TANGO & CASH escaped into 1989 on December 22, staining motion picture history as the final theatrical release of the 1980’s. If not the dumbest movie of the decade it ain’t for lack of trying. There are reams of blame’splain on the Net about how this ‘concept’ was strangled from get-go to get-out by bullion-plated egos, and rehashing the trashing here won’t make it any more enlightening to sit thru. Hey, we almost always like Kurt Russell, and when he’s in the right part and we’re in the right mood Sylvester Stallone can be entertaining. Buddy films? Look, one reason to have buddies is to be able to watch buddy films with someone and not feel bad about how your life—in the burbs, hood or sticks—turned out. And seriously—Teri Hatcher at 24, writhing (dancing?) around half-clad: what– I’m not gonna take a look? Guilty and proud of it. But this show, oy gevalt, already.

L.A. cops who break the rules (wow, now there’s a brainstorm) vs. a ‘criminal mastermind’. Named ‘Yves’. Played by Jack Palance. On the well-heeled Westside of La La, boundaries are blithely blasted by dapper quip flipper ‘Raymond Tango’ (Stallone), while the ‘down with it’ Eastside of town is cheerfully bashed into obedience by his mullet-topped counterpart ‘Gabe Cash’ (Russell, in a hairfight with Mel by way of Swayze). Their exploits are so legend (they’re both detective lieutenants but act with the impunity ethos of national cabinet heads) that the newspapers give them front page headlines. Running afoul of kingpin Yves, the he-dudes (at odds until they become bros) are framed into a prison stretch, where they’re targeted for torture by Yves minions and revenge-bent cons in general. Boldly escaping, they ammo up (with astonishing ease–oh wait, it’s America, my bad) and go for broke to take down Yves outfit, which is equipped with enough vehicles and firepower to invade something big (Canada/Venezuela/Greenland/Minnesota). Will there be explosions?

The two stars go at it with game determination (and miraculously don’t cringe at the dialogue); Palance, recognizing Limburger pie when he takes a chomp, chews it up like a pro; the imposing Robert Z’Dar nails the best of the sub-villain roles and Hatcher fans will approve her moves, hot enough to twist titanium, let alone mere resolve.

Otherwise—awful. Endless turf battles marked the production, with power-drunk producer Jon Peters fighting director Andrei Konchalovsky, Stallone sacking the cinematographer (another had already split) and assuming de facto control, Konchalovsky getting booted (replaced by Albert Magnoli, who was replaced by Peter MacDonald, all of their jumbles reworked by Stuart Baird), the budget remorselessly rising 170% until tapping out at $54,000,000.

Sure, the stunts are well-done (they better be) but doing an action pic with tongue-in-cheek (where violent acts have a catharsis valve of humor attached) requires an odd sort of delicacy; pulled off right you get excitement and a laugh (the rollercoaster effect); minus dexterity and balance  you get ugly and numbing. The script, scribbled by Randy Feldman, crayon erased by Stallone, is terrible, the jokes appallingly lame. Nonetheless, star power (and a lot of thirteen-year-olds) came to the box office, enough to tango up cash amounting to $63,409,000 domestically (20th place) and $57,000,000 elsewhere. George H. W. Bush became President.

Harold Faltermeyer’s score recalls his famous riffing for Beverly Hills Cop. Getting paid for wasting your time: Geoffrey Lewis, Brion James (murdering a Cockney accent), Clint Howard, James Hong, Marc Alaimo, Michael Jeter, Michael J. Pollard (50 years old, acting for 30,still unable to convincingly deliver a line) and Edward Bunker. 104 minutes.