All posts by Rod Lott

Documentary

On the Trail of UFOs: Dark Sky (2021)

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With his Small Town Monsters label, Seth Breedlove has, well, bred a cottage industry of documentaries on all things cryptozoological and/or mythological. After features on Bigfoot and Momo: The Missouri Monster, he again watches the skies for On the Trail of UFOs: Dark Sky.

In this one, he and paranormal investigator Shannon LeGro visit the Appalachians and “hills of hollows” of West Virginia, as the Mountain State plays home to several “quintessential cases” in the lore of unidentified flying objects. Mixing clips from 1956’s Earth vs. the Flying Saucers and stock footage with actual interviews, Dark Sky presents firsthand accounts, hearsay accounts, “anonymous witness” accounts and even the occasional kids’ crayon drawings to present the locals’ stories of encounters both close and close enough. Among them are a diamond-shaped craft sucking energy from power lines, a sighting while playing hoops with the old man, spinning lights, flashing lights and more — all professionally recreated with first-class motion graphics. Without them, Dark Sky would feel feather-light on content.

You can practically watch the doc with a bingo card at hand with squares for all the usual-suspect terms one might hear involving UFO conspiracies and conversations: military ops, psy-ops, Mothman, men in black, Project Blue Book, Dow Chemical, WMD, FBI, CIA, NSA, mobile homes …

Not a follower of UFOs, I’m not qualified to state if On the Trail unearths anything new, but Breedlove brings a theory regarding mineshafts to the table, while an interviewee raises the question of whether aliens target families. Typical of his work, this film impresses with top-notch production value. The only drawback is in LeGro’s narration, which is halting and hesitant, as if she’s not only reading from cue cards, but reading from cue cards written in a foreign language she’s translating on the fly. Her interest and knowledge, however, are not in question.

Whether the movie plays as mere entertainment or belief reinforcement is left for you to decide. —Rod Lott

Action

Maximum Impact (1992)

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At just 61 minutes — and not a minute more! — Maximum Impact appears built upon minimal effort. Shot on video in Ohio, the movie even makes a case against itself from the start with opening credits slowly unfolding atop more than three minutes of burning paper.

Huntsacker Industries insurance salesman Jerry Handley (Ken Jarosz) lives the life of Riley, what with a job, a pretty(-enough) fiancée named Jan (Jo Norcia) and an operational Ford Taurus; judging by the needless footage of him driving it — and smiling while doing so — he sure seems to be pleased. He’s traveling to a big corporate meeting held in a rather tight room, where he reconnects with his estranged best bud, Phil (Scott Emerman). Post-meeting, the dudes reconvene at a diner to reminiscence over chips and queso about that great time when they went skinny-dipping. Together. Just the two of them. At age 12. (Note this odd conversation takes place under a sign reading “Snacktacular!”)

Their bonding sesh is interrupted by a scar-faced, ponytailed Huntsacker heavy (Bill Morrison) who invites them to a company-paid prostitution party later than night at HQ. Phil accepts, not realizing he’s being set up to star in a snuff film. At least he gets a little bra-and-panty action with his reluctant scene partner, Tonya (Christine Morrison), before being murdered. Being suspicious and nosy, Jerry witnesses the whole thing going down through the cracked door. When the cameraman (Michael Cagnoli) steps out to meet the pizza deliveryman, Jerry steps in and flees with Tonya.

In doing his best to keep this total (but fairly curvy) stranger alive, Jerry fails at affording his future wife the same fate — oops! Jerry’s loss is the viewer’s gain — assuming said viewer hasn’t checked out by then — as he takes revenge with an armory’s worth of loaded weapons.

Maximum Impact is, as you’ve guessed, a mess — one acknowledged by its makers, who hide behind pseudonyms. Most notable among them is director Lance Randas, actually DIY diehard J.R. Bookwalter, whose second-made feature, Robot Ninja, can be seen on Jerry and Jan’s TV screen (as can the reflection of a crew member holding a blanket in a failed attempt to block incoming light for day-for-night deception). Bookwalter made the woefully underfunded Maximum Impact as best as one can with a paltry $2,500; nearly every penny is onscreen. After all, chips and queso aren’t free! Nor is makeup, and the scar on the Huntsacker muscle’s face looks just like the one my younger brother had applied at our 1980 elementary school fair for three whole tickets.

I’m thankful for each shortcoming on both sides of Bookwalter’s camcorder, because without them, Maximum Impact would be unwatchable. I’d say you could skip it entirely, but then you’d never hear this line of dialogue in your life: “His schlong fell off! Who knew?” —Rod Lott

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Action

Deadly Force (1983)

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Los Angeles is under the hysteria-ridden spell of a serial killer in what the press dubs “the X Murders” case, so named for the letter left behind in the foreheads of the dead. Per usual in these things, the police are baffled, when a personal connection to victim No. 16 brings back one of their former own — disgraced cop and expert alcoholic Stoney Cooper (Wings Hauser) — from his busy life in New York, playing sidewalk games of rat roulette and bouncing his soccer ball in doggie droppings.

The only person less enthused than LAPD Capt. Hoxley (Lincoln Kilpatrick, 1987’s Prison) to see Stoney in town is his estranged wife, Eddie (Joyce Ingalls, 1975’s The Man Who Wouldn’t Die), now a TV news reporter. However, one of those two will end up boning Stoney in a hammock before the movie calls it quits.

Deadly Force marks a veritable Vice Squad reunion between Hauser, producer Sandy Howard and co-writer Robert Vincent O’Neil (soon to bring us Angel). This doesn’t near the jolt of their ’82 sleaze classic. How could it? As a solo-vehicle attempt to get Wings off the ground, however, it could be worse. With hair that makes William Katt’s look comparatively subtle, Hauser works his baby face to his advantage. His screen presence makes winsome what less-amiable actors might turn into an asshole.

The only point he risks that goodwill is when his sex scene with Ingalls ventures one tongue flick to the nipple too explicit. That move is more unexpected than director Paul Aaron (A Force of One) employing a sub-Magnum P.I. score as an onomatopoeia, but less expected than a cameo by Golden Girl Estelle Getty as a cabbie who’s — get this! — grouchy. —Rod Lott

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Thriller

The Tunnel (2019)

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If the makers of the Norwegian disaster movies The Wave and The Quake have no plans to round out their trilogy, the makers of the Norwegian disaster movie The Tunnel have done it for them — or at least gave it a valiant try.

On a very snowy Christmas Eve, a bunch of people — and one hamster — get trapped inside a 5.6-mile tunnel on a mountain pass. Blame falls on the driver of a fuel tanker spooked by a plastic bag. His overreaction causes an accident that, one leak later, turn into a full-blown explosion that fills the tunnel with deadly smoke. With no emergency exits existing, the victims’ only hope is the nearby village fire department.

While not the chief, our Viggo Mortensen fill-in hero is Stein (Thorbjørn Harr, Stockholm), a widow with a new love (Lisa Carlehed, Department Q franchise reboot The Marco Effect) and a resentful, pink-haired teen daughter (newcomer Ylva Lyng Fuglerud). Naturally, the latter angrily runs from an argument with Dad straight on a bus to Oslo — a bus now stuck in the tunnel, giving Stein all the impetus to whip into Sylvester Stallone mode.

The Tunnel is reminiscent of Stallone’s own tunnel thriller, 1996’s Daylight, in that both become mighty tedious shortly after the disaster occurs. Here, after Villmark Asylum director Pål Øie spends about 30 minutes placing his flammable pawns on the board, the tanker goes kablooey; as the dust settles, so does the picture’s pulse. It’s well-made and the characters are likable, but when the rescue half arrives, predictability takes center stage and doesn’t allow enough variety to join. —Rod Lott

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Comedy

For Those Who Think Young (1964)

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By all appearances, melancholy title aside, For Those Who Think Young sure looks like an AIP beach movie. It’s packed with the series’ essentials: surfing, swimsuits, rock ’n’ roll, Susan Hart and that Frank Tashlin-esque gag of a super-sexy woman’s aggressive shake of her curves causing nearby objects to burst in a fashion typically blamed on poltergeists. Even male lead James Darren looks like Frankie Avalon, right down to that unmistakable helmet of hair.

Gidget graduate Darren plays Ding Pruitt III, a horny trust-funder whose successful seduction technique is basically the lyrics of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” personified. His latest object of affection (toward penetration) is Sandy Palmer (Pamela Tiffin, The Fifth Cord), an orphaned college girl who’s “after a Bachelor of Arts, not a bachelor of bikinis.” She’ll have none of his coercive, date-rapey ways — until, of course, he becomes a changed man within 90 minutes, give or take. Unless, of course, the checkbook of Ding’s corpulent grandfather, B.S. Cronin (Robert Middleton, The Harrad Experiment), has anything to say about it; he literally wants Ding to dong as many girls as possible, rather than settle for the virginal Sandy.

That’s about all of the surfboard-skinny plot, another hallmark of the Frankie and Annette pics. Meanwhile, Pamela’s two uncles (corny comedians Paul Lynde and Woody Woodbury, the latter playing himself) struggle as musicians as unhip as your grandmother after a fall. They’re about to lose their filler club gig, where the understandable star attraction is the bump-and-grind act of stripper Topaz McQueen (Tina Louise, roughly a quarter away from Gilligan’s Island’s maiden voyage); in another Tashlin, um, touch, Topaz later descends a staircase with an extra-long wiener in each hand. Speaking of Gilligan, Bob Denver is here to serve as Kelp, Ding’s white slave. Denver’s big scene is a rather disturbing musical number that finds Kelp singing from a veritable coffin of sand up to his bearded mouth and chin, on which Nancy Sinatra has painted an upside-down face.

Although technically a Beach Party rip-off, For Those Who Think Young is a reasonable facsimile, with much of the credit owed to Pop Art-friendly Leslie H. Martinson (1966’s Batman: The Movie) in the director’s chair. The lovely Tiffin is a sexy and wholesome approximation of Funicello, although Darren isn’t nearly as likable as Avalon — because his character is a total ass! Not only is Ding not above stealing a woman’s crutches to pull a ruse for cooze, but he tells Sandy his ding-a-ling is “entitled” to a test run!

More than half a century later, that dated attitude unintentionally adds another layer of entertainment — as does future Exorcist mama Ellen Burstyn in her movie debut as a teetotaler unknowingly getting hammered by spiked fruit punch. Methinks Think Young exudes charm more discernible than all its in-your-face product placement for Pepsi and Baskin-Robbins combined. As the beach-bound extras chant at the close of Denver’s traumatizing tune, “Ho, daddy! Ho, daddy!” —Rod Lott

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