If you want to see an action star age gracefully, you could do a lot worse than \"Police Story: Lockdown,\" an uneven but satisfying hostage crisis thriller that is also a perfect example of the type of late-period films martial arts star Jackie Chan has decided to make after entering middle age. Now 61 years old, Chan is simply too old to chase his youth by sustaining numerous life-threatening injuries while making consecutive roles (see my primer on the \"Police Story\" films for some more). Chan's recent films are fearless since they do something most Western movie idols either don't know, or don't care to do: make an age-appropriate action film.
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Chan plays Jack, a well-respected university professor who specializes in Chinese/Indian history. Like Indiana Jones before him, Jack insists that everything valuable belongs to the world/a museum. So, after enlisting the help of his teaching assistants Zhu (Yixing Zhang) and Nuomin (Miya Muqi), Jack inevitably embarks on a quest to dig up buried treasure that takes him from Tibet's frozen tundras to Dubai's urban sprawl. Along the way, Jack's group gets attacked by Randall (Sonu Snood), a descendant of the treasure trove's owners. But conflict only ensues 40 minutes later, after Jack bores us to tears with a multi-part history lesson about the treasure's past. Chan wants to make history come alive(!) so he lectures us multiple times(!!) after an equally boring \"300\"-style battle sequence that pits ferocious Indian soldiers riding elephants against ingenious killing machine Chinese soldiers. A scuffle ensues, then a really dull auction for more treasure, then he drives a car with a computer-generated lion in it, and then the rest of the movie keeps right on happening.
The MPAA could have really scored some big time good publicity on this. Imagine the faith and good will generated if the MPAA had seen this and actually, better sit down for this, shipped legit copies of American movies to the soldiers.
When I was there, the booths were setup with screen recordings of movies that were just in theaters. They were horrible quality mostly but it was nice to have a little piece of your home culture even if sometimes it was accompanied by Hindi / Arabic subtitles.
there is very little of this going on. There is no need for soldiers to buy anything bootlegged, the armed forces over in Iraq and Crapistan already have everything they want. My friends are over there one in marines other in army, both have access to massive multi terabyte servers jam crammed with everything from all genres of music to all movies and games, all pirated, all placed there by other soldiers, all access it.
But it was Kim who had wakened the lama - Kim with one eyelaid against a knot-hole in the planking, who had seen the Delhiman's search through the boxes. This was no common thief thatturned over letters, bills, and saddles - no mere burglar who ran a little knife sideways into the soles of Mahbub's slippers,or picked the seams of the saddle-bags so deftly. At first Kimhad been minded to give the alarm - the long-drawn cho-or-choor! [thief! thief!] that sets the serai ablaze of nights; but he looked more carefully, and, hand on amulet, drew his own conclusions.
'And that is still far from Benares,' said the lamawearily, mumbling over the cakes that Kim offered. They all unloosedtheir bundles and made their morning meal. Then the banker, the cultivator, and the soldier prepared their pipes and wrappedthe compartment in choking, acrid smoke, spitting and coughingand enjoying themselves. The Sikh and the cultivator's wifechewed pan; the lama took snuff and told his beads, while Kim,cross- legged, smiled over the comfort of a full stomach.
'I would set thee on thy road for a little, Friend of all theWorld thou and thy yellow man.' The old soldier ambled up thevillage street, all shadowy in the dawn, on a punt, scissor-hockedpony. 'Last night broke up the fountains of remembrance in myso-dried heart, and it was as a blessing to me. Truly there is war abroadin the air. I smell it. See! I have brought my sword.'
'Ay,' the old soldier chuckled. 'Three Rissaldar-majors inthree regiments. Gamblers a little, but so am I. They must be well mounted; and one cannot take the horses as in the old days onetook women. Well, well, my holding can pay for all. How thinkestthou? It is a well-watered strip, but my men cheat me. I do not knowhow to ask save at the lance's point. Ugh! I grow angry and Icurse them, and they feign penitence, but behind my back I know theycall me a toothless old ape.'
There was a drowsy buzz of small life in hot sunshine, acooing of doves, and a sleepy drone of well-wheels across thefields. Slowly and impressively the lama began. At the end of tenminutes the old soldier slid from his pony, to hear better as hesaid, and sat with the reins round his wrist. The lama's voicefaltered the periods lengthened. Kim was busy watching a greysquirrel. When the little scolding bunch of fur, close pressed to the branch, disappeared, preacher and audience were fast asleep,the old officer's strong-cut head pillowed on his arm, thelama's thrown back against the tree-bole, where it showed likeyellow ivory. A naked child toddled up, stared, and, moved by somequick impulse of reverence, made a solemn little obeisance beforethe lama - only the child was so short and fat that it toppledover sideways, and Kim laughed at the sprawling, chubby legs. The child, scared and indignant, yelled aloud.
'Hai! Hai!' said the soldier, leaping to his feet. 'What isit? What orders? ... It is ... a child! I dreamed it was analarm. Little one - little one - do not cry. Have I slept? That was discourteous indeed!'
'Hear him!' said the soldier to Kim. 'He is ashamed for thathe has made a child happy. There was a very good householder lost inthee, my brother. Hai, child!' He threw it a pice. 'Sweetmeats arealways sweet.' And as the little figure capered away into thesunshine: 'They grow up and become men. Holy One, I grieve that I sleptin the midst of thy preaching. Forgive me.'
They met a troop of long-haired, strong-scented Sansis withbaskets of lizards and other unclean food on their backs, their leandogs sniffing at their heels. These people kept their own side ofthe road', moving at a quick, furtive jog-trot, and all othercastes gave them ample room; for the Sansi is deep pollution. Behindthem, walking wide and stiffly across the strong shadows, the memoryof his leg-irons still on him, strode one newly released fromthe jail; his full stomach and shiny skin to prove that theGovernment fed its prisoners better than most honest men could feed themselves. Kim knew that walk well, and made broad jest of itas they passed. Then an Akali, a wild-eyed, wild-haired Sikhdevotee in the blue-checked clothes of his faith, withpolished-steel quoits glistening on the cone of his tall blue turban,stalked past, returning from a visit to one of the independent SikhStates, where he had been singing the ancient glories of the Khalsato College-trained princelings in top-boots and white-cordbreeches. Kim was careful not to irritate that man; for the Akali's temperis short and his arm quick. Here and there they met or wereovertaken by the gaily dressed crowds of whole villages turning out tosome local fair; the women, with their babes on their hips,walking behind the men, the older boys prancing on sticks ofsugar-cane, dragging rude brass models of locomotives such as they sell fora halfpenny, or flashing the sun into the eyes of their bettersfrom cheap toy mirrors. One could see at a glance what each hadbought; and if there were any doubt it needed only to watch thewives comparing, brown arm against brown arm, the newly purchaseddull glass bracelets that come from the North-West. Thesemerry-makers stepped slowly, calling one to the other and stopping tohaggle with sweetmeat-sellers, or to make a prayer before one ofthe wayside shrines - sometimes Hindu, sometimes Mussalman - whichthe low-caste of both creeds share with beautiful impartiality. Asolid line of blue, rising and falling like the back of a caterpillarin haste, would swing up through the quivering dust and trot pastto a chorus of quick cackling. That was a gang of changars - thewomen who have taken all the embankments of all the Northernrailways under their charge - a flat-footed, big-bosomed,strong-limbed, blue-petticoated clan of earth-carriers, hurrying north on newsof a job, and wasting no time by the road. They belong to thecaste whose men do not count, and they walked with squared elbows, swinging hips, and heads on high, as suits women who carryheavy weights. A little later a marriage procession would strike intothe Grand Trunk with music and shoutings, and a smell of marigoldand jasmine stronger even than the reek of the dust. One could seethe bride's litter, a blur of red and tinsel, staggering throughthe haze, while the bridegroom's bewreathed pony turned aside tosnatch a mouthful from a passing fodder-cart. Then Kim would jointhe Kentish-fire of good wishes and bad jokes, wishing the couplea hundred sons and no daughters, as the saying is. Still more interesting and more to be shouted over it was when astrolling juggler with some half-trained monkeys, or a panting, feeblebear, or a woman who tied goats' horns to her feet, and with thesedanced on a slack-rope, set the horses to shying and the women toshrill, long-drawn quavers of amazement.
The lama never raised his eyes. He