up in a small role and reminding us that it takes all types of actors to make a movie.
Mr. T was never a good actor but he was a great personality and that personality is on full display here. The Toughest Man In The World will make you nostalgic for a more innocent time.
“Jakey, Jakey, big mistakey,” the bad guy says at one point during 2015’s Story of Eva and if that doesn’t tell you everything you need to know about this film, I don’t know what to tell you.
Eva (Nicole Rio) is the mother of teenage Amber (Chelsea London Lloyd). After Amber is murdered by a serial killer who also works as a human trafficker, Eva decides to get revenge. First, however, she has to train herself to not only inflict pain but to also handle it. She finds Amber’s stash and starts smoking it. She wears a ball gag. She whips herself. She learns how to handle pain. She uses Amber’s college fund to buy a membership at the gym and takes boxing lessons. And she builds her own little dungeon. Whenever Eva captures a criminal, she turns into Evil Eva and is even played by a different actress, Shawn Craig. Eva is one of those vigilantes who can’t punish an evil-doer without delivering an endless monologue. The script is talky in the way that scripts written by first-timers determined to prove their cleverness often are.
“No child should ever suffer!” Eva — in “good” form — announces before then adding, “What kind of God would allow that?” Thunder rumbles in the background and it’s not for the first or the only time in the movie as Eva views herself as having become a vengeful God. I have to admit that I appreciated the fact that the film was so shamelessly overwrought and overdone. Everything about the the move is over-the-top and yet, oddly, it’s still rather dull. Some of it is that fact that we live in a post-Hostel world. Torture chambers just don’t carry the same jolt that they once did.
Eric Roberts plays a detective who is investigating all of the murders. He is named Detective Wood. His partner (Rico Ross) is named Detective Grind and the fact that there was no one named Detective Bump seems like a missed opportunity. Roberts appears in a handful of scenes and brings some welcome wit to the role.
Previous Eric Roberts Films That We Have Reviewed:
“If you want to walk out of this fucking place, you will listen to people who know!” — Spc. Abraham “Doc” Johnson
Hamburger Hill is one of those Vietnam War movies that doesn’t really bother decorating the war with grand metaphors or tortured soul‑searching; it just puts you on the hill with the grunts and makes you feel every miserable inch of the climb. Released in 1987 and directed by John Irvin, the film is a fictionalized but tightly focused take on the real week‑long “Battle of Hamburger Hill” in the A Sầu Valley, a piece of rugged terrain in central Vietnam that saw some of the bloodiest fighting between U.S. and North Vietnamese Army (NVA) forces in May 1969. The movie dramatizes the 101st Airborne’s 3rd Battalion, 187th Infantry Regiment as they’re ordered to assault a heavily fortified hill over and over again, and it leans hard into the idea that the battle is less about grand strategy and more about raw endurance and attrition.
One of the first things that strikes you about Hamburger Hill is how deliberately it avoids big stars and splashy heroics. The ensemble is made up mostly of young, relatively unknown actors, which ironically makes the cast feel more authentic. You’re not watching a famous movie star playing a grunt; you’re watching a squad of guys who could actually be kids your age sent halfway across the world to die in the mud. The central figure is second‑lieutenant Al Frantz, played by a young Dylan McDermott, who’s stepping up from a desk job into direct combat command. He’s not some infallible war‑hero archetype; he’s earnest, nervous, and visibly out of depth, which makes his slow hardening under fire feel earned rather than heroic. Watching him wrestle with guilt, responsibility, and the absurdity of the orders he’s obeying gives the film a quiet moral backbone without sliding into preachy territory.
The movie is structured around roughly ten days of repeated assaults on “Hamburger Hill,” a soggy, razor‑sharp ridge in the A Sầu Valley that the NVA had turned into a killing zone. Each push uphill is more brutal than the last, and the film doesn’t soften the violence. When someone gets hit, they don’t go down in a graceful slow‑motion shot; they drop suddenly, sometimes mid‑sentence, in a spray of gore that feels uncomfortably real. The script doesn’t fetishize the blood and mud, but it refuses to look away from it either, which makes the whole thing feel like a visceral anti‑glory tract. By the time audiences get to the tenth assault, trudging through torrents of rain and mud while bullets stitch the air around them, the sequence has the effect of a slow, grinding nightmare. It’s less about who’s “winning” and more about the fact that everyone involved is being slowly chewed up by the same machine.
What really keeps Hamburger Hill from feeling like a simple, grim slaughter‑fest is its attention to the characters in the squad. The film invests time in a handful of men—White, Black, and Latino—whose camaraderie, tensions, and private doubts slowly emerge between patrols and firefights. There’s Doc Johnson, the company medic played by Courtney B. Vance, who holds himself together with a veneer of calm professionalism while quietly absorbing the emotional toll of patching up one friend after another. Doc becomes a kind of moral anchor, someone who sees the humanity in every soldier while still recognizing the war’s dehumanizing logic. His presence also lets the film quietly deal with racial friction and class differences without turning them into tidy, feel‑good sermons. The way the soldiers talk over each other, argue about politics back home, and joke about their own fear turns squad life into a cramped, sweaty microcosm of America itself.
The political backdrop of the late‑Vietnam era is always in the background, too. The men occasionally hear distorted chunks of anti‑war protests and news coverage over the radio, and you can see how that information chips away at their sense of purpose. Some of the older soldiers, like the gruff Sgt. Worcester played by Steve Weber, have already lost whatever idealism they might have had and just want to get through the next day. Newer guys, meanwhile, are still wrestling with why they’re there at all, and whether the hill they’re dying for means anything to anyone back in the States. The film doesn’t answer those questions directly; it just lets you feel the uncertainty. That ambivalence is part of what makes Hamburger Hill feel historically grounded. It’s less interested in telling you who was right or wrong in the Vietnam War and more interested in showing what it actually felt like to be a small‑arms infantryman in late‑1969, during one of the bloodiest stretches of fighting in the A Sầu Valley.
Visually, the movie leans into a muddy, washed‑out palette that makes the Philippines‑standing‑in‑for‑Vietnam locations feel appropriately oppressive. The hill itself—the real‑life “Hamburger Hill” in the A Sầu Valley—is a constant, looming presence: slick with rain, choked with barbed wire, and studded with foxholes and bunkers. The camera often stays at ground level, jostling with the soldiers as they crawl, scramble, and stumble upward, which makes the terrain feel like an active enemy. The sound design is similarly unglamorous—gunfire isn’t especially stylized, explosions are chaotic rather than cool, and the constant hiss of rain and distant artillery keeps the film in a state of low‑grade dread. Even the score, a Philip Glass–style arrangement of repetitive, slightly unnerving motifs, adds to the feeling of being trapped in a loop of violence you can’t escape. Everything in the film is built to make the combat feel routine, exhausting, and numbing, rather than spectacular.
Another thing Hamburger Hill handles surprisingly well is the way it dovetails the physical horror of the battle with the men’s private lives back home. In quieter moments between attacks, the soldiers talk about girlfriends, family, and their plans for “after the war,” even though, for some of them, those plans are clearly not going to happen. The film doesn’t milk this stuff for melodrama; instead, it floats just beneath the surface, turning every casual conversation into a quiet pre‑eulogy. When someone makes a joke about getting back to Chicago or New York or wherever they’re from, the line feels both genuine and heartbreaking, because you know the movie might quietly erase that future a few scenes later. That low‑key sense of fragility makes the emotional impact of each death feel more personal, because the film has already taken the time to show you who these guys are when they’re not being shot at.
Narratively, the film doesn’t try to convince you that taking the hill is some great strategic triumph. If anything, it’s openly skeptical about the rationale behind the whole operation. The soldiers keep getting told to “take it, hold it, then fall back,” and the repetition of that order drives home the sense that the hill is more of a symbolic goal than a tactical necessity. The film doesn’t stage a big, dramatic monologue about this; it just lets the repetition of the mission, the rising body count, and the unanswered questions hang in the air. That choice aligns Hamburger Hill more with a film like Apocalypse Now or Full Metal Jacket in spirit, even though its tone is far more straightforward and less stylized. It’s less interested in mythmaking and more interested in capturing the eerie timelessness of infantrymen being sent to die for reasons they don’t fully understand, during one of the fiercest set‑pieces of the Vietnam War.
In terms of its legacy, Hamburger Hill often gets overshadowed by Oliver Stone’s Platoon, which came out a year earlier and snagged the Oscars’ attention. But in a lot of ways, Irvin’s film is a grittier, more unsentimental companion piece. It doesn’t try to map the Vietnam War onto a single moral allegory, and it doesn’t give you a hero to latch onto and cheer for. Instead, it gives you a squad of men, flaws and all, and asks you to watch them go through hell while trying to keep their foothold on each other. That ensemble‑driven approach, combined with the unrelenting realism of the battle sequences, is what makes Hamburger Hill feel like less of a “movie” and more like a grim, ground‑level documentary rooted in the real‑world horror of the Battle of Hamburger Hill.
By the end, the film doesn’t offer a clean sense of resolution. The soldiers do eventually take the hill, but the victory is so hollow and so costly that it hardly feels like a win at all. The last few scenes linger on survivors looking shell‑shocked and exhausted, many of them quietly wondering what the point of it was. The movie doesn’t spell that out in a clumsy voice‑over; it trusts you to feel the absurdity and the weight of what they’ve been through. That refusal to wrap things up with a neat moral bow is one of Hamburger Hill’s strengths. It understands that sometimes the most honest thing a war film can do is show you the damage and then leave you with the questions.
In the crowded field of Vietnam War movies, Hamburger Hill stands out because it strips away the spectacle and just focuses on the brutal, day‑to‑day reality of trying to take a piece of ground that probably shouldn’t matter as much as it does. It’s not a flashy, revolutionary film, but it’s a stubbornly honest one, anchored in the real‑world carnage of the week‑long Battle of Hamburger Hill in the A Sầu Valley. It’s a movie that would rather make you feel the mud squeeze between your toes, hear the too‑close sound of automatic fire, and watch the faces of guys who’ve run out of explanations for why they’re still climbing. If you’re looking for a Vietnam film that doesn’t sugarcoat the war or overdress it in symbolism, Hamburger Hill is the kind of movie that sticks with you precisely because it doesn’t try to be anything more than what it is: a raw, claustrophobic portrait of a squad walking into a meat grinder, one rain‑soaked step at a time.
In 2008’s Cyclops, Ancient Rome is a bad CGI village that is being menaced by an even worse CGI cyclops. (The height of the Cyclops literally changes from scene to scene.) After the Cyclops is captures, it’s forced to fight in the gladiatorial games of the decadent Emperor Tiberius (Eric Roberts). Marcus (Kevin Stapleton), a centurion-turned-gladiator, eventually launches his own revolution against the Empire. When you’re fighting against the 15 members of the fearsome Roman army, it helps to a have a monster from Greek mythology on your side. Long live the Roman Republic!
This is an extremely silly movie but it’s hard not to admire the chutzpah it takes to try to recreate the glory of Rome on a tiny budget. It’s not just that the city of Rome looks like a medieval village. It’s also that there appears to only be about fifty citizens of Rome and most of them look like they wandered over from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. The film doesn’t work but kudos to the filmmakers for trying in the first place. Not surprisingly, this was a Roger Corman production.
Eric Roberts as a Roman emperor is something that simply needs to be seen to believed. Eric has the haircut and the sinful smile and he gives the thumbs up symbol with the proper theatrical flourish. In the film, Tiberius turns on Marcus after the latter demands that he be given a land grant along with his promotion and I’m on Tiberius’s side as far as that goes. Marcus should have just accepted the promotion without making demands. Tiberius had every right to be miffed and no one plays miffed quite as well as Eric Roberts. Tiberius goes on to plan the state dinner that will celebrate the capture of the Cyclops. Tiberius and his friends will have half-a-boar. Marcus will be given “eggs and greens.” Oh, Tiberius!
Previous Eric Roberts Films That We Have Reviewed:
Pilot Tom Gregory (Robert Hutton) lands his private plane in Los Angeles and is shocked to discover that the city is surrounded by a thick fog and that it appears to be nearly deserted. A chance meeting with a professor named Galbraith (Robert Burton) and his two daughters (Susan Hart and Judee Morton) leads the group to a television station where they watch a news report about how Los Angeles has been surrounded by a “hardened fog.” No one can escape the fog and no one can escape the Slime People, reptilian humanoids who have ascended from their underground lair and declared war on the surface world. There appears to only be, at most, six Slime People but I guess that’s all you need to conquer Los Angeles.
The Slime People is a Z-grade horror film that features a lot of stock footage, monsters that would not be out of place in a Jon Pertwee-era Doctor Who serial, and an out-of-control fog machine. The fog machine is actually the star of the show. There’s so much fog in this movie that it’s often impossible to see the actors or the Slime People. It’s a shame because, considering that the production ran out of money after 9 days and the majority of the actors were never paid, the Slime People costumes are not that bad.
Along with the fog and the costumes, the other memorable thing about The Slime People is that none of the survivors seem to be particularly upset about any of the horror that they’ve just experienced. One young soldier (William Boyce) takes the time to ask one of the professor’s daughters if she’ll be available to date once the crisis ends. It’s a tribute to the American youth of the 1960s that not even an attack from underground dwellers could stop date night.
“You write ‘Born to Kill’ on your helmet and you wear a peace button. What’s that supposed to be, some kind of sick joke?” — Colonel
Full Metal Jacket is the kind of war movie that sticks in your craw like old metal shavings. It’s 1987, Stanley Kubrick’s last film released in his lifetime, and it plays less like a traditional Vietnam War saga and more like a taunt packed into two very different acts. One half is a barracks horror show about how the military turns boys into killers; the other is a grubby, almost casual descent into the chaos of combat. Together, they make a movie that feels intentionally disjointed so it can drill down on the same idea from two angles: war doesn’t just brutalize your body, it reshapes your mind into something barely human.
The film follows Private J.T. “Joker” Davis, played by Matthew Modine in one of those quietly watchful performances that’s easy to underestimate. Joker starts as a kind of archetypal smart‑mouth recruit, the guy who thinks he’s above the hysteria until he realizes he isn’t. Around him swirls a platoon of young Marines going through basic training at Parris Island under the merciless Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, played with shark‑like relish by R. Lee Ermey, who was actually a real‑life Marine drill instructor. Hartman’s whole job is to obliterate softness and replace it with drilled‑in aggression, and Kubrick lingers on every insult, every barked command, until the abuse stops feeling like a setup for a war movie and starts feeling like the main event.
The first half of Full Metal Jacket is basically a single, sustained initiation ritual. The camera stays tight, almost claustrophobic, trapping you in the barracks with the recruits, so you feel the same sensory overload they do. The lighting is harsh, the colors washed out, and the camera often locks in on Hartman’s face mid‑rant, making you uncomfortably intimate with his cruelty. This isn’t training so much as a manufactured psychological war waged on the platoon’s collective brain. The recruits are constantly degraded, mocked, and forced into grotesque rituals of humiliation, and the film never lets you forget that this is the system’s idea of “making Marines.” Kubrick doesn’t fake the perverse appeal of this process either; there’s a weird, ugly thrill in how effective it is, in how the boys start enjoying the brutality once they’re inside it.
The standout character in this section is Leonard “Gomer Pyle” Lawrence, played by Vincent D’Onofrio in a performance that’s almost physically uncomfortable to watch. D’Onofrio’s Pyle is this thick‑set, awkward kid who can’t keep up, and the movie doesn’t soften his edges to make him likable. He’s genuinely bad at the routine, slow, clumsy, but he’s also clearly just trying to survive. The film lets you watch, in a very matter‑of‑fact way, how the system turns his inadequacy into a target. The other recruits are instructed to punish him, and soon everyone starts in. The film doesn’t moralize about it; it just shows that this kind of group cruelty is baked into the structure. The infamous scene where the platoon holds Leonard down with piled‑on bed sheets while whacking him with a bar of soap wrapped in a towel is less about a single act of violence than about what it means to normalize dehumanization before you ever see combat.
What’s so unsettling about Full Metal Jacket is that it never pretends Hartman is some rogue sadist. He’s not an outlier; he’s the product of the system, and he’s also the system’s avatar. In that sense, the first half of the film functions like a kind of industrial horror. The Marines are being processed like defective parts on a factory line, streamed through a machine designed to break them and then rebuild them as compliant killers. The film toys with the idea that the military doesn’t want robots so much as creatures that hunger for violence on command. The line about “we don’t want robots, we want men” is repeated with a kind of grim irony because what the film actually shows is the production of something in between: not quite human, not quite machine, but something that can pull a trigger without hesitating.
Jumping from Parris Island to the streets of Huế during the Tet Offensive, the second half of Full Metal Jacket feels like a different movie in tone but the same one in thesis. Joker, now a combat correspondent with a Stars and Stripes hat and a “Born to Kill” slogan on his helmet, is literally split down the middle between observer and participant. He carries a camera and a rifle; he’s supposed to report, but he also has to fight. The film doesn’t resolve that tension the way a more sentimental war movie would. Instead, it lets Joker drift in that gray zone where war is equal parts absurdity and atrocity. The Vietnamese civilians are largely faceless, and the war itself is shown as a series of loosely connected vignettes—raids, ambushes, random firefights—rather than a grand narrative of heroism or tragedy.
Kubrick’s Vietnam is less a country and more a ruined theater set. The cityscapes are wide, desolate, and oddly beautiful in their destruction, as if the war has turned everything into a series of bleak tableaux. The camera doesn’t linger on gore for shock value; it lingers to make the war feel like a permanent, almost aesthetic state of ruin. Individual soldiers pop in and out: Animal Mother, the violently unhinged Marine played by Adam Baldwin; Cowboy, the earnest, almost naive replacement; and the rest of the squad, who oscillate between fear, boredom, and bursts of casual cruelty. None of them are given the kind of tragic backstories that usually make you emotionally invested in a war film. Instead, they’re presented as fragments of a larger machine, each one another cog in the same indifferent system.
The film’s most famous structural trick is its way of keeping politics at arm’s length while still radiating a deeply skeptical view of the war. It doesn’t really bother telling you who’s right or wrong, or why the Marines are there. It just shows what they become and what they do. The movie doesn’t ask you to sympathize with the Marines in the way some war films do; it asks you to recognize the mirror. The famous ending, where the Marines march through flaming ruins to the tune of Mickey Mouse, is pure Kubrick dark surrealism. The cheerful cartoon theme clashes violently with the apocalyptic imagery, and the soldiers chant along with a kind of manic innocence that feels like the last vestige of humanity being cannibalized by the war itself. It’s hard to tell whether the moment is tragic, absurd, or both, and that’s the point.
Full Metal Jacket is also a film about storytelling and the way narratives are weaponized. Joker, as a reporter, is supposed to package the war for a distant audience. He’s there to turn chaos into digestible stories, but the movie quietly undermines that idea by showing how unreliable those narratives are. The soldiers’ own stories are laced with jokes, bravado, misogyny, and casual racism, and the film doesn’t clean them up. It lets you sit with the ugliness, even when it’s delivered with a laugh. The film doesn’t romanticize the Marines’ camaraderie or soften their cruelty; it just lets you watch them behave like ordinary guys who happen to be doing something extraordinary and monstrous.
The cinematography in Full Metal Jacket is cold and precise, which is exactly what the material needs. The camera behaves like a reluctant witness, framing the Marines in symmetrical, almost clinical compositions that make their brutality look routine rather than spectacular. The score is minimal, and the film often relies on diegetic sound—machine‑gun fire, jeep engines, distant explosions, Hartman’s voice echoing off concrete walls—to ground you in the sensory overload of military life. Even the few moments of levity feel like concessions to show business more than true relief. The soldiers’ jokes are rarely funny in a wholesome way; they’re the kind of gallows humor that keeps you from noticing how broken you’ve become.
What ultimately makes Full Metal Jacket endure is that it refuses to offer catharsis. By the time the film ends, nothing has been “resolved” in the way Hollywood usually expects. Joker survives, but the war doesn’t; it just keeps going, and the Marines keep marching, chanting, and killing. The film doesn’t build toward a big speech about the futility of war or a tear‑jerker about fallen comrades. It just suggests, quietly and persistently, that the process outlined in the boot‑camp half is drafted, again, in the streets of Vietnam. You go in as a boy, you’re molded into something sharper and meaner, and then you’re sent out into a world that rewards that sharpness. The movie doesn’t need to say this out loud; it just shows it happening in scene after scene.
In that sense, Full Metal Jacket is one of the most honest anti‑war films precisely because it doesn’t pretend to be a plea for peace. It’s a portrait of a machine that feeds on itself, and of the people who get caught in its gears. It’s funny, disturbing, infuriating, and occasionally mesmerizing, sometimes all at once. It’s not a movie that wants to hold your hand or make you feel better about the human race. It wants you to stare at the gleam on that full metal jacket bullet and wonder what it took to make someone pull the trigger. That’s the real power of Full Metal Jacket: it doesn’t try to redeem the war, the soldiers, or the audience. It just makes sure you can’t look away.
In 2023’s Megalodon: The Frenzy, the giant shark that keeps coming back …. well, it comes back again! Actually, there’s more than one giant shark this time. The ocean is not safe, not for tourists, not for beach partiers, not for scientists, not even for the Marines!
Fortunately, Lt. Commander Sharp (Eric Roberts) is in command of a battleship and he’s constantly encouraging his Marines to be prepared to sacrifice everything to stop the giant sharks. While scientist Rylie Clark (Caroline Williams) attempts to figure out how to stop the sharks, Sharp barks out order to his crew. His crew replies with “Oorah!” I would have to check the official records to know for sure but there’s a distinct chance that this movie set the record for the most use of “oorah” over an 82 minute run time.
The true stars of the film are the giant sharks, of course. That said, it’s nice to see Eric Roberts playing a good guy for once. Of course, Eric does seem a little advanced in years to still be on active duty. The mandatory retirement age for a flag officer is usually 64 but retirement can be deferred until 68 by Presidential order. Eric Roberts was around 67 years old when he filmed this so I guess it pays to have a friend in Washington. Well, no matter. Eric gave his orders with authority and rallied his men and probably had the longest hair that you’re ever likely to see on an officer.
As for the sharks, they’re really big and they jump out of the water and eat people. This is an Asylum film and the Asylum has always understood what people want when it comes to giant sharks. Don’t take this film seriously and you’ll be fine.
Previous Eric Roberts Films That We Have Reviewed:
Rudy Baylor (Matt Damon) is an idealistic young law school graduate who discovers that having a degree and passing the bar doesn’t automatically make you a success. He gets a job working a bar that just happens to be owned by an ambulance chasing attorney named Bruiser Stone (Mickey Rourke). Bruiser takes Rudy on as an associate and assigns his associate, Deck Shifflet (Danny DeVito), to teach Rudy how to find cases. When Bruiser flees the country to escape an FBI investigation, Rudy and Deck start their own law firm. Rudy soon finds himself with the case of his young career, representing a family in a law suit against Great Benefit Insurance. Rudy also falls for Kelly (Claire Danes), a young woman who is being abused by her husband (Andrew Shue).
It can be hard to believe today but, in the 90s, every John Grisham novel was adapted for the screen. Most of the adaptations weren’t very good but audiences ate them up. In many ways, The Rainmaker is the ultimate John Grisham adaptation because it contains every single trope that John Grisham made popular with his legal thrillers. This time, Matt Damon is the charismatic attorney. Roy Scheider is the soulless corporate CEO who needs to be brought down. Jon Voight is the intimidating opposing counsel. Danny DeVito is the eccentric comic relief and Mickey Rourke is the dues ex machina who returns to the movie to give Rudy a piece of information at the exact right moment. The appeal of Grisham is that he made readers (and eventually moviegoers) feel like insiders while presenting them with stories that were essentially very simple good vs evil morality tales. The insurance company is so cartoonishly evil that there’s no doubt Rudy is going to defeat them. There’s also no doubt that Rudy is going to find a better calling than ambulance chasing because the only thing that people hate more than insurance companies is lawyers.
The Rainmaker is never as complex as it pretends to be but it’s an entertaining legal movie. It was also director Francis Ford Coppola’s last big hit. It’s really more of a Grisham film than a Coppola film but Coppola’s influence is still felt in the almost uniformly excellent cast. (Ignore Andrew Shue if you can. Melrose Place was very popular in the 90s.) Damon, Danes, Rourke, Voight, Dean Stockwell, Danny Glover, Teresa Wright, Virginia Madsen, and Mary Kay Place all give memorable performances. Roy Scheider is loathsome as the sweater-wearing CEO. Best of all is Danny DeVito, who gets all of the best lines.
The Rainmaker was the best of the 1990s Grisham adaptations. While it’s not quite a masterpiece, it’s still emotionally very satisfying.
“We been kicking other peoples asses for so long, I figured it’s time we got ours kicked.” — Sgt. Elias
Platoon is one of those war movies that still feels raw, mean, and strangely alive decades later. It is not just a Vietnam movie about combat; it is a movie about confusion, fear, moral collapse, and what happens when young people are dropped into a nightmare with no real sense of why they are there.
What makes Platoon hit so hard is that it never feels polished in a comforting way. Oliver Stone keeps the film close to the mud, sweat, and panic of the battlefield, but he also spends plenty of time on the uglier stuff that happens between firefights: the resentment, the paranoia, the bullying, and the way men start forming little kingdoms inside a war zone. That is where the movie gets its power. The bullets matter, but so do the silences and side glances, because those moments show how war breaks people down before it even kills them.
Charlie Sheen’s Chris Taylor is a smart choice for the center of the film because he starts out as a kind of blank witness. He is young, idealistic in a vague way, and clearly not prepared for what he has walked into. That makes him easy to identify with, but it also makes him useful as a lens for everything around him. We learn the rules of this miserable little ecosystem as he does. Through Chris, the audience is pulled into the same sense of helpless observation that seems to define the whole experience of the platoon.
Stone’s screenplay makes that connection even stronger because he wrote it himself, drawing on his own experience as a young man who volunteered to go to Vietnam instead of being drafted. That detail gives Chris Taylor’s story a personal charge, since Chris feels less like a fictional stand-in and more like Stone working through his own memory and guilt. It adds another layer to the film’s emotional weight, because the perspective feels lived-in rather than invented for dramatic effect.
The film’s real muscle comes from the conflict between Sergeant Elias and Sergeant Barnes, played with complete commitment by Willem Dafoe and Tom Berenger. Elias feels like the last thread of conscience in a collapsing world. Barnes, by contrast, is the kind of man war can easily turn into a weapon: hard, cold, frightening, and convinced that brutality is just realism with the sentiment stripped out. Their conflict gives the movie a mythic quality without draining away its grit. It is not subtle in the usual sense, but it does not need to be. Stone wants these figures to feel bigger than life because that is how they register to a terrified kid in the jungle.
One of the best things about Platoon is how it balances chaos with purpose. A lot of war films either try to turn combat into spectacle or turn it into a lecture. Platoon mostly avoids both traps. The action is ugly, disorienting, and often difficult to follow in exactly the right way. You do not watch these battles and admire the choreography as much as you feel the confusion of everyone inside them. The filmmaking keeps you from getting too comfortable, which is exactly the point. War here is not heroic; it is exhausting, degrading, and terrifying.
That sense of exhaustion matters because the movie understands that war is not made up of only the big moments people remember. It is made up of waiting, heat, boredom, fear, and the slow erosion of judgment. Platoon is at its best when it lingers on that middle ground. The soldiers are not always in immediate danger, but they are always under pressure. That constant tension is what makes the movie feel so oppressive. Even when nothing explodes, it still feels like something bad is about to happen.
Stone also deserves credit for making a Vietnam movie that feels personal without becoming self-congratulatory. You can feel that this comes from experience, but the film never becomes some smug “I was there” statement. Instead, it channels memory into mood, character, and atmosphere. That gives the movie a lived-in authenticity that a lot of war films chase but never quite reach. It feels like a film made by someone trying to tell the truth about a memory that never stopped hurting.
There is also something brutally effective about the way Platoon presents morality as unstable rather than cleanly divided. The movie does not really pretend that everyone is either noble or evil. Instead, it shows how stress, fear, resentment, and power can shove people toward terrible choices. That is a big reason the film still works. It understands that war does not just expose character; it distorts it. Men do things they would never do anywhere else, and the movie keeps asking what is left of a person after that kind of damage.
Still, Platoon is not perfect, and part of its reputation comes from how forcefully it makes its points. Some viewers may find it a little heavy-handed at times, especially in the way it frames innocence, corruption, and betrayal. It is not exactly a subtle film, and it does occasionally aim for emotional impact with both fists. But honestly, that intensity is part of its identity. The movie is not trying to be cool or detached. It wants to wound you a little, and for this material, that approach makes sense.
The performances help keep the film from tipping over into empty grandstanding. Dafoe brings a wounded humanity to Elias that makes him feel like more than just a symbol. Berenger gives Barnes a dangerous stillness that is often more frightening than outright aggression. Sheen, meanwhile, does the important work of holding the center without overpowering the film. He is not the flashiest presence, but he does not need to be. His job is to absorb the madness, and that gives the audience a place to stand inside it.
What lingers most after Platoon is not any single battle scene, but the feeling that the whole movie is about a collapse of trust. Trust in leaders, trust in comrades, trust in the idea that there is some larger meaning to all this suffering. The film strips those things away layer by layer until all that is left is survival and the hope that maybe, somehow, the nightmare will end. That is a bleak place to sit for two hours, but it is also why the film remains so effective. It does not romanticize the experience. It forces you to sit with its mess.
The movie also has a strong visual identity. The jungle is not just background; it feels like an active pressure on every scene. The humidity, the darkness, the mud, and the smoke all help create a world that seems hostile even when nobody is shooting. That physical texture is a huge part of the movie’s success. You can almost feel the environment draining the people inside it. It is less like watching a battle than like watching human beings slowly get swallowed by a swamp of fear and violence.
If there is a reason Platoon still gets talked about so often, it is because it captures a very specific kind of war movie truth: the enemy is not only out there. Sometimes the real damage comes from within the unit, within the chain of command, within the soldier’s own mind. That is a grim idea, but Platoon never feels empty or cynical for saying it. It feels honest. And honesty, in a movie like this, goes a long way.
In the end, Platoon is powerful because it refuses to let war look clean, noble, or emotionally tidy. It is messy, relentless, and often hard to watch, but that is exactly why it matters. It is one of the defining Vietnam films for a reason, and even with its blunt edges, it earns that status through sheer force of feeling, strong performances, and a bleak sense of truth that never really lets up.
The three Bantam Brothers (Walker Boone, Tony DeSantis, and Dave Mucci) have just gotten out of prison and they’ve all already stolen several pounds of explosives. Pretending to be international terrorists, they try to blackmail banker Adam Beardsley (John Vernon) into paying them off. Deputy Police Commissioner Ray Melton (Robert Vaughn) wants to go by the book but his superior, Thad Evans (Leslie Nielsen), realizes that this case is going to require a cop who is willing to break all the rules. It’s time to call in Jack Calhoun (Bruce Fairbairn).
Through the Shattered Lens 