He’s the one that started it all. Five films, a remake, and perhaps the entire ethos of 80’s Action. A single decision, on a crisp New York afternoon, unleashed the whirlwind. An address carelessly left for all to see, a quick snag, a fake delivery, a home invasion, a rape, a near-rape, and a beating for good measure. One dead, one comatose. A few minutes of time by my clock, with an unprecedented bloodbath waiting in the wings. Had he been bored, or thought twice, or simply had to take a piss, at least 250 human beings, subsequently stripped of their breath, would have lived another day. Perhaps many years. Some may have changed the world; most would have simply walked in and out of assorted prison cells. Relieved of death, they too may have kept killing. A city forever changed. Maybe a nation. The one, the only, Freak 1.
Because I’m a slave to accuracy, it must be said that Jeff Goldblum’s Freak 1 was not alone that day. But he was unquestionably the leader. His words, even a mere whisper, set the rest in motion, and there are no dissenting votes. Unemployed, broke, listless, and stupid beyond all measure, they roam the streets looking for fresh game. Money for drugs, some jewelry to pawn, or perhaps a random sexual assault to remind the lot that hanging around sweaty men all day isn’t even remotely gay. Together, they’re an unthinking mob capable of great violence. Alone, perhaps not. Except for Freak 1. The gang helps keep him fed, but he could just as easily handle all this himself. It’s a rare initiative, even if it’s channeled into madness. But he knows how this works. Go where the money is, and people too hoity-toity to carry their own groceries are very much where the money is.
Because Freak 1 raped the daughter and killed the wife of the one man in all of America most likely to respond with alarming vengeance, he is, of course, ultimately responsible for everything that follows. But let’s circle back to the groceries. Here we have a mother and daughter. They decide to buy a few items, but instead of grabbing the one bag that could have housed it all, they have it boxed for a later delivery. I state again: one bag’s worth, two women. At worst, one of them might have been forced to lug a loaf of bread up a few flights. But these are well-to-do women. White women. The sort who leave everything up to everyone else. The worst kind of privilege that has turned the nation over to stupefying stupidity. Paul Kersey may have loved his little family but Freak 1 certainly did him a favor. No man worth his salt should have to spend a lifetime with a woman who isn’t willing to schlep a box of Corn Flakes.
Curiously, despite Freak 1 knocking over the first domino in the series’ dance of death, the man never had to face the ass end of a Kersey firearm. In fact, he’s never even identified. He ejaculates, kills, and sneaks out into the din forever anonymous. One wonders: did he ever read the papers? What were his impressions of the vigilante killer that so captivated the Big Apple? And was he around when, eleven years later, Kersey returned to that fair city and performed his own personal D-Day? Four bloody sequels and not a single hint. Oh well. It’s entirely possible a panicked Freak 1 didn’t look both ways when exiting the Kersey abode and was run down by an out-of-control taxi. Given his habits, he could have been found frozen solid under any number of bridges with a needle in his arm. Maybe the gang had had enough and set fire to him one lonely night. A mystery forever unsolved. But a five-part masterpiece forever preserved.
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