Willis claims Pakistani beer—such that it was described in the police report—does not in fact exist. Yes, that’s her defense. The Brown University student’s defense lawyer, Stacey Richman, is arguing the particular kind of beverage exists, but not in the eight ounce can detailed in the complaint, says the Post. Furthermore, the beverage distributed by the brewery is in fact a non-alcoholic beer, according to inquiries with Pakistan’s only brewery.

Richman is demanding prosecutors produce the “beer” can or drop the charge, saying for all she knows it “could be a Sprite.” Willis will be in court on July 31, at which point her fate will be determined.

—Alissa Fleck

Scout Willis, 20-year-old daughter of divorced movie stars Bruce Willis and Demi Moore, was arrested on Monday for presenting a fake ID to police after being caught with an open beer in the Union Square station.

According to the Daily News, which first reported the incident, Court papers said that a transit cop spotted the Brown University student at 6:30 p.m. with an 8-ounce “Pakistani beer.” The criminal complaint explained that Willis gave the officer a New York ID card with the name Katherine Kelly. The officer continued to question her, and she revealed her actual California ID. “My name is Scout Willis,” she said. “The first ID isn’t mine. My friend gave it to me. I don’t know Katherine Kelly.”

Police charged Willis with two misdemeanors: criminal impersonation and breaking the open container law. She was reportedly released without bail on Tuesday and is scheduled to return to court on July 31. The impersonation charge has the potential to land her in jail, but the Daily News says that is unlikely.

Willis attracted media attention a few months ago with a Twitter feed that claimed she hated her parents and used designer drugs. She later said the tweets were a classroom experiment designed to entice followers with shocking personal details.

The real story here, of course, is of Pakistani beer, which apparently is a real thing. An article on Willis’s arrest in the Los Angeles Times points to the Guardian’s profile of the country’s single brewery, which began shipping to non-Muslim nations last winter after a 1977 exportation ban was lifted.

Past meets present in The Expendables, Sylvester Stallone’s not-so-sly exploitation of action-movie aficionados that unites 1980s action heroes—the incongruously named Sly (himself), Bruce (Willis) and Arnold (Schwarzenegger)—with a few contemporary action-figure he-men: Jason Statham, Jet Li and the wrestling world’s Steve Austin and Randy Couture. But proof that Stallone is living in the past isn’t the HGH vascularity or his stretched, tightened face. The real sign is that The Losers and The A-Team already preempted his concept. The Expendables repeats the same gang-of-rogues plotline.

Unfortunately, when the ’80s meets the Aughts, nostalgia isn’t enough. Although director Stallone—or whomever—stages action scenes better than Chris Nolan in Inception or Phillip Noyce in Salt, it is the style of action that has been outclassed. When Stallone pals around with Statham, it’s a desperate example of corniness hanging on to the coattails of efficacy.

Described here as having “one of those perfectly shaped muscular heads,” Statham displays his specialty—group kills—in a b-ball slam-dunk scene that is also a show of true chivalry. Statham has already refined the action-movie hero into a stylishly lean MMA fashion plate and his set pieces marvelously recall at least the surface of Luc Besson and Paul W.S. Anderson’s elegance and political savvy. “Now you know what I do for a living,” Statham declares. His proficiency cuts through Stallone’s sap with a gleaming, piercing blade.

Sly’s attempt at “heart” (“We’re both mercenaries; we’re both dead inside,” laments Eric Roberts as an old warrior-agent-traitor) seems embarrassingly “sincere” yet verges on cynicism. Or is it shamelessness? Guest-star badasses Roberts and Mickey Rourke seem drafted-in from a different level of ’80s audacity—the Actor’s Studio branch. But Stallone betrays them with unworthy material. The camera focuses on Rourke’s nose as he delivers the depressing confession: “It all dried up.” At least Dolph Lundgren is let off with a simple, “Remember that time we were in Bosnia?”

The Expendables isn’t an inherently bad idea. It could have worked—perhaps as karmic commentary on Hollywood’s dispensable attitude toward looks, youth, dignity and the Screen Actors Guild. (This is the sorriest gallery of cosmetically ruined faces since Diane English’s film of The Women.) But worst of all: There’s none of Tarantino’s respectful genre form or his well-publicized love for resurrecting has-been actors. None of Larry Cohen’s understanding of genre as life and actors as political icons, which he demonstrated with Jim Brown, Fred Williamson, Ron O’Neal, Roscoe Brown, Paul Winfield and Pam Grier in the similarly plotted 1996 Original Gangsters. With Stallone’s propensity toward violent schmaltz, our movie fans’ hopes for rejuvenation cannot be met. The Expendables is third-rate.