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The Chive


   The funniest, nastiest movie reviews anywhere.

The Expendables 3 

With The Expendables 3, Sylvester Stallone has done the seemingly impossible.  He’s put me off porn.  You see, like many other “legitimate” actors, Sly got his start boxing vaginas – rather than Mr. Ts – on camera.  Without that tiny dickhold into the industry, he would never have made Rocky and launched a career leading to the cinematic abortion that is The Expendables 3.  Call it the Cunterfly Effect.

And I was so looking forward to checking out Pregnant Asian Sorority Sluts Spring Break Bang-a-thon IV.  Fuck you, Italian Stallion.

This time, Rambo, Drago, The Transporter, the Terminator, the Natural and President Camacho from Idiocracy team up with Indiana Jones, Blade, Zorro, Frasier (Frasier?!) and a gaggle of Mercenary Babies to take on William Wallace, who is hiding out in – I kid you not – the People’s Republic of Assmanistan.  I guess we know what kind of skin flicks director Simon “Ass Man” West is into.

Seeing the biggest action stars of the 1980s together in one movie is the only reason The Expendables was shat into existence in the first place.  So what do Stallone and West do with its second sequel?  They bench the A-Team for half the movie in favor of a bunch of mooks who are not 1980s action heroes, namely Antonio Banderas (looking like most of the CGI budget went into shaving 10 years off of him), a UFC golden girl sporting a perma-scowl, a boxer, a fugitive from Twilight and the star of The Vibrator which, oddly enough, is not a porno.

Way to know your audience, you troggiest of troglodytes.

The reason Stallone’s Barney Ross replaces the original Expendables with the newbies is because he’s decided the Expendables are no longer expendable.  So, really, even the title of this fucktrocity is a lie, and despite all his joking banter and nice guy facade, Ross is, in fact, a hypocritical, heartless douche nozzle willing to shamelessly sacrifice total strangers in order to spare his buddies. He’s not fit to toss John McClane’s salad.

During the logic-bereft, facial-free climax, while literal platoons of Mel “The Jews Only Let Me Play Villains Now” Gibson’s minions are busy exhibiting stormtrooper-like levels of firearms accuracy, Jet Li drops in to lend a cameo hand.  The fact that Li, a martial arts movie legend, doesn’t get to throw a single punch but instead simply rat-a-tat-tats with a machine gun bigger than he is makes just about as much sense as all the other mind-boggling inanity filling the screen.

He may not actually see dead people, but Bruce Willis must have gotten a glimpse of the future when he, with the wisdom of a far less wheelchair-bound Hawking, decided to sit this shit show out.  Yippee-ki-yay motherfucker indeed.

August 17, 2014