THERE WAS a time once when I wouldn’t miss an Arnold Schwarzenegger film for all the world. I loved his narrow escapes from the jaws of death: diving into a pool as flames chased after him, or jumping out of a plane and pulling the ripcord at the very last second. I loved his self-deprecation. But most of all, I loved the way he disposed of the bad guys: with extreme prejudice and a lousy quip that only he could get away with because of his deadpan delivery and thick Styrian accent.