It’s business as usual for Cannon’s most relentless purveyor of vengeance
Everybody can get behind a good vigilante story.
In fact, most of the time it doesn’t have to be all that good at all. Revenge, vengeance: they are two of cinema’s biggest and often cheapest commercial draws. They tap into our basest fantasies, the kind we adopt as children and rarely let go of. These are emotions that can be exploited in the most black and white terms. Vigilante movies allow us to vicariously fulfil some of our darkest fantasies. Most of us would never go as far as to physically hurt somebody based on their various misdeeds, but it doesn’t mean we don’t fantasise about it. Someone, somewhere will inevitably do wrong by us, and it is human nature to seek retaliation.
For those who fail to see the spurious nature of such sentiments, they can prove quite harmful, particularly when those in power look to exploit them for political gain. Nothing speaks to the lowest common denominator like a good dose of blind hatred. For the millions struggling to make ends meet, life can be a grind, and it always helps to have someone other than the government to point the finger at, but such sentiments are not exclusive to the less fortunate. Vigilante movies can also be used to put the fear of God into people. Fear is the ultimate outlet for control, and discrimination is invariably a part of the recipe. As a mainstream vehicle, the Death Wish concept is perfect for spreading those messages. It is also a surefire way to sell tickets.
Such strategies were tried and tested, the likes of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood helping to champion such Republican values with their silent acts of retribution and eye for an eye philosophies. The western genre would provide cinema with arguably its most basic delineations of good vs evil, those that would be adopted by all and sundry for the latter part of the 20th century and beyond. In order justify acts of seemingly unnecessary violence there could be no shades of grey. If supposed heroes were to go around killing people then their victims had to deserve their unfortunate brand of proactive punishment. This meant that there were two kinds of people in the world: those who were good and honest and noble, and those who were just plain bad.
Mrs. Kaprov: [inspecting a booby-trap, Kersey notices something] What is it?
Paul Kersey: Teeth.
At the turn of the ’80s, Israeli producers Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus would roll the dice on foreign shores by purchasing Cannon Films, a then flailing production company specialising in modest, small-scale movies. With the US looking to former actor and day-glow John Wayne Ronald Reagan as their next presidential candidate, the landscape was ripe for a decade of pro-American shtick based around sentiments of good vs evil, the very kind that played into the hands of Cold War propaganda. Rocky IV, Top Gun, and the increasingly spurious Rambo franchise would all clean up at the box office based on aggression towards ‘evil’, and with the burgeoning home video market hitting full swing, there was a low-budget niche that needed filling, and Golan-Globus were only too happy to capitalise.
They did so with incredible aplomb. First of all they would tap into the relatively unknown ninja market, a slew of wildly successful, low-budget faux marital arts movies putting their fledgling action machine firmly on the map. Thanks to movies such as Enter the Ninja, American Ninja and Ninja III: The Domination, Cannon would grow in influence, with everyone from Chuck Norris to Sly Stallone jumping on the Cannon freight train, but one of their smartest moves was acquiring the rights to the Death Wish series. After all, who fit the sociopolitical bill better than Western stalwart and genre legend Charles Bronson, an actor who would soon take his John Wayne act to the streets Golan-Globus style with the hugely controversial Death Wish II?
By the time Bronson stepped into Paul Kersey’s coldblooded boots for a second time, the character had already been tarnished beyond recognition, particularly in the eyes of Death Wish author Brian Garfield, who had portrayed Kersey as “a very sick man” and not the second amendment poster boy of Reaganite politics. So appalled was Garfield at what the silver screen had done to his literary vision that he would pen his own Death Wish sequel which set out to salvage the character. Of course, it was too late. A mere fraction of those who had seen the original Death Wish movie had read Garfield’s novel. Kersey was now public property, and his influence as a rogue crusader was becoming rather useful.
One of those to benefit was British director Michael winner, whose moribund movie career was resurrected by the chance to direct Kersey’s triumphant return. Winner’s controversy creates cash mantra was a foolproof way to become relevant again, regardless of the consequences. Grinning from ear to ear like a decadent tycoon, Winner would casually suck on a cigar while he smugly deflected cries of foul play from gender groups across America thanks to gratuitous scenes of rape and sodomy, of racial discrimination and random acts of senseless violence, encouraging his aggressors like a decadent king goading the starving masses. Winner had played his off-key tune and the world were dancing to it. All insinuations of artless filmmaking were deflected. Winner was back, and back with a particularly loud bang.
Paul Kersey: It’s like killing roaches – you have to kill ’em all. Otherwise, what’s the use?
Death Wish II would prove a monumental success for a company of Cannon’s financial aspirations. With a cumulative worldwide gross of $45,000,000 from a budget of approximately $2,000,000, Winner and his backers had spun a commercial juggernaut, and a series of cheapo, money-spinning sequels were only inevitable. With Winner himself thirsty for more, the old gang would return three years later for Death Wish 3, a no surprises extension of the Kersey narrative that would follow the trends of an evolving action genre, particularly those of the Cannon group as they reached the apotheosis of mainstream cinema’s transparent Cold War muscle-flexing.
Death Wish 3 is not nearly as offensive as its predecessor. This is still Michael Winner we’re talking about, and scenes of graphic rape and unprovoked violence are a given, but watching the movie it is impossible to become offended on any serious level. There are probably several reasons for this. One of them is that we’d seen it all before, and those who protested previously knew better than to fan the commercial flames a second time. Another reason is the movie’s presentation. Sure, it tackles identical themes in a manner we are accustomed to, but the grubby tone and ceaseless exploitation of its antecedent has been dumbed-down dramatically thanks to glib, tongue-in-cheek tone that ditches the acute concentration on pain for throwaway violence. Either that, or by this point we are simply desensitised to it. Kersey’s quips are also more lighthearted, his angel of death persona now more in line with your standard Arnie vehicle, a notion emphasised when a group of hoodlums attempt to steal his car. Add to this a cast of characters who have no place in the reality and you’d be hard-pressed to feel anything for anyone as folk of all walks are gunned down in cold blood.
This time, it is our protagonist who leads by example. As far as I can tell, Death Wish 3‘s Kersey couldn’t give a shit about anyone, good or bad. Everywhere this man goes he seems to get caught in the thick of it, so much so that you have to believe that, on some level, he purposely seeks it out. Kersey can’t turn a corner without running into a bag snatcher or a helpless citizen squirming under the rusted moralities of the urban Wild West. Sure, Paul is only too willing to lend a hand, but those he helps invariably end up dead or worse. The amount of supposed loved ones wiped on Kersey’s watch is no laughing matter, so much so that his series of fickle flings with hopelessly attracted females takes on a much darker perspective. When he plants those harmless kisses of his on his next unsuspecting beau, he may as well be delivering the kiss of death. But what does he care? Based on his typical approach to women, the man is clearly only after one thing: a shag. This time his love interest comes in the form of a snoopy public defender Kathryn Davis (Deborah Raffin), whose advances are abused and shrugged off with the same heartless nonchalance we have come to expect.
When we first see Kersey, he’s on a bus to a town named trouble, his man of few words act buoyed by some nice, grainy shots of the Big Apple and Jimmy Page’s scathing funk score. As usual, Kersey is almost inanimate, expressionless, bereft of human emotion—everything you’d expect from a remorseless, mass-murdering psychopath, although one gets the impression that Bronson’s enthusiasm for the role is already on the wane. Still, Winner sets out to make a caricature of his antihero, and he succeeds triumphantly. Drama-wise, the movie plays out like a particularly bad episode of Diagnosis Murder. So far beyond the realms of fantasy is Death Wish 3 that you find yourself chuckling inanely as a vulgar stereotype mourns the rape and manslaughter of his picture-perfect wife. So relentless the crimes and so meaningless the retribution that everyone becomes a potential killer, and in an ironic way the movie ends up being even more perverse by portraying murder as an appropriate collective crusade. The only way to fight gangs is to form one of your own, even if that gang consists largely of geriatrics.
This time Kersey is recruited by police Inspector Richard Shriker (Ed Lauter) after temporarily being fingered for the murder of his buddy, his angel of death status so far-reaching that the very anticipation of his arrival results in a gang-related murder. While beating up behemoth’s half his age, Kersey runs into the wrong inmate, and we are quickly introduced to arguably the most memorable villain in the series in Gavan O’Herlihy’s red-headed Manny Fraker, a freckled menace who wipes out the latest community in peril with the twisted glee of a flesh Chucky doll.
Inevitably, Kersey comes to the rescue. Be it a MacGyver esque series of booby traps or a swift slap around the face, Bronson’s ageing vigilante is always conveniently placed to employ a quick and effective dose of old-fashioned, outlaw violence. Of course, booby tripped planks of wood in the face are mere hors d’oeuvres. Most of the time Kersey carries a hand cannon and blows holes in the backs of unsuspecting hoodlums almost at kill, giving a perfunctory air to brutal acts of life- stealing violence. Strolling around without a care in the world, Kersey is looking to add to his tally like a kid on an arcade shooter, and even has the impudence to casually slurp on a Popsicle as he strolls among the rubble, offering high-fives to a watching kid, who only ever seems to smile while his neighbours are gunned down in their bloody droves. Quite the role model!
Paul Kersey: I’m going out for some ice cream… this is America, isn’t it?
Soon enough, Kersey has transformed a peaceable, elderly community into a full-on death squad, and even takes to the streets with a Browning M1919 machine gun—perhaps a nod to the climatic scene of Sam Peckinpah’s convention-smashing Western, The Wild Bunch, a movie that Bronson was originally considered for. The level of bloodshed in the final act of Death Wish 3 is so relentless and bereft of consequence that the best you can do is sit back and marvel at the industry’s bankrupt morality and inexcusable celebration of street-bound genocide. Pretty sick, but in its own, inimitable way it is glorious; a mindless exercise that stops for nobody and apologises for absolutely nothing.
By the end of Death Wish 3, Bronson’s Kersey is no longer the ‘sick man’ originally intended, nor is he a Republican mouthpiece for public order. Instead he is the mysterious harbinger of death, a murder-enthusing perverter of minds, a poison chalice for the plethora of peripheral love interests who happen to cross his path, and a dubious role model for impoverished kids the world over. This is a man without rhyme, reason or conscience—the kind who decimates entire communities before breezing into the sunset without a care in the world. But most off all, Paul Kersey is a hero.
Whatever the hell that means.