It begins as a Squeaky Fromme wannabe is picked up by two gas company employees who are swiftly dispatched in rather gruesome fashion by blonde haired, blue-eyed psychopath Bobby Maxwell (DeVeren Bookwalter in full drooling grimace mode). These are the opening moments of James Fargo’s “The Enforcer”, the third film featuring Clint Eastwood as Police Inspector Harry Callahan and the first to show definite signs of anemia for a series that refuses to allow the central character to evolve in any meaningful way, but is reduced to repeating the same increasingly tired routines ad infinitum, as if the good Inspector were condemned to run around the ridiculous hills of San Francisco as a blood-stained Sisyphus.
The film depicts the wave of terror perpetrated against the good people of San Francisco by a group calling themselves the People’s Revolutionary Strike Force; a callous moniker for a collective of misfits whose true purpose is to extort money from the city while killing as many innocents in as luridly explicit detail as possible. Director Fargo’s willingness to hungrily linger over the oozing wounds of the victims or to catch their moments of death with the most adoring angle makes one wonder just whose side he’s really on?
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