|Click For Trailer|
High Risk (1981, Stewart Raffill)
Starring: James Brolin, Anthony Quinn, Lindsay Wagner, James Coburn, Ernest Borgnine, Bruce Davison, Cleavon Little, Xochitl del Rosario.
Box Notables: Grizzled.
Tagline: ‘Getting in was easy… Getting out was war!!!’
Trailers: Muleskinner Maude, Unlock and Unload!
Cherrypick: “For Christ’s sake - we’re on welfare!”
Like the Occupied Ireland situation, quantum mechanics or the law’s current stance on tackling intruders in one’s own home, believing you understand Uncle Sam’s involvement in Central America in the Eighties provides ironclad proof that you don’t.
|Borgnine: The 'Hollerin' Whiskey' Years|
Throwing it’s own carefully distressed snakeskin panama into the ring, High Risk (aka Los Gringos Bastardes) audaciously attempts to reduce this enchilada combo of complexity down to a simple ERH broth by sending four Texan shitkickers to the Unidentified $entral American country of Nicaragua on a clapped out DC-10 to loot the haciendas of grubby chicken-fucking despots, empty the safes of flamboyantly cravatted druglords and prise the gold from the teeth of stupid donkey-riding peasants alike.
To ZZ Top.
|This is going... well..?|
Making gunboat diplomacy seem like the last word in lily-livered, squeaky-bummed Neville Chamberlain-lite what-you-say-goes bully appeasement, they are immediately storming the palaces of the mighty and blasting into the mock-Tudor mansion of toothy Irish blarney merchant James Coburn’s lisping, petulant marching-powder kingpin, Mendoza, to relieve him of his ill-gotten gains. Soon thereafter as high into the hills as they are on nose-candy and cordite, and with emancipated white slave Lyndsay Wagner now in tow, they find themselves pursued not only by a coke-crazed Coburn and his few remaining goons but also by Anthony Quinn’s raggle-taggle brigade of cartoon bandidos and the clotted cream of local military madman General Espadrille’s fighting elite.
Chase. Airlift. Fin.
|BYO costume Friday goes awry|
But so risky a blend of panic-in-the-disco editing and creaky old geezers with more in common with B/W than VHS was, however (in ‘81 at least), a bridge too far. Even such seemingly well-judged denim derring-do was a little hep for dad’s tastes and just too trad for junior - leaving only Homer Simpson jumping up and down on his couch, repeatedly whooping “U.S.A.” and crushing empty Duff cans against his forehead.