Not a slasher movie no matter what the title leads you to believe, Slayground is one of more than half a dozen films based on Richard Stark’s (aka Donald E. Westlake) crime novels featuring professional thief Parker. Like all but one of those, the character’s name has been changed — in this case, to Stone, played by Peter Coyote (Femme Fatale).

Stone has masterminded a three-man job to rob an armored truck of cold, hard cash, but when his driver doesn’t show up on time (understandable, due to murder), he’s forced to hire a hothead punk (Ned Eisenberg, The Burning) to fill the role. That’s a choice Stone soon regrets when, in the post-heist flee, the wheelman gets too cocky and ends up causing a wreck that kills a child. The dead kid’s wealthy father puts out a hit on all those responsible by hiring a shadowy man known as Shadow Man (Philip Sayer, Xtro).

Sounds interesting enough, and it is in setup. Then, maybe 20 minutes in, Terry Bedford, the Monty Python cinematographer trying his hand at directing, and screenwriter Trevor Preston (What the Peeper Saw) manage to take the whole enterprise south — and fast — not unlike the driver who gets Stone into this fine mess. Considering the wreck had no witnesses, how the Shadow Man learns the identities of Stone and company is a mystery — one the filmmakers completely gloss over, just as they do the killer’s ability to know his prey’s location at any given point in time.

Slayground opens with the familiar strains of one of the most overlicensed rock songs in movie history, George Thorogood’s future jock jam “Bad to the Bone,” which immediately establishes a rowdy tone the film just as quickly ditches. No fun is to be found, and I’m not sure Bedford wants you to have any, brushing every scene in bleak coats of oil and dirt and all-around grime. By the time the movie jumps an ocean to take Stone to jolly ol’ England, I was long checked out. Being set in an empty amusement park, the final confrontation is at least visually interesting, but also a case of too little, too late. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

For whatever reason*, I watched The Seduction several times after its short theatrical run on a local UHF station, where it somehow aired with Morgan Fairchild’s nudity intact. Back then, pre-internet and with no HBO, that was like striking gold. Today, naked Fairchild doesn’t hold as much excitement, but those scenes have aged well compared against things in the movie that pretty much no longer exist: pay phones, department stores, Jacuzzi sex, Michael Sarrazin.

Fairchild’s Jaime Douglas anchors the news in Los Angeles, where the 6 p.m. time slot affords her visibility in the public eye. Not all of it is wanted, particularly that of the zoom lens of nosy neighbor Derek (Andrew Stevens, 10 to Midnight), whose snooping, screwed-up head has concocted a romantic fantasy he attempts to will into reality with heartfelt gifts of trinkets and trespassing. Just not into stalkers, Jaime doesn’t reciprocate his feelings, so Derek reasons if he can’t have her, well, no one can.

An early, tamer template for the erotic thrillers that bought Stevens’ groceries throughout the 1990s, The Seduction is high-gloss trash from writer/director David Schmoeller (Tourist Trap), but blandly enjoyable as he explores the contradiction of a woman so amazingly attractive, she can’t help but garner the male gaze — in fact, she makes a living off this ability — yet isn’t always fond of the gaze she garners. This thesis is set up in the first two lines of the film (Dionne Warwick’s singing of Lalo Schifrin’s overproduced ballad doesn’t count) as Jaime’s boyfriend (Sarrazin, The Gumball Rally) tells her, “I like looking at you,” to which she breathily replies, “I like being looked at.”

By the third act, Jaime is done being the victim, turning up the heat to 98 degrees of tease in order to turn the tables on her would-be paramour. While Fairchild plays this tough-cookie portion with the same smoldering indifference as the hot-tamale preamble, the flick certainly becomes less interesting in the switch. That could be reason enough for Schmoeller’s Seduction beginning and ending Fairchild’s big-screen career as leading lady; after this, she really only connected with movie audiences in the likes of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure and Naked Gun 33 1/3: The Final Insult, playing — and spoofing — herself. There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as we’re all still looking. —Rod Lott

*Hormones.

Get it at Amazon.