Honestly, this book is nothing like I expected. And what I expected can best be summarized with a photo:
There’s pretty much nothing about this that appeals to me.
But this isn’t what Rambo is. At least, that’s not the Rambo that David Morrell created. That Rambo isn’t about an underdog beaten down by society, taking a stand against political indifference and small town stupidity. Morrell’s Rambo is about the political divide that nearly tore the country apart in the late-60s and early-70s, and the generational gulf that led to so much animosity between the baby boomers and their parents.
This Rambo was taught in schools universities (including by a young Stephen King). This Rambo has nuance. This Rambo humanizes the disaffected soldier suffering from PTSD and the small town police chief who serves as a stand-in for the old guard establishment. This Rambo was a far more engaging character than his cinematic counterpart, and this book was well worth the time it took to read.
In this way, I think this book is a lot like that other 80’s icon:
Springsteen’s classic album (and, specifically, the title track) came to represent the jingoism of mid-80s Reagan’s America. And, much like Rambo, has become a kind of caricature of a certain kind of American. The kind who says “patriot” with a southern accent. The kind who bleeds red, white, and blue, but is only ever proud of the first two. The kind who never reads the lyrics or the book upon which their favorite movie was based.
Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A wasn’t a rallying cry for patriotic Americans, it was written in mockery of blind loyalty to a country that spits in the face of the heart of the United States, and abandoned the soldiers it ordered to bleed for soil that meant nothing. This, of course, didn’t stop the Reagan campaign from wanting to use the song in the 1984 presidential race, nor did it stop conservatives from praising Springsteen for representing good ole American values.
This book isn’t as vocally critical of America, but neither is it as shallowly jingoistic as the trilogy of movies made by Sylvester Stallone in the early 1980s.
Rambo is a deeply flawed character, and though he attempts to avoid violent conflict, he also embraces his deadly power once the conflict becomes inevitable. And far from being merely a victim of circumstance, his actions directly lead to his downfall. He is a man so broken by his past that the only life he has left him is centered around the destruction of others. On the other side is Police Chief Wilfred Teasle, a Korean War hero who simply wants to keep his town safe and free of hitchhikers and vagrants. The problem between the two is one of communication. Rambo refuses to tell Teasle who he is, and the police chief, in turn, refuses to consider that there’s more to Rambo than his appearance. The two aren’t at odds because the older man is a terrible person, they’re at odds because there is a generational divide that prevents the two from understanding one another. All Teasle sees is a hippie and a vagrant. All Rambo sees is an ignorant bumpkin who couldn’t possible understand what he’s been through.
Far from being mindlessly pro-American, I found this story to be tragic.
David Morrell wanted to bring Vietnam to American soil, and I think he did a fairly good job capturing the conflict while simplifying the divisiveness to it’s bare elements. In so doing, I think he wrote a classic piece of American fiction.
Unfortunately, I think the book will always be overshadowed by the trite and simple movie. And that’s a shame. There’s a good story here, even if it’s not especially deep.