Directed by that action-flick Top Gun we know as Tony Scott, The Last Boy Scout shows remarkable restraint. By that, I mean the word “fuck” and its variations are uttered only 102 times in its 105 minutes. I would’ve expected Scott either to go for a even 1-to-1 ratio or tip it in favor of the F-bomb.

Or, as Damon Wayans’ disgraced-quarterback character spells it, “bom” — a fitting emblem for a movie so stultifyingly stupid. Written by Shane Black in his pure Lethal Weapon mode (except not good), Scout pairs Wayans (I’m Gonna Git You Sucka) with Bruce Willis (Die Hard) as a down-and-out private dick looking to solve the murder of the former footballer’s stripper girlfriend (Halle Berry, X-Men: Days of Future Past).

Despite seeing release in 1991, Scout is very much of the ’80s, thanks to the meaty mitts of producer Joel Silver, who defined action-movie excess in the decade with the likes of Predator, Commando and the aforementioned Die Hard and Lethal Weapon franchises. His loud-and-proud formula is in full effect here (except not good), as evidenced by all the neon, synth rock, pro football, cigarettes with inch-long ashes, lines of cocaine and chugging aspirin straight from the bottle.

Not to mention the exotic dancers, thongs, car chases, gun-porn shots to the head (in slow motion, even!), ’splosions, Willis’ Squint-’n’-Smirk® acting style, Wayans’ Prince impersonations, Scott’s beloved sepia tone, Pepsi product placement, car phones, a foul-mouthed kid (Halloween 4 and 5’s Danielle Harris, then barely a teenager), not-funny wisecracks (“I’m Fuckface; he’s Asshole”) and — last but definitely least — a credits-to-credits battle between raging homophobia and latent homosexuality. —Rod Lott

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Ginger McAllister — aka 1971’s Ginger — is back and sluttier than ever in The Abductors! The blonde bimbo-cum-superspy (Cheri Caffaro, Too Hot to Handle) cuts short her pool time in the Caribbean to take on another do-or-die case “just for fun” from her paisley-leaning boss (William Grannel, Carnival of Blood).

This mission — slightly more James Bondian because she’s given swallowable “radar disks” — involves finding out who and what are behind the kidnapping of four attractive teenage girls. As viewers, we’re privy to the answer: These cheerleader types (one of whom is played Jeramie Rain, aka Sadie of Wes Craven’s The Last House on the Left) are sold to rich, old, white men willing to pay “up to $100,000” for their services — in other words, sex slaves, but with the classier title of “mistresses in bondage.”

Ginger’s investigation instantly introduces her to a dapper (by 1972 New Jersey standards) advertising agency owner (Richard Smedley, The Naughty Stewardesses), who assists her endeavors by publicizing an undercover hottie (Laurie Rose, The Suckers) in the market in hopes of luring the abductors to snatch the bait. He also climbs aboard Ginger, because hell, who doesn’t? If she’s not conducting her secret-agent business in a transparent shirt with no bra underneath, she’s conducting her secret-agent business in a macrame top with no bra underneath — either way, those clothes are coming off before long, whether you want them to or not. Action of the sexual kind is more prevalent than that wrought by weapons, vehicles and fisticuffs.

The “ick” factor is thicker with Don Schain’s sequel than with its predecessor. Not only was he obviously cool with shooting then-wife Caffaro being missionaried and manhandled — he wrote and directed the damn thing, after all — but he’s keen on depicting each curvy hostage being milked by villainous hands, and posits that rape will turn a woman into proverbial putty — and that goes double for virgins. Even Ginger herself is party to the misogyny, being gifted with the strange habit of jacking off her male enemies after she’s captured them. No wonder Ms. McAllister’s third and final chapter was titled Girls Are for Loving. —Rod Lott

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