The Roman numeral of the prior sequel has been dropped in preference for Arabic, and if the reason were simple forgetfulness it would not be surprising. Also forgotten, or unmentioned, is the fact that the hero was ever anything so mundane as an architect. He has settled instead into the role of master counter-terrorist, with an expertise in hand-to-hand combat, advanced weaponry, and do-it-yourself booby traps; in sum, a contemporary Lone Ranger: "Who is this man? We need him." This development was perhaps inevitable once Charles Bronson was hired for the role; and it was inevitable, too, if sequels were inevitable, that the action would finally escalate to almost science-fictional heights, with a revolutionary youth gang running riot in the "Sutter and Belmont" area of New York City. And it is only fitting that a mythic hero should be put up against a worthy arch villain: his hair is slicked back, with a wide swath cut down the middle from the hairline to the nape of the neck; a finger-wide stripe of red bisects this, crossed on the forehead by two short parallel lines in black. (Well, it's different.) The direction, from the first shaky telephoto shot, is slapdash even by Michael Winner's standards; and Bronson, who in real life is only three years younger than the actor who represents quailing senior citizenry (Martin Balsam), has trouble even keeping his feet in the foot races with young punks. But then, he has his "friend" Wildey, a pocket cannon that lets him feed his insatiable appetite for revenge from the comfortable distance of a city block. (1985) — Duncan Shepherd