But this isn’t about Commando Squad. Or is it?
There was a certain ritual to it. You’d walk into your local video store with the leftover change you pocketed after buying a pack of smokes for your dad, and you’d get hit by that distinctive hope that something interesting had been put back on the new release shelf. And if all else failed, there was always the usual stable of heavy hitters – Predator, Commando, Monster Squad, or an American Ninja sequel. But some days, there just wasn’t much available, and you’d have to set your sights a little lower and scavenge the bottom shelves.
That’s where you’d find it. Commando Squad (1987). The box art was glorious – pure 80s oversaturation. Painted-on neon hues too bright to be real, sexy agents with impressive hardware, and somewhere in the background, the promise of a high-octane showdown. It practically dared you to take it home. And for two bucks, what did you have to lose?
You’d study the cover like it was a roadmap to adventure. Brian Thompson’s name jumped out. Well, maybe back then you didn’t know his name, but you knew that face. He was the Night Slasher in Cobra or that guy from that Knight Rider episode who always looked like he was chiseled out of granite and probably ate nails for breakfast. If he was in this movie, it had to be at least half-decent, right?
Then there was Kathy Shower, holding a gun with a look that meant sexy ass-kicking business. You might have remembered her from somewhere – probably another episode of Knight Rider or your dad’s sock drawer. Playboy model turned action star? That was the promise of something special.
For the B-movie aficionados, along with half the cast, the name that stood out was Fred Olen Ray. By the mid-80s, he was already B royalty. His movies always delivered a lovable brand of sleazy uncle vibes – he knew exactly what he was making and didn’t pretend otherwise. You could just feel that Uncle Fred was part of a time-honoured tradition of post-Corman schlockmeister auteurs who knew how to deliver the goods, or fall on his sword trying.
You’d take the empty box up to the counter, the plastic sleeve creaking as you handed it to the clerk. He’d give you a look that was half-amused, half-pitying, but wouldn’t say anything… even if you were too young to rent R-rated movies. He was cool like that. You knew what you were getting into, whether you fully admitted it to yourself or not.
Back home, you’d pop it into the old top-loader in the basement – not the new living room Telefunken with the wireless remote your mom used to tape her soaps – and wait for that familiar whirr of the tape catching and spinning. The picture would flicker to life, grainy and washed out like all the best rentals. It wouldn’t take long to figure out what you were in for. What unfolded was pure B badass ma-cheese-mo, like an R-rated episode of The A-Team with more blood squibs, a better soundtrack (no seriously, it’s awesome), but even less budget.
But by this point you’re in too deep to care. You were already two dollars down, and besides, Fred wasn’t trying to make high art, certainly. But he was trying to entertain the fleas off you, even if he had to do it with cardboard sets and fight scenes that looked like they were choreographed on the spot.
By the time the credits rolled, you knew you wouldn’t remember much about the plot. But you’d remember the box art, the feeling of discovery, the way it made you feel like you were unearthing some lost relic of the action genre. It was all about that one moment in the video store, standing in the action section, holding that box in your hands. That was electric.
You’d seen better films, sure. But you’d also seen worse. And next weekend, you’d be back in the store, scanning the bottom shelves again, because someone got to The Lost Boys first. – Pop