Commando isn’t just a movie. It’s an unrelenting 90-minute shot of pure adrenaline, where logic and physics take a backseat to explosions and one-liners. It’s the kind of film that doesn’t ask you to think—it just asks you to enjoy the ride and stop pretending that reality is supposed to make sense. It knows exactly what it is: unapologetic, testosterone-fueled entertainment, and that’s exactly why it’s so damn great.
First, let’s address the Arnold Schwarzenegger factor. Arnold wasn’t just an actor in 1985; he was a physical manifestation of what Americans thought strength looked like after a decade of soft disco music and existential crises caused by the Vietnam War. His character, John Matrix, is a walking embodiment of Cold War-era hypermasculinity—he’s an ex-Special Forces guy who lives in a secluded cabin with his daughter, which might sound like a horror movie setup, but instead, it’s a playground for muscles and military-grade weaponry. It’s as if someone watched Die Hard and said, “This is cool, but what if Bruce Willis could lift a car with his bare hands?”
The plot? Pure 1980s gold. It’s the skeleton of every action movie that’s ever been made since, just stripped down to its bare essentials. Daughter gets kidnapped, dad goes after kidnappers, kills everyone in his way. But Commando transcends the basics because it doesn’t pretend to be anything more than it is. There’s no moral complexity. Matrix isn’t pondering his role in the military-industrial complex. He’s just blowing people away in increasingly creative ways. And somehow, that simplicity becomes the most beautiful thing in the world.
What makes Commando stand out is how it weaponizes absurdity to the point where disbelief isn’t just suspended—it’s executed by a firing squad. You have to start with the moment Arnold (or, sorry, John Matrix) jumps out of a plane mid-flight without a parachute. Most people would call that suicide. Matrix? He hits the swamp below with the impact of a meteor, and the only thing that’s bruised is his ego. He doesn’t even take a breath to check for broken bones or internal bleeding. He just gets up, dusts himself off like he tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, and moves on to his next act of physics-defying badassery. In any other movie, that would be the climax. In Commando, it’s barely a warm-up.
Then, there’s the car scene, which is like a masterclass in how little regard this movie has for Newton’s laws of motion. Arnold’s driving a convertible at 60+ MPH, no seatbelt—hell, no seat at all, because he ripped it out in a fit of rage-fueled practicality—and he smashes straight into a telephone pole. Does it bother him? Not in the slightest. He walks away from that wreck like it was a minor fender bender in a grocery store parking lot. Meanwhile, the car crumples like a beer can at a frat party, and we’re left wondering if John Matrix was even aware that cars are supposed to stop when they hit immovable objects.
But then, we get to the pièce de résistance: the final showdown. This is where Commando transcends from “pretty ridiculous” to “straight-up mythological.” Matrix goes up against an entire army, and I don’t mean that figuratively—he literally runs out into the open, facing a small army, armed to the teeth, spraying bullets at him like it’s a fireworks show. Matrix doesn’t flinch. He’s not grazed, not nicked, not even inconvenienced. The bullets seem to avoid him out of sheer respect, like they know they’re not worthy to hit such a specimen of brute force and raw brawn. He tears through this army like they’re made of cardboard cutouts, as if the laws of probability and ballistics simply don’t apply to him.
And let’s not forget the villain, Bennett, the chubby dude in a chainmail tank top. In what universe does this guy pose a credible threat to a hulking, unstoppable force of nature like Matrix? It’s like watching a grizzly bear square off against a man wearing a suit of bottle caps. Yet, that’s the genius of Commando. Matrix’s ultimate nemesis isn’t a super soldier or an evil genius—it’s a slightly out-of-shape guy cosplaying as a medieval blacksmith. And we buy it. That final fight, with the pipe and the steam and the absurd one-liner (“Let off some steam, Bennett”), is so ridiculous it becomes sublime. This is cinematic perfection. You’re watching a cartoon that somehow tricked Hollywood into letting it be live-action.
So what’s great about Commando? It’s a world where Arnold can leap from planes, survive car crashes that would turn mere mortals into Jell-O, and singlehandedly obliterate armies, all while battling a man who looks like he runs a used appliance store on the weekends. And yet, none of this feels out of place. This is the magic of Commando: it makes the impossible seem like the most natural thing in the world, and you walk away thinking, “Yeah, that’s exactly how life should be.”