Has anybody seen Richie?
On 1980s action films, a Steven Seagal box set, and the fact that memory is far less discerning about what it attaches itself to than we like to pretend.
Arnie. Stallone. Chuck Norris. Commando. Cobra. Missing in Action.
I was born in 1981 with two older brothers, four and eight years ahead of me, which meant that by the age of seven I had either watched, or was apparently allowed to watch, pretty much every great and not-so-great action film the 1980s had to offer. Films I was unquestionably too young for, but which by the fairly relaxed standards of 1980s parenting seemed to count as family entertainment.
As I have got older I have realised how often I go back to them. They are comfort films now. Partly because I know them back to front, partly because there is something reassuring about a film where the plot can usually be understood as one enormous man being wronged and spending the next 90 minutes methodically addressing the situation. But mostly it is because I remember watching them with my brothers.
And somewhere around most of them was my dad.
He was responsible for plenty of recommendations over the years, but one particularly significant moment came when he discovered a whole new branch of action cinema beyond Schwarzenegger, Stallone and Norris.
Steven Seagal had arrived.
History has subsequently provided plenty of reasons to conclude that Steven Seagal is, at best, not someone whose personal qualities need celebrating. None of that particularly troubles my relationship with Above the Law, Hard to Kill, Marked for Death, Out for Justice or Under Siege, because what I am remembering when I watch them is not really Steven Seagal.
I am remembering my dad’s nod of approval. I am remembering sitting with my brothers watching a man with an implausible ponytail whisper threats at people before throwing them through furniture. And I am remembering just how much we loved them.
My middle brother died a few years ago. For a long time he worked nights and I used to keep him supplied with books to get him through them. I would finish something I thought he would like and pass it on, and there was a fairly constant stream of paperbacks heading his way. Then, for reasons I cannot entirely remember, I bought him the complete Steven Seagal DVD box set.
I had not watched one of the films myself in years. It was probably a decade since I had deliberately sat down to watch Seagal do anything. But I saw the box set and immediately thought of him.
He was absolutely delighted.
After that, Seagal somehow became part of the language between us again. We would throw increasingly obscure quotes at each other with no context at all. The more random the line, the better. There was something wonderfully stupid about two grown men reaching back into films they had watched as kids and finding the other one still knew exactly what you meant.
I watched Out for Justice again recently. It is exactly the film I remember. Violent, ludicrous, endlessly quotable, and operating in a world where Steven Seagal can walk into almost any room in Brooklyn and reasonably expect everyone to stop what they are doing.
And somewhere in the middle of watching it, I thought about my brother. Then I thought about my dad.
That is probably why I am writing this.
We talk a lot about the things that remind us of people. Photographs, songs, places, possessions. The respectable things you might expect memories to attach themselves to. But I am increasingly convinced that memory is much less discerning than that.
Sometimes it is a book.
Sometimes it is a song.
And sometimes it is Steven Seagal walking into a bar and asking if anybody has seen Richie.