Funny idea, sort of, to identify the modern-day bounty hunter here as the great-grandson of the Wild West bounty hunter on the old TV series of the same name. And that could have been, as intended, the end of it — a frivolous funny idea along with such other ones as having an Arab terrorist pass through U.S. Customs disguised as an Hasidic rabbi or plant his first American bomb in a theater showing RAMBO — except that you can hardly help but wonder, blue eyes notwithstanding, about the line of descent from Steve McQueen to Rutger Hauer. How did we get from there to here? Did old "Josh Randall" get himself hitched to a woman of the Pennsylvania Dutch? Or stipulate in his will some sort of Swiss educational fund with the rewards from three TV seasons of rounding up Western bad men? Or has Rutger Hauer simply buffaloed American filmmakers into accepting that his obviously strenuous speech lessons have eradicated all trace of Europeanism? It was a funny idea, too, that this golden-maned Galahad would feel a teeny bit icky-poo about his daily personal contact with the scum of the earth. But this idea — the one funny one to be carried past the point of frivolity — means that we will have to endure constant caricature, first of American white trash, then of far more nefarious Arabs with ice water in their veins ("This will make Bhopal, India look like a minor traffic accident") and their equally nefarious but hotter-blooded CIA counterparts. With Gene Simmons and Robert Guillaume; directed by Gary Sherman. (1987) — Duncan Shepherd
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