Like many, I watched the descent of Mickey Rourke’s career with undue fascination. Here was a genuinely talented man, with a handful of superb performances and films under his belt (Angel Heart, anyone?), slowly and by all accounts willingly transforming himself into a punchline. First, there was the soft porn of Zalman King’s Wild Orchid. Then Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man. Finally, before his late-aughts comeback, he became a bloated replicant of himself, bare-chestedly battling Jean-Claude Van Damme to the death in a mine-infested tiger pit in Double Team. No legitimately great actor has ever fallen so low, although Wesley Snipes sure tries.

But of all of them, Point Blank is the one that serves as an object lesson for how far a man may fall before redemption. Not, sadly, a remake of the dynamic Lee Marvin classic (catch The Limey for that, sort of), this Point Blank is a painful slog through a third-rate Die Hard plot, enlivened only by moments of sincerely funny attempts to convince the audience that Rourke is a martial artist.

In a performance that defines the phrase “go fuck yourself,” Rourke is Rudy Ray (either the worst or greatest name in action-movie history), a former mercenary called into action when a group of escaped convicts, including his brother, takes over a shopping mall. Mickey mumbles and grunts inarticulately, then goes in, his skin glistening with what I presume to be … oil? God, I hope it’s oil.

What follows are scenes of action so inept, they are tailor-made for YouTube clips. And, yes, the filmmakers honestly expect us to believe that the slab of greased ham that is Rourke is backflipping his way out of Danny Trejo’s line of fire. Not even Trejo, or even the great James Gammon, can save this. Here’s a good drinking game: Take a shot every time Mickey completes a full sentence. You’ll barely get a buzz on. —Corey Redekop

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