Rambo was not screened for critics and when I arrived for the first showing at my local multiplex on Friday morning, the ticket-seller approvingly exclaimed, "A man's movie!" If the definition of a man's movie is one with a ridiculously high body count made by an over-the-hill icon, Rambo fits the bill.

By his own admission, Sly Stallone used human growth hormone to prepare for his return as Vietnam vet John Rambo, two decades after Rambo. He writes, stars, and directs. Evidently, one side effect of boosting your testosterone is that you forget to pen dialogue and don't concern yourself with anything as soft as plot, motivation or thematic development.

Stallone must have figured that a picture speaks louder than words, although that doesn't explain why every other shot includes spurting blood and a person being gutted or decapitated. This slaughter-fest set in Thailand and war-torn Myanmar (formerly Burma) is violent even by contemporary action-adventure standards. Its pose as a serious meditation on a life of violence and the qualms of being a soldier doesn't fly. The fact that the production values are decent -- that it's not egregiously bad from a technical point of view -- is cold comfort.

More laconic and ape-like than ever, John Rambo is minding his own business in northern Thailand when the picture opens. A recluse, he's semi-content to make a living wrangling poisonous snakes and tooling up and down the Salween River in his motorboat. One day, Christian missionaries from Colorado materialize and ask him to shuttle them up river so they can minister to victims of the genocidal civil war raging in Burma.

He refuses for about one minute of screen time until a blond wearing a cross (Julie Benz) persuades him that helping she and her associates deliver spiritual and material solace is a noble act. Thinking they're suicidal do-gooders, Rambo deposits them in the war zone -- though not before mowing down some menacing pirates -- and returns to his village.

The missionaries are soon captured by government soldiers (led by a stereotypically depraved commander) during a horribly brutal raid on a refugee camp. Their pastor (Ken Howard) turns up a few days later, rousing John from a nightmare comprised of snippets from the previous Rambo flicks and asking him to take eight mercenaries into the war zone so they can mount a rescue. Let the righteous killing begin!

People who fancy blood in their lemon grass soup aren't typically considered connoisseurs, and moviegoers who find Rambo a delectable or invigorating broth would have a hard time defending it as quality cinema. You've got to be in it for the reactionary kicks and take delight in the license to kill and keep killing. No matter how reluctant and torn the killer, it's an apologia for brute force. Rambo's admission, "This is what we do. This is who we are" is empty. There's too little dialogue to counterbalance the excess or put it in any meaningful context. 

Rambo just keeps raising the ante on barbarism and carnage until all you want is for it to end. The franchise has nowhere to go since they'd have difficulty introducing any more venal or morally corrupt characters for Rambo to dispatch. And his cynicism will not vanish just because he travels back at the Arizona ranch where he grew up.

One can argue America is paying a price in the real world for flexing its imperialistic muscles both now and back in Rambo's Reagan-era heyday. Likewise, Stallone is paying the price for portraying the pugilists Rambo and Rocky for so many years. At least the boxer had a heart. After watching Rambo, I'm not sure the soldier has a mind or a heart left. Watching him rip out a man's throat suggests Stallone overdid it with the steroids. It's not healthy, pretty, or entertaining.

(Released by Lionsgate and rated "R" for strong graphic bloody violence, sexual assaults, grisly images and language.)