All posts by Rod Lott

The Astrologer (1975)

Last weekend, while visiting my daughter at college, she asked if I had heard about the FBI study determining that the famous serial killers were all born under the zodiac signs of Sagittarius, Gemini or Virgo. I had to admit I had not … because, of course, it’s not true (God bless Snopes.com). Turns out, however, that’s more or less the concept at the core of The Astrologer, the ambitious, never ostentatious debut for filmmaker James Glickenhaus (The Exterminator).

Tuned to the frequency of The Final Conflict, the moody end-times piece operates on the idea that astrologer Alexei Abernal (Bob Byrd, meekness personified) has cracked the code of determining the “zodiacal potential” — better get comfy with hearing that phrase — of anyone in the world, simply by knowing one’s birthdate. This has enabled him to open the InterZod organization, secretly funded by the U.S. Department of Defense to keep tabs on burgeoning evil ’round the globe.

That task is extra-critical now that a mere 10 days remain before the second coming of Christ, and Sequel Jesus is in a real My Two Dads sitch, in that he could be fathered by one good dude or one bad mofo. Falling into the latter camp: Kajerste (Mark Buntzman, Posse), a mystic Indian with formidable beware-the-stare powers.

If you’re hoping all that starts to make sense at some point, stop. It doesn’t. And that’s A-OK because Glickenhaus, in adapting his father-in-law’s novel, has layered so much mindfuckery into the mix that the science — pseudo it may be (and, oh, do it be!) — need not hold up in court. Watchers of The Astrologer can make an educated guess as to the 23andMe paternal ID revealed in the final seconds, yet also have no clue of what’s coming in each scene before then. For what is essentially an airport paperback of a motion picture, that’s a laudable achievement.

Glickenhaus overcomes the limitations of a five-figure budget with the simplest of solutions; it’s amazing what a few computer blips and photo-negative transitions can do for bizarro ambience, not to mention a score by The Terminator composer Brad Fiedel and some truly unsettling edits by Victor Zimet (The Sex O’Clock News). Only Glickenhaus’ actors let him down; Byrd hatched no other credits, but as Alexei’s incelibate wife, Playboy centerfold Monica Tidwell (1979’s Nocturna) at least exudes a freckle-faced charm.

The Astrologer is not to be confused with another movie with the same name from the following year. The Astrologer is to be confused with Suicide Cult, an alternate, nonsensical title. The Astrologer also features a groovy fondue pot with real zodiacal potential. —Rod Lott

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The Panther Squad (1984)

In this Belgian waffler, sex symbol Sybil Danning assembles a team of six tough ladies to help take out an eco-terrorist group. Together, they form … The Panther Squad! Individually, they have … no names — one of a bounty of cues director Pierre Chevalier (Orloff Against the Invisible Man) put less effort into the movie than it takes to watch it.

When the U.N.-esque New Organization of Nations (N.O.O.N., get it?) announces a move into space exploration, the aforementioned anti-pollution activists/signal jammers who brand themselves Clean Space kidnap an astronaut in protest, hoping to convince N.O.O.N. to put the kibosh on their star-trekking initiative. After many scenes of Important White Guys shop-talking the crisis over the phone, Ilona (Danning, Cuba Crossing) is called into duty to administer swift, sultry defeat.

Partial to root beer “on the rocks” and a curves-hugging, black leather getup not too far removed (wink) from Howling II, Danning’s ass-kicker takes down thugs in regular speed and slow motion. It’s a toss-up which more fails to hide her lack of combat skill. In a battle of cleavage, however, she wins hands down — here, take mine.

For supposedly crackerjack commandos, Ilona and her fellow Panthers travel not-so-inconspicuously in a Jeep painted in the bright, bold colors of Pan-African nations’ flags. The girls don’t exactly wear camo, either, opting for showy bikinis, halter tops, cutoff shorts and matching headbands. Chevalier and producer Jess Franco (X312 — Flight to Hell) don’t bother giving any a distinguishable trait — pointed out when this film’s Bosley, Jack Taylor (Wax), is introduced to the lineup and deigns to demean each lady with a spoofy Seven Dwarfs moniker. I would not be surprised if the (alleged) script by Georges Friedland (Moonwolf) refers to them as Chlamydia, Gonorrhea, Genitalium, Syphilis, Trichomoniasis and Papilloma.

As with the items on that list, The Panther Squad should be avoided at all costs. —Rod Lott

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The Legend of Spider Forest (1971)

What has eight legs and a man shoving a lit Bunsen burner to his neck? The Legend of Spider Forest, far from legendary.

While staying at a pub in a supposedly quaint English village, ascot-rocking painter/photographer Paul (Simon Brent, Love Is a Splendid Illusion) runs across an unusual young woman walking carefree through the woods. Named Anna (Neda Arneric, Shaft in Africa), she says little, screws lots and is often nude — all the better to tease you with, what with her left shoulder’s distinctive spider-shaped birthmark.

Paul excepted, the men who make love to her don’t survive the encounter, thanks to her summoning into action the forest’s breed of spiders, both highly venomous and immune to chemicals. Wouldn’t the arachnids make an effective weapon for a resurgent Nazi party? Director Peter Sykes (Hammer’s To the Devil a Daughter) sure thinks so.

Or so one may assume, since he doesn’t do much with it — and what he does do is muddled to a point of incomprehension. This Eurohorror oddity will tangle viewers in a web not of intrigue, but internment. At least its tarantulas — underused, sadly — are real. —Rod Lott

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The Assistant (2019)

WTFFresh from a well-deserved Emmy win for the Netflix crime series Ozark, Julia Garner faces arguably more dangerous territory in — and as — The Assistant, set entirely within one workday. As the lowest rung of a Miramax-esque film company in New York City, her Mary stays busy making copies, fielding phone calls, washing dishes, balancing checks and fetching water — glass-bottled, of course. Across the movie’s 87 minutes, we watch her perform so many menial tasks, you may feel like you deserve three hours’ internship credit.

Most of The Assistant is as dull as Mary’s day, until signs of her boss – who’s heard but never seen — become more common. He’s the film’s ersatz Harvey Weinstein, a blustery, berating bully apparently more interested in chasing tail rather than talent. As Mary navigates this toxic environment, culminating in a futile meeting with an HR representative (Matthew Macfadyen, 2010’s Robin Hood), her soul slowly deflates like a balloon days after the party, air seeping from Garner’s perpetually sour pucker. Yet nothing really happens, in terms of story.

Unconventional documentarian Kitty Green makes her narrative debut with The Assistant, yet the pulse of her previous project, Casting JonBenet, cannot be located. Her film may have nailed the #MeToo timing, but is itself something of a quiet slog. In keeping the audience from hearing (except in select occasions) the other end of the movie’s many phone conversations, which constitute a good chunk of dialogue, Green keeps the viewer from engaging with her material. It’s an odd directorial choice — one I respect, although don’t necessarily like.

Make no mistake: The Assistant is not the finely tuned workplace thriller it’s expertly sold to be. Its themes of sexual harassment will attract the curious, only to yield wildly mixed results: cathartic for a few, a horror show to a few more, and baffling to most everyone else. —Rod Lott

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The Lodge (2019)

One otherwise sunny afternoon, Richard (Ocean’s Eight’s Richard Armitage) deserves a World’s Worst Estranged Husband award for telling his wife he wants to finalize their divorce and marry his new girlfriend — a one-two punch of info that drives the spouse to suicide. Six months later, over Christmas vacation, he earns a World’s Worst Dad trophy to add to that hypothetical mantle by forcing his two kids to spend time in their snow-covered mountain cabin with said girlfriend, Grace (Riley Keough, Logan Lucky), and then leaving them with her for a few days.

Not only is Grace a stranger, but they blame her for their mom’s death. Furthermore, they know she’s literally a psychopath, being the daughter of a Christian cult leader (played by her real-life dad, Danny) whose members killed themselves in a mass suicide à la Heaven’s Gate. Only Grace, befitting of her name, survived, yet bears heavy emotional scars, all of which Keough rightly and consistently plays in the key of dour.

What begins to happen in The Lodge once Richard temporarily vacates is best left to audiences to discover on their own. More eerie than scary, the picture marks just the second narrative feature for the Austrian duo of Veronika Franz and Severin Fiala, following up the acclaimed twin terrors of Goodnight Mommy. This one is even better; call it Goodnight Stepmommy-to-Be. Just when you think Franz and Fiala are pulling pages from their 2014 film for recycling, the course of events changes wildly, and viewers might not be willing to follow if the actors weren’t so good.

Keough is, in particular, excellent, but let’s not diminish the two other equally tricky roles of Richard’s children, played by Jaeden Martell (Knives Out) and Lia McHugh (Along Came the Devil). They interact like real siblings, with McHugh believably conveying grief for which Martell, in turn, provides the big-brother support she needs. And far from Clueless, Alicia Silverstone is terrific in a brief appearance that neither requires nor allows her to lean on her trademark charm.

As was the case with Goodnight Mommy, one important character goes unbilled: architecture. Franz and Fiala build so many shots starting from that foundation, giving The Lodge a touch of delicate elegance even in its darkest corners. Their compositions are crisp and symmetrical, much like the microscopic snowflake of this arthouse horror’s poster. —Rod Lott

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