All posts by Rod Lott

Action

Seven Snipers (2026)

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Seven Snipers is one of those movies where you just know the first line of dialogue telegraphs — if not DMs — how the climax will play out. That’s standard op procedure for a setup so plain and simple: With a $10 million bounty on her head, former sniper Voodoo Child (Radha Mitchell, Silent Hill) is targeted for death by people from her past.

Having 116 verified kills over your career is bound to do that to a girl. Since leaving that particular skill set behind, Voodoo’s lived off the grid in the picturesque Australian countryside with a daughter (Annabel Wolfe, My Pet Dinosaur) bratty enough to skip school to bang boymeat.

One morning, a supposed real estate developer (Ryan Kwanten, Flight 7500) shows up at packin’ more than a fancy business card. One shootout — and bulldozer attack — later, Voodoo knows the next person to turn up for revenge will be The Dragon (Tim Roth, 2022’s Resurrection), so she calls former co-workers for reinforcement. Dropping in via helicopter, they also have stupid codenames, such as Milk (Ioan Gruffudd, San Andreas).  

I wish I could say Seven Snipers has more to offer than exchanges of gunfire while Roth scurries around in a shaggy grass suit for camouflage. But that’s all it is. Although it’s nice to see a woman, The Dustwalker’s Sandra Sciberras, in the director’s chair of something as male-coded as gun porn, the Oz action film is predictable, right down to trained experts exhibiting perfect aim … except when presented with the easiest, clearest shots, of course. Like everything in the characters’ sights, you see each beat coming from a mile away. —Rod Lott

On digital June 5.

Reading Material

Reading Material: Short Ends 5/31/26

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If not for the centennial yielding such a tidy title, I suspect Tony Lee Moral might want his latest to be called Go to Hell, Donald Spoto: And You, Too, Tippi! From University Press of Kentucky, A Century of Hitchcock: The Man, the Myths, the Legacy seeks to restore Alfred Hitchcock’s reputation as the Master of Suspense rather than a posthumous #MeToo casualty. To that end, it’s concentrated on the making of The Birds and Marnie more than any masterwork, casting aspersions on Hedren’s harassment claims by outright disproving them or presenting statements from other present parties (including a contradictory Hedren herself). Later, Moral grants a peek into how the seminal Hitchcock/Truffaut came to be, charts Hitch’s physical decline and examines 2012’s pair of biopics (HBO’s The Girl and Fox Searchlight’s Hitchcock). Moral’s Century is not Just Another Hitchcock Biography, but a keen mix of reportage and criticism that ultimately succeeds at its author’s rather ambitious goal.

In telling the making of Dog Day Afternoon, Rachel Walther leans heavily on the real-life events inspiring the film. One of the people involved is described as “pleasant, spunky, a little crazy, and up front about his high sex drive.” I believe the same could be said about Walther’s Headpress book, Born to Lose: The Misfits Who Made Dog Day Afternoon. It grabbed me immediately with the story of Sidney Lumet, Frank Pierson, Al Pacino and others crafting the all-time crime classic, then surprised me with how intoxicating the true tale of bank robber John Wojtowicz and his transgender lover, Liz Eden, is. Although the lover is present in the film (via Chris Sarandon), the volatile relationship between John and Liz Eden was fraught with so much tension and turmoil, it quite frankly deserves a movie all its own. Lastly, Walther ties the fact-based and factual narratives together by examining the legacy both bear even today. At around 150 pages, Born to Lose may be fairly slim, yet it makes a large impact. Attica! Attica!

Although growing up in America, I suffered my own Video Nasties battle; my Mary Whitehouse was my mother, so overprotective she deemed Grease 2 off-limits. So horror movies? Verboten! Although clearly British-focused, Peter Turner’s Unsuitable Film and Video Audiences: Underage Viewing Memories and Practices in 1980s United Kingdom translates well to my own cross-the-pond memories. That includes investigating the now-lost experience of the video store; the adjacent VHS culture, bootlegs included; and the uneasy, yet exhilarating feeling of “I shouldn’t be seeing this,” which was often literal in the UK’s case and extends from gory horror to T&A comedies. Taken page to page, Unsuitable Film is largely stodgy, despite the subject matter, so I often found myself skipping the academic passages to get to the next quoted recollection from study participants — not unlike fast-forwarding to “the good parts.” —Rod Lott

Get them at Amazon.

Action

Courier of Death (1984)

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Courier of Death’s antihero protagonist, J.D., carries a .44 Magnum, but don’t confuse him with arguably the movies’ most iconic cop. J.D. taunts criminals with lines like, “Go ahead, I’m gonna blow big holes in both your legs,” which isn’t as terse, pointed or quotable as “Go ahead, make my day.” Plus, he looks like the dumpier, dumber, less sociable kid brother of Tackleberry from the Police Academy saga.

In other words, he’s no Dirty Harry. “Unkempt J.D.” is more like it.

As played by some doughy dope named Joey Johnson, J.D. and his partner, Frank (Bill Hupfer), are shepherding a detonator-wired briefcase containing $76 million in bonds when bad guys attack. Frank is shot dead in the hubbub. Soon after, J.D.’s homely wife (Joan Becherich) gets murdered as well, leaving our denim-jacketed do-gooder to take down “the organization” behind it, via the only way he can: Acting like a ill-tempered toddler who hasn’t yet the mastered the art of the put-down. Not that his opponents hold an advantage …

Bar Thug: “You think you’re hot shit, don’tcha?”
J.D.: “Yeah!”
Bar Thug: “But you’re dog meat.”
J.D.: “And you’re a miserable little fuck!“

Like all the “grieving” husbands you see on Dateline, J.D. bounces back from the loss of his wife like a handball against brick. The new object of his affection, if you can call what he exhibits as such an emotion, is her friend Kate (Barbara Garrison). She demands to chauffeur J.D. around, which he begrudgingly puts up with because Kate, unlike his wife, is hot. 

But also being a blonde — ergo, dumb — Kate falls for the ol’ knock-at-the-door trick, answering it without looking or thinking, despite the ever-present threat of death hanging over them. It’s yet another example of Courier of Death’s misogynist streak, none more repellent than this exchange:

Sexy-ish Woman, I Guess: “Don’t you care to drink with the lady?”
J.D.: “I don’t see one. All I see is a greedy slut!”

Shot in Oregon, Courier of Death feels like an ego vehicle á la GetEven or Kick to Death: Death Kick, except Johnson isn’t the creative force behind the movie. That’d be pornographer Tom Shaw, which explains just about everything. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Horror

House of Mystery (1961)

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Sitcom legend John Ritter and erotic thriller queen Monique Parent are forever paired in trivia history for playing realtors who share horror stories of previous homeowners to their prospective buyers. Their respective anthologies are 2000’s Terror Tract and 2012’s The Perfect House, both owing a ton of debt (refi now to lock in 5.56% interest!) to 1961’s House of Mystery.

A young couple (Circus of Horrors’ Colette Wilde and Rough Cut’s Ronald Hines) tour a cottage so lovely, they’re perplexed why its market listing is so low. “I suppose it could be,” answers their host (Jane Hylton, The Manster), “because of the ghost.”

Ah, yes, the ghost. She tells them of the newlywed electrical engineer (Peter Dyneley, TV’s Thunderbirds) who lived there, briefly, before being fatally electrocuted under mysterious circumstances.

She also tells them of the next owners, the Trevors. Shortly after move-in, Joan Trevor (Nanette Newman, 1975’s The Stepford Wives) experiences strange things, like a lamp flickering and, well, a lamp going out. During these instances of alternating-current chicanery, she sees an apparition, so her husband, Henry (Maurice Kaufmann, Gorgo), hires a psychic investigator (Colin Gordon, 1967’s Casino Royale). When Joan dares to pose a question, Henry scolds, “Do shut up, darling.”

One séance later, thanks to an Edith Bunker-looking medium (Molly Urquhart, The Black Windmill), the Trevors have their answer. So do we, with the three time periods threaded together. Now, the twist ending, I anticipated from the first scene, but that’s not a disappointment because the reveal entails a nifty effect for its time.

From Strongroom helmer Vernon Sewell, House of Mystery is worth a 56-minute tour. It’s an unassuming and unfussy UK shocker, albeit set on the jolt level of a novelty joy buzzer. —Rod Lott

Thriller

Tuner (2025)

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Nothing against crime films in which the bad guys share names with subs and pizzas — your Fat Tonys, your Big Frankies — but it’s nice to see one that uses a simple Benny. That makes the movie feel more realistic. Not that I know anyone with an allergy to loud sounds as Leo Woodall’s protagonist suffers throughout Tuner, but hey, take your cinematic victories where you find them.

Woodall’s Niki is a piano tuner whose sensitivity issue requires him to wear noise-killing headphones. What the world sees as his disability actually provides him with a superpower: perfect pitch. It may also be his Kryptonite, once he accidentally finds his gift extends from Steinways to safecracking. Soon, a security company owner (Lior Raz, Glaidator II) for the toniest of clients hires Niki for freelance gigs that aren’t exactly — how to put this? — legal.

That’s great for Niki’s cash flow, but potential dynamite to his burgeoning relationship with a composition major (Havana Rose Liu, Lurker) he meets at one of his appointments — the on-the-up-and-up kind. In his fictional feature debut, Academy Award-winning documentarian Daniel Roher (Navalny) had me so invested in their fireworks, I was legitmately thrown for a second when the criminal element kicked back in.

If Tuner weren’t fantastic, the headline would be Dustin Hoffman’s return to the big screen in a high-quality project, here as Niki’s mentor and father figure. Instead, the news is three performers turning in breakout work that knocks Hoffman off said screen. Woodall (HBO’s The White Lotus) brings a sad, quiet intensity, while Liu brings feistiness and distrust to what could been a thankless window-dressing part, giving her character dimension and spark. And Raz is believably chummy one moment, terrifying the next, and back again.

If forced to pick a fourth standout, it’d be one unseen: sound. It — and often the lack thereof — is not merely integral to the story, but immersively so. The auditory experience is reminiscent of 2019’s Sound of Metal, but with a rap sheet. Sharp, tense and unexpectedly moving, Tuner is a thriller in the key of excellence. —Rod Lott

In theaters May 29.