By Ruel S. De Vera
Associate Editor

MY father is many things—engineer, businessman, intellectual—but he is also something rare: a connoisseur of bad action movies. That’s rather unexpected because he is also a devoted viewer of good movies, period. Growing up, we were treated to a regular feast of great films, first in movie theaters then on TV and later on Betamax and VHS. We discovered the essentials, such as the musicals (Not just “The Sound of Music” and “West Side Story” but “The Fiddler on the Roof “ and “Oklahoma!” as well) and the great epics (“Gone With The Wind” and “Ben-Hur”) which came distinctly in two tapes instead of just one.

But it was also uncanny how my dad would be able to visit a video shop and patiently peruse the selection and emerge with the strangest movies available. His best (or worst) genre: action movies. We watched the best first, of course, with us developing our own James Bond preferences (I liked Roger Moore, my dad preferred Sean Connery, nobody liked Timothy Dalton).

Things got interesting when we stepped into B-movie territory. Chuck Norris was the tip of the iceberg, moving on to the cream of the bad movie crop: Michael Nouri, Michael Rooker, Michael Dudikoff and the immortal Jeff Fahey. These were ridiculously thin plot devices often with roman numerals attached to the end, or things like Dudikoff’s “American Ninja” or “Rage of Honor.” The Asian action movies were better, because the stunts were good and there really was some kind of a plot. The American ones were so bad they were good. The bad acting was not as bad as the array of naked and half-naked women producers inserted into every movie with as many gratuitous scenes as possible.

But my dad enjoyed the sheer lunacy, often watching intently and laughing out loud. He savored the really bad stuff, which explains his preference for Charles Bronson.

In that way, I learned that there was nobility in enterprises that did not boast a staggering budget. There was a joy in starting small.

Today, there is a nebulous territory called straight-to-DVD, what used to be called “straight-to-video,” where wannabe big movies get demoted, and where B-movies continue to live. It has made a semi-star out of unlikely lead actors such as Mark Dacascos, whose “D.N.A.” in my mind is the single worst action movie ever made—which is why I like watching it.

Like several other B-movies, “D.N.A.” was shot in the Philippines, another strange distinction for our country. I owe my father my twisted and yet unbridled love of cinema in all its forms, for my sense of irony and love for the intentionally funny. Now if only Michael Ironside made more movies.

Check out other thoughts about action movies in the July 5, 2009 issue of the Sunday Inquirer Magazine.