Jojo Anwar’s Ghost in the Cell trafficks in all the tropes of the male prison pic: a tyrannical warden, solitary confinement, drug gangs, slop as food, the threat of shower rape and so on. Its market differentiator, however, is a malevolent spirit that tears, twists and turns its murder victims into grotesque death tableaux à la TV’s Hannibal.
Enlisting several of his Satan’s Slaves actors, Anwar focuses on fresh meat Dimas (Endy Arfian), a meek journalist wrongly convicted for the killing of his abusive boss. The actual culprit is the wraith, which follows Dimas behind bars and takes the corporeal form of its targets during slaughter (thereby distinguishing itself from Renny Harlin’s Prison). It’s like seeing double, except only one is covered in trypophobic skin. As the ghost makes its way from prisoner to prisoner, they shout themselves hoarse over this supernatural force.
Predictably, Ghost in the Cell excels in these sequences, from the initial skirmish to the reveal of the resulting macabre centerpiece, borrowing pieces of Riki-Oh’s operatic insanity in between. As the minutes tick by, the level of humor increases, and unfortunately, that’s where the Indonesian film misses.
Perhaps chalked up to a clash of cultures, the comedy is broader and even slapstickier than what this country’s accustomed to — a pube-laden bar of soap for a sight gag, sure; a full-on dance scene choreographed by an effeminate inmate, you can keep it. And when the dancing extends to a joyous cast-and-crew montage during the closing credits, you’ve effectively neutered all the bite that came before. —Rod Lott
Recently, I saw the award-winning stage adaptation of The Outsiders at Oklahoma City’s Civic Center Music Hall. I’m a fan of both the book and the movie — but not the panned 1990s TV show — but I didn’t expect to love the musical as much as I did.
But what I really identified with was the Oklahoma-based “movie” reality. Sure, I haven’t been involved in a “rumble” for some time, but The Outsiders reignites the classic S.E. Hinton world of the Greasers, Socs and other undesirables, and makes them cinematically real, theatrically dangerous and, more to the point, literately bold.
That being said, these filmic outliers (who might be considered the lesser spawn of Oklahoma/Arkansas/Texas white trash) and their criminal foibles started with The Outsiders, with Hinton adaptations of Rumble Fish and Tex at the top of the list.
Which brings me to 1985’s The Legend of Billie Jean, a Texas-based trailer park statement of class warfare where a vandalized dirt bike is the catalyst for a Corpus Christi-set act of justifiable retribution through teenage heroics, innocence lost and telling the world that, to be certain, “fair is fair.”
One summer’s day, teen siblings Billie Jean (Helen Slater) and Binx (Christian Slater) are having a lazy afternoon at the lake when a bunch of well-to-do bullies steal and vandalize his beloved scooter. When Billlie Jean wants restitution for the damaged bike, the bully’s dad, Mr. Pyatt (Richard Bradford), tries to rape her, which ultimately leads to Binx shooting the worn asshole.
With Mr. Pyatt claiming Binx tried to murder him, they go on the run with a fellow classmate (Martha Gehman), as well as the very whiny girl from TheSimpsons (Yeardley Smith). Looking for a place to lie low, they break into a U.S. senator’s house, with mask-maker son (Keith Gordon) falling in love with Billie Jean and agreeing to act as her hostage. Going back to Corpus, they take on an abusive father, have a simulated shoot-out with the cops, and and ditches Lisa Simpson when she gets her period because Billie Jean decided she has had enough.
It all cumulates with Binx getting mortally wounded and Mr. Pyatt’s roadside shop of Billie Jean merch gets vandalized, with every person taking up her cause, touting her trademarked “Fair is fair!” for the fairground(?) area, all while Pat Benatar’s hit “Invincible (Theme from The Legend of Billie Jean)” plays out as her effigy burns.
Sure, it’s not based on Hinton’s work, but the bare bones of a young adult novel is there … if there ever was one. Surely a Hinton novelization was put out during that year’s Scholastic Book Fair, right?
Either way, between destined-for-HBO fare like Supergirl, The Secret of My Success and mostly this, Helen Slater really turned my budding hormones in classist overdrive, with Billie Jean’s punk-rock redux making her a real relatable, impressive heroine and a tarnished sex symbol who still musses my hair with the dirty lake water.
Sure, it’s not a great movie, but it was one of favorites growing up in South and Central Texas, and a real turning point in my countercultural adolescence. It was a movie where, hey, all I had to do was pull out an oversized gun, rock a butch haircut and come up with a catchphrase to unite most of Texas in my cause. —Louis Fowler
Accurately, Doppelganger is not what it first seems — not an erotic thriller, that is. I mean, it is, but that’s not all it is. If you recognize the names of the KNB EFX Group founders in the opening titles, you’re given a big ol’ hint.
Playing against preppy type, George Newbern (Adventures in Babysitting) has zero game as socially awkward screenwriter Patrick Highsmith seeking a roomie to share his L.A. apartment. In walks Holly Gooding (Drew Barrymore, E.T. — heard of it?) to claim the space. Patrick’s so smitten with Holly, he can’t get enough of her … so you think having two of her around might be a plus!
Holly’s spitting image stalks Patrick around town, but this Hitchcocked double is also insatiably plunging knives into people. The first victim is a middle-aged rando played by Jaid Barrymore, Drew’s real-life mother. (Wish fulfillment much?)
Somehow, neither Patrick nor his live-wired writing partner (Leslie Hope, Bruiser) know what a “doppelganger” is. The very idea of an evil twin vexes these WGA wannabes. When she’s not trying to convince Patrick he’s in danger, Hope’s character rattles off hopelessly dopey dialogue like, “Watch your dick, pinhead!”
I can’t say how well Barrymore benefits from Doppelganger alone. But look at it as part of her haughty, naughty parade of the early ’90s (Poison Ivy, Sketch Artist and TV’s The Amy Fisher Story), and all makes sense. She worked hard to rehabilitate her rep as a coked-up child actor. Lest viewers hold any doubt and still think of her as a Firestarter (twisted Firestarter!), the opening credits play over her shrink (Dennis Christopher, Fade to Black) pawing her shirtless bod as she writhes in orgasmic glee.
Need more proof? Thrill as Barrymore dances seductively, knees Danny Trejo (Machete) in the nuts, slow-motion showers in orange-tinted blood and gets crucified on the bedroom wall. And it works.
As cut-rate (pun intended) De Palma, Doppelganger places stakes in the ground of camp and gradually grows campier, dragging your attention along with it. As incredulous as the plot gets and the level of hysterics the performances reach, you’re still ill-prepared for what writer/director Avi Nesher (Timebomb) cooked up for the climax. It’s an all-time howler I shan’t spoil. —Rod Lott
Four internet investigators known as the Paranormal Scream Team travel to check out Alabama’s Hellbilly Hollow haunted house and hayride. Reportedly, the woods around the property are haunted.
Would it surprise you to learn the attraction is home to a killer clown named Tickles? If so, Hellbilly Hollow might make you defecate your britches. Or so the miserable movie hopes, judging by three references to characters doing just that.
Running the place is a former carny turned hog and soybean farmer Bull, played by Kurt Deimer (2024’s Scared to Death) because Sid Haig is no longer available. The mute Tickles (Kevin Wayne, Malum), who lives in a school bus and eats from a cooler marked “MEEAT,” carries out Bull’s bidding, such as murdering three teens kicked out for messing with the talent, yet somehow are able to re-enter and spray-paint a spurting dick on the wall.
Any initial viewer interest is sapped by the sudden introduction of a supernatural element: the CGI specter of a vengeful voodoo priestess turned fortune teller (Kaila Little). In doing so, Hellbilly Hollow bites off more than it can chew, much less plug between its cheek and gum. It wants to be both a slasher and a ghost story, which operate differently. It’s not like Hollow couldn’t decide which to be; I suspect the idea of choosing never crossed the filmmakers’ minds.
Yet that split personality is not what sinks the pic. It’s simply relentlessly stupid, poorly written and performed even worse. Had it showcased the carnival games of darts and dunk tanks and the like as a hook, Hellbilly Hollow might have emerged as a gut-spiller worthy of “spooky season” priming, but these sequences are barely present and mostly incidental. One thinks Herschell Gordon Lewis coulda shoulda woulda milked that concept into a bloody good time. —Rod Lott
For American youngsters in the 1970s, myself included, star-spangled daredevil Evel Knievel was a real-life superhero. The dude was all over network TV; his Stunt Cycle was one of the hottest toys; and Hollywood even made twomovies about him. (The internet didn’t exist, so we didn’t know any better.)
But Ken Carter, the self-proclaimed “Mad Canadian”? Never heard of the guy. Until now, with Michael Dowse’s riotous biopic, The Stunt Driver, starring BlackBerry’s Jay Baruchel as Carter. Having zero knowledge of Carter makes the movie work even more in your favor, so don’t go a-Googling.
Just know this: In 1976, the cross-eyed, adoration-hungry Carter yearns to out-Evel his U.S. rival with a milelong jump over the St. Lawrence River in a rocket car at about 280 mph. Ignore, as he does, that he can’t swim; doesn’t matter, as long as he secures the services of Dick Keller (Ed Helms, The Hangover trilogy), Chicago creator of the Blue Flame, the fastest car in the world.
Working as director and writer, Dowse (Goon) traces Keller and Carter’s efforts — respectively pragmatic and foolhardy — toward a shared goal. At least both men have physics on their side. It’s a pleasure to see Helms cede doofus duties for once, doing superb work as essentially the straight man to Baruchel’s well-meaning motormouth. Carter’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, in part because he can’t afford a shed. That risks turning the subject into a caricature, but Baruchel is too skilled. (In my mind, he’s no longer “the kid from TV’s Undeclared” first and foremost.) His is a real performance; you root for Carter, despite his voluminous naïveté.
As the woman who loves him regardless, Laurence Leboeuf (Turbo Kid) grounds The Stunt Driver with support and sanity. She’s an excellent actress who deserves a little more to do. There’s a lot of love to go around for the ensemble, including Ben Foster (2011’s TheMechanic) nailing the smarm in an Evel cameo and especially Joe Cobden (2010’s Devil) as the filmmaker shooting a documentary about Carter’s fast and furious folly. The real-life result, 1981’s The Devil at Your Heels, informs Dowse’s script and provides footage of Carter’s various feats.
With as many great scenes as it has broken bones, The Stunt Driver revs in as an unexpected gem — a rowdy, winning comedy about a man whose ambition hit heights his souped-up vehicles could never achieve. It’s mighty funny and deeply moving, in both senses of the word. —Rod Lott
