Sylvester Stallone directed and wrote (with Art Monterastelli) the newest “Rambo,” and plays the title character. When we first encounter him, this weary warrior has retreated from geopolitics, passing the time at a remote river station in the Thai jungle, where he hunts poisonous snakes and dabbles in blacksmithing. Old Rambo seems kind of depressed, to tell the truth, until his wrath is stirred by the viciousness of the Burmese Army. And these bad guys make the Vietcong in the second Rambo movie look like paintball-slinging weekend warriors. “Rambo” is, for most of its fairly brief running time, a blood bath punctuated by occasional bouts of clumsy dialogue. But the movie does have its own kind of blockheaded poetry.
