There’s a certain kind of action movie that only exists because somebody owed someone else a favor, or a tax shelter needed to be filled before the fiscal year ended. The Rage is that movie. A low-budget, no-brain, all-bang affair featuring three men who once had careers and now look like they’re just trying to pay off their alimony — Lorenzo Lamas, Gary Busey, and Roy Scheider.
This movie is so 1997 it might as well come with a free pack of Surge and a coupon for a Blockbuster rental. Directed by Sidney J. Furie — a man whose career has ping-ponged from The Ipcress File to Iron Eagle IV like a man who lost a bet with time — The Rage is 90 minutes of explosions, yelling, and sweat-stained scenery chewing by a trio of men too proud to turn down a paycheck and too washed to carry the material.
Lorenzo Lamas plays a Secret Service agent named Nick Travis — because of course he does — who is tasked with tracking down a rogue operative named Jack Scott, played by a very unhinged Gary Busey. Busey’s character is a war vet gone mad, hellbent on exposing the corruption he sees in the government. His plan? Kill everyone, laugh like a meth goblin, and hope nobody notices his mullet is doing most of the acting.
Lamas, in true Lamas fashion, tries to act with his jawline and hair, both of which deserve more credit than his line delivery. He walks like his boots are two sizes too small and talks like he’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial. Every time he pulls a gun, you can almost hear him whisper “I was on Renegade, dammit,” like that’s supposed to mean something.
Enter Roy Scheider. Yes, that Roy Scheider. The man who once faced down a mechanical shark now looks like he’s fighting off a bathroom emergency in every scene. He plays Nick’s boss, a tired, crumbling suit with the charisma of a half-empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol. You can almost see the resignation in his eyes — the look of a man who thought this was a different movie, or maybe just wandered onto the set thinking it was a dentist appointment.
Scheider spends most of the movie seated, either behind a desk or in a car, which is probably contractual. His role is to provide exposition in a raspy, gravel-road voice and stare grimly into the distance like someone just asked him to explain blockchain. At one point he delivers a line about “patriotism” that’s supposed to hit like a sledgehammer, but lands more like a wet newspaper. If acting were a bowel movement, Roy’s trying to pass a cinder block — slow, painful, and vaguely heroic.
And then there’s Busey.
Oh, Busey.
He doesn’t so much act as detonate. With the wide-eyed madness of a man who’s eaten nothing but drywall and adrenaline since 1989, Busey cackles, screams, and sneers his way through every scene like he’s possessed by the spirit of a raccoon in heat. His character is supposed to be terrifying — a trained killer gone rogue. What he is, in reality, is a loud uncle at Thanksgiving who drank too much cough syrup and now wants to show you his knife collection.
You might think this makes for an entertaining performance. And you’d be right — for about ten minutes. After that, it’s like watching a dog chase its tail while shouting conspiracy theories. Busey is a one-man circus act, but here, the tent’s on fire and the popcorn’s laced with arsenic. By the final act, he’s gone full feral, giving motivational speeches to corpses and grunting like a wounded boar in a leather vest.
The plot is something about a conspiracy, a data disk, and a hit list of former government spooks. But none of it matters. Every twist is telegraphed. Every action beat is shot like someone’s dad trying to film a BBQ with a camcorder that still takes VHS. The pacing is uneven, the editing is schizophrenic, and the color palette looks like someone smeared beef jerky across the lens.
But the dialogue — oh, the dialogue.
Lines like “You don’t know what rage is… but you will,” and “There’s a new war, and it’s inside us all” are dropped with stone-faced sincerity, as if The Rage is trying to say something profound. But it’s not. It’s just filling the air between gunshots. Every character speaks in tough-guy haikus. Every conversation is a pissing contest in monotone. It’s like the script was written by a 14-year-old with a leather jacket and a subscription to Soldier of Fortune.
Action-wise, it’s bargain-basement stuff. Squibs pop like popcorn. Explosions are courtesy of stock footage. Fight scenes are chopped to hell and back, with Lamas flailing through his choreography like he’s trying to beat back a swarm of bees. There’s a car chase that looks like it was filmed during a Sunday drive, and a final showdown in a warehouse — because of course — where bullets fly, men scream, and logic takes a permanent vacation.
The movie ends not with a bang, but with a shrug. Justice is served, or maybe just microwaved. Busey’s dead (or is he?), Lamas has proven he can still glower in a tank top, and Scheider presumably heads back to his trailer to weep into a bottle of scotch and rethink his agent.
Final Thoughts:
The Rage is a relic of a cinematic era where action movies were stitched together from muscle, gunpowder, and delusion. It’s a monument to overacting, under-budgeting, and the kind of misguided machismo that thinks throwing Busey and Lamas in a blender will result in anything other than blood and confusion.
But if you’ve got 90 minutes to kill, a six-pack of irony, and a soft spot for watching once-great actors slum it for rent money, The Rage might offer just enough unintentional comedy to justify your suffering.
Just don’t expect to feel anything resembling actual rage.
