The Punisher

Renegade cop Frank Castle (Lundgren) goes underground after his wife and kiddies are killed by the Mafia, emerging leather-clad and steel-eyed as the Punisher. After offing 125 hoods in five years, a feat he describes as 'work in progress', it looks like he can hang up his crossbow when the Yakuza muscle in on New York to finish off the rest of the Family. But when the fiendish Japs kidnap the capo's children, soft-hearted Mr P intervenes on behalf of his erstwhile enemies. Villains are offed, guns go blam, and inarticulate Oriental cries fill the air. Almost worse than the storyline's hackneyed idiocy is the psychological improbability of the characters (though Krabbé wrestles heroically with his numb role as the head Don). A little more fetishism wouldn't go amiss, and we get nowhere near enough kinky weaponry, crotch shots and masochism (despite a neat bit of auto-cauterising). Set against this is the blithe humour of the proceedings, a welcome shortage of love interest, Dolph's minimalist wit, and two arch-villainesses attired in black plastic and other form-fitting fabrics. Destructive, reprehensible, and marvellous fun.