The final five minutes are satisfyingly explosive, but the preceding 84 minutes are such a preposterous, eye-rolling waste that one couple left before it was over.
Being 'unprepared' is the last thing one expects from John Rambo, so to watch him ill-prepared until the final 300 seconds requires such a suspension of disbelief as to tear a mind muscle.
I'm all for implausibility, but after two decades of Bourne, Sicario, anything by Eastwood or Tarantino, or, heck, even John Wick, 2019's Rambo feels about as authentic as Paul Blart: Mall Cop.
Oh, the plot, you ask? It's hombres + Taken meet Home Alone.