Just married, young lovebirds Marion and Frank drive straight to Las Vegas — the city limits of which are denoted by a yard sign — for what will turn out a true Honeymoon of Terror. Their luck doesn’t run out right away; the worst that happens in Sin City is that Frank (Doug Leith) takes his bride to see a sort of Hee Haw-themed stripper act, while later, the virginal Marion (Dwan Marlow) forgets her PJs and attempts to blue-ball the hubs until he falls asleep.

Wishing they could be truly alone, she expresses a desire to go to “a deserted lake.” Frank, in his clothespin-nasal voice, just so happens to know of such a place: Thunder Island, where no one has lived for 15 whole years! And hell, he’s even got a map for it in his suitcase!

Come morning, they boat over and set up camp. Frank has to run into town for supplies, leaving Marion on her own — a perfect opportunity to skinny-dip. Her tan lines are so high-contrast, her rear looks like shorts from a brief distance. As promised, the of Terror portion arrives as she’s being watched by an unshaven old slob with a noticeable limp. The way he rubs his stubble, we know he wants to tumble.

Will Frank return in time to save her? Will Marion spend roughly the entire second half running and screaming? Will writer/director Peter Perry Jr. (Kiss Me Quick!) pause at halftime to give us a greatest-hits reel of the prior 30 minutes?

These questions are more are answered in the affirmative by Honeymoon of Terror (aka Ecstasy on Lovers Island), an amateurs-only psycho-thriller/nudie-cutie combo that comes close to crossing into roughie territory. Even with Ms. Marlow’s limited nakedness, the movie rings fairly innocuous by today’s standards — and equally as fun. I’d rub my stubble to see it in color. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

When proposing marriage to the woman you love, be sure to make it memorable. Not most guys’ idea of memorable, which means in public so she feels enormous pressure to accept. And definitely not 6:45’s idea of memorable, which means she’s immediately gutted by a stranger with a box cutter.

Said unfortunate fate befalls Jules (Augie Duke, Necropolis: Legion), much to the horror of boyfriend/bystander Bobby (Michael Reed, Chupacabra Territory), who then gets his neck cranked a sharp 90˚ angle. The operative word of that sentence is “much,” because then Bobby wakes at the titular time in the B&B bed of their romantic weekend excursion and is forced to relive it over and over again, despite efforts to the contrary.

Playing like a downbeat Groundhog Day, this indie thriller from Dark Ride director Craig Singer is built upon a good-enough idea, although wholly unoriginal. Oddly, once the time loop takes effect, interest wanes and thrills give way to dramatics, with which everyone seems not as comfortable handling. Until then, however, I wanted to see where Singer would take it (although not as much as he made me want to see Asbury Park, the iconic New Jersey seaside city standing in for the lovers’ destination of Bog Grove).

6:45’s ultimate twist becomes conspicuous well before intended, which only reinforces its status as a clothes-free emperor — and one who hates playing by the rules, even within the malleability the genre affords. In other words, it’s as predictable as knowing which number a digital clock will display next. Worse, as if you didn’t process the revelation, Singer hits you over the head with it — and over and over again, much like a serial killer who couldn’t find his box cutter and had to settle for a hammer. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

As seems apt for a second entry of a B-level franchise, Escape Room: Tournament of Champions begins in a “last week on …” style befitting of episodic TV. And immediately, the 2019 sleeper hit‘s two survivors, Zoey (Taylor Russell) and Ben (Logan Miller), track the coordinates of the Minos Corporation, the shady outfit behind the invitation-only attraction that tried to straight up murder them, to Manhattan.

Lest you worry your sequel steeps itself in a mudheap o’ mythology, fear not! Like its predecessor, Tournament of Champions is almost solely a series of for-keeps games with true life-or-death stakes. We get a few rounds of electric hangman in a subway car, a cityscape with acid rain, a faux beach that’s actually a giant hourglass and a bank lobby equipped with criss-crossing laser beams. (Regarding that last one, where are Catherine Zeta-Jones and Vincent Cassel when we need them most?)

Each scenario plays out like puzzle pages torn from a Final Destination-themed workbook. Returning writer/director Adam Robitel again has his stock characters somehow solve incredibly cryptic clues under incredibly stressful timelines, so prepare for a lot of this:

Person A: “Time’s running out, hurry!”

Person B: “I found something! What can this mean?”

Person A: “I dunno, but — oh, look your flop sweat dropped on it and revealed an image of a bird and you’re from Boston so maybe it means Larry Byrd of the Boston Celtics? And he spells his name with a ‘Y,’ right? And ‘Y’ is the 25th letter in the alphabet and-and-and is anyone here 25? No? Oh, snap, we’re surrounded by mirrors, so maybejustmaybe it’s really 52! Who here is — what, Jan, you? You’re 52? That’s it, that’s it! Caw-caw, Jan! Caw-caw like the wind!”

Had the movie not racked up a body count, I may not in such a forgiving mood over their deduction powers that take Sherlock Holmes to the nth degree. But it does; therefore, I am. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.