Punisher: Warzone
by Matthew Rodgers
There is somebody in Hollywood that loves flicking the “green light” switch and is obviously a glutton for Punishment (pun intended), why else would they keep attempting to kick-start a franchise that stiffed in 1989 with Dolph Lundgren in the titular role, and then under-whelmed in 2004, this time getting Thomas Jane to wear the skull embossed t-shirt?
It’s a very difficult question to answer because Green Street director Lexi Alexander has used all of the tough love learnt on that movie to make the most quintessential Punisher movie yet; R-Rated, bloody, and by that read bloody-disgusting in a way that would make John Rambo blush, volume cranked up to 11, balls-to-the-wall brutal action that wont win any new fans, has very little point to it, but is a whole lot of gratuitous fun.
The role of Frank Castle requires grunting and brooding, so Shakespearean thesping isn’t a pre-requisite, having said that, Ray Stevenson comes with HBO’s terrific Rome on his CV, and a few episodes of…ehem….The Bill and Dalziel and Pascoe in preparation for gun slinging ultra-violence.
Not really a sequel, War Zone still feels the need to remind us of Castle’s origin of rage, so we pick up after the death of his family and the vigilante missions he continues to wage upon the criminal fraternities of New York’s seedy underbelly. One in particular takes things extremely badly, well, he does have his face mashed up in a glass cutting machine by The Punisher. The Jigsaw (Dominic West) is his self proclaimed title, a name derived from his unfortunate new look from the Leatherface range. With an FBI agent on his tail (Salmon) and a tragic emotional attachment to a serviceman’s widow (Julie Benz – Saw V), Castle must battle the combined armies of New York, all in the name of revenge.
Punisher: War Zone is stupid. Let’s get that out of the way. Stevenson is asked to wrestle with direlogue such as “sometimes I would like to get my hands on god” and balance such meaty lines within a character that fixes a broken nose with a pencil. He is one hard 2-dimensional bastard. Stevenson is given no chance to flesh out the character; any development is covering old ground, such as the patriarchal tendencies towards a young girl and his flashback suffering.
Instead, as with most non-Nolan comic book movies, it’s the villains that provide the most interest. West is hilariously over-the-top as Jigsaw, strutting around like a cross between Mick Jagger and Tony Montana, but with a potato instead of a face, it’s a performance of such unbelievable levels of ridiculousness (including a dodgy accent) that you wonder whether West has lost a bet and is making the most of it, or he really needs to fire his agent. This is McNulty from the Wire!! Prancing down the street in Saturday Night Fever get up!! And it’s brilliant.
At times the violence can be too much, even taken in context of an 18 rated comic book movie, Alexander however packs no punches and the opening sequence dinner table massacre should warn you that if that turns your stomach, its best you pop to screen 1 and watch a rom-com.
