All posts by Rod Lott

Mystery

A Hyena in the Safe (1968)

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In the Italian film A Hyena in the Safe, various international criminals responsible for a massive diamond heist meet at their late boss’ castle to divvy up shares of the kitty. As ironclad insurance, the loot sits in a safe not only kept underwater, but requires six keys to open and, to prevent drilling, contains a layer of radioactive uranium.

Each crook has brought his or her key … but the arrogant addict Albert (Sandro Pizzochero, The Slasher … Is the Sex Maniac!) suddenly can’t find his. Smelling a put-on, the others even tear the clothes off Albert’s fiancée (Cristina Gaioni, Flesh for Frankenstein) to make sure she’s not hiding the metal key — you know, with all its sharp, jagged edges — in her supple lady parts.

The next morning, one of the gathered robbers dies. Was it suicide or murder? You can guess, because the corpses keep on comin’ until the pic more or less becomes And Then There Were Nessuno.

Cesare Canevari (The Gestapo’s Last Orgy) directs with an unusual level of panache. He gets away clean with a slew of wildly exaggerated shots in part because the script he and Alberto Penna wrote calls for such a treatment, what with the castle’s secret passages, hidden features and occasionally Bedazzled widow. She’s played by the lovely and lascivious Marie Luise Greisberger, who somehow has no other acting credits — a crime in itself.

With a Gian Piero Reverberi theme that sounds like Herb Alpert on an all-expense-paid vacation to Carnival, A Hyena in the Safe does something I’ve never seen another movie attempt: Let a shapeless yellow blob throb in the lower-left corner of the frame for two minutes until it morphs into the parting word “FINE.” If you wish to read “FINE” as English, just know the movie is much more than merely that. —Rod Lott

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Horror

Brute 1976 (2025)

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Any resemblance Brute 1976 bears to Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chain Saw Massacre and Wes Craven’s The Hills Have Eyes is purely, assuredly, unequivocally intentional. A closing-credits dedication to their memory confirms it, as if there were any question. Even horror irregulars will detect the influence in the prologue, well before a character asks, “Remember that movie with the chainsaw that came out a couple years ago?”

Sure do. Brute 1976 takes its van of half a dozen hippie-dippy protagonists to the middle of nowhere in Nevada for a magazine cover shoot. After snaps, they check out a nearby mining town forebodingly named Savage and now abandoned.

Okay, so it’s not completely abandoned. An unofficial family of felony-hungry fuck-ups call Savage home. They include a guy sporting a half-skull and antlers, another donning a mask of tightly wound beef jerky and, most fashionable, a bald man (Jed Rowen, The Ghastly Love of Johnny X) who admired a woman’s breasts so much, he wears her chest like an apron. Thus, when someone asks, “Is that a chainsaw?” the answer is always “yes.” (For the record, the question is posed twice.)

With Brute 1976, director Marcel Walz and writer Joe Knetter do for the grimy slashers of the disco decade what their 2022 collaboration That’s a Wrap did for the glossy slashers of the late ’90s: Embrace with a fervent love, up to and including the point of suffocation. Whether that tickles your sweet spot depends on your tolerance for an often explicit level of camp (a milder sample: “She’s grazin’ for a glazin'”). With the film turning pages of the calendar backward to America’s bicentennial year, Wrap’s ’90s-style sardonicism isn’t merely replaced by post-’Nam pessimism, but buried.

With that, Brute’s strength naturally rests in its depravity, none more memorable or un-unseeable than when a defecating crew member spots two fingers beckoning from a glory hole and can’t think of a reason not to utilize it. What happens next is as if the iconic shower scene from Porky’s accidentally — and graphically — were directed by the Property Brothers.

Taking advantage of the sunny expanse of the Nevada desert, Walz gets to use his outside voice while maximizing minimal resources. Part of that entails bringing along his rep players — reliably, Sarah French and Gigi Gustin — who know exactly how to modulate to his degree of kink-laden kitsch. Brute 1976 represents a step up for him, which bodes well for the sequel, Brute 1986. I’m in. —Rod Lott

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Sex

DISC (2025)

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Just because two people have been intimate doesn’t mean they’ve been intimate intimate. In the waking moments after their one-night stand at a conference, Alex and Carey learn this, caught unawares by a situation requiring a much deeper connection.

With DISC running all of 14 minutes, credits and all, I’m not about to reveal details of the hole in which they find themselves. As Carey (Jim Cummings, The Last Stop in Yuma County) cryptically explains to the knocking housekeeper why they can’t cede the room quite yet, “This is R-rated stuff … so I’m sorry.”

Although Cummings isn’t DISC’s director (that’d be one Blake Winston Rice), it tonally fits his own wonderful films. One could see Cummings’ reluctant philanderer from The Beta Test stumbling into this fine mess of lanyard-bearing lovers. The other, Alex, the yin to his yang, is played by Victoria Ratermanis. She was heretofore unknown to me, as confirmed by a trip to her IMDb page (where her bio incorrectly calls her “an Oscar nominated actor”). Aside from starring, she also wrote the short with Rice from her (hopefully true) story.

Shooting in a fleabag motel with curtains the transparency of tissue makes the cringe-comedy piece feel more awkward and stressful — and, yes, funny — than the comparative professionalism of a hotel room (posh or economical) would allow. That smart decision pays immediate dividends, even if DISC’s final moments do not, in a grace note that feels unearned. That extends to a title card that attempts to pass off the all-caps title as an acronym — one that seems more convenient than functional.

But before that? Yeah, give ’er a hand. —Rod Lott

Comedy

Revenge of the Nerds IV: Nerds in Love (1994)

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With Revenge of the Nerds IV: Nerds in Love, the question is less “Who would marry Booger?” and more “Why was this made for the Fox network?” After all, this is a sequel to an ’80s teen comedy that’s so notoriously raunchy, it’s now seen as problematic.

But no worries, Nielsen families: The Lambda Lambda Lambda frat brothers are adults now; their days of panty raids, video voyeurism and cosplay rape long behind them! Lead nerd Lewis (Robert Carradine) and victim wife Betty (Julia Montgomery) are expecting a baby. Booger (Curtis Armstrong) even has replaced his “WHO FARTED?” T-shirt with the more mature, ready-for-prime-time “WHO POOTED?”

Plus, as spoiled two paragraphs above, he’s engaged! The lucky (?) lady is the appropriately geeky Jeanie (Corinne Bohrer, Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol). Booger botches meeting the parents by immediately molesting Jeanie upon arrival, then slapping her mom (Christina Pickles, Masters of the Universe) on the face with a slab o’ meat. (No, a raw steak. What on earth did you think I meant?)

Jeanie’s sickeningly wealthy father, Mr. Humphrey (Joseph Bologna, Blame It on Rio), harbors political aspirations that Booger surely would tank, so he charges his sycophantic son-in-law, Chip (Stephen Davies, 1988’s The Nest), with preventing the union. To do so, Chip enacts several ceremony-killing schemes, one of which involves hiring strippers with calculators and pencil protectors covering their breasts. Another, at a buffet restaurant whose logo is a fork stuck in a cow’s ass, ends unintentionally with a pie atop Mr. Humphrey’s head.

Elsewhere, former mean jock Stan (Ted McGinley) spends the entire movie in bed stricken with chickenpox. Ogre (Donald Gibb) swills beer from Pyrex. Lewis’ “unborn fetal son” already speaks from within Betty’s womb: “Pickles and ice cream! Pickles and ice cream!” And returning screenwriters Jeff Buhai and Steve Zacharias prove their comedy fingers are anything but tight on the pulse of what’s hot by serving up parodies of The Waltons and 2001.

With Bernie Casey, Jessica Tuck, James Karen, Robert Picardo and James Cromwell amid the supporting players, Nerds in Love bursts with talent, but not things for them to do. Worse, Bohrer’s role requires her to do several things I’m sure she wishes she hadn’t, like imitating a cow with a full-volume, head-extended moo so loud and proud, it’d merit a fine for disturbing the peace. Rarely have I felt more embarrassed for an actress. And I’m including her fully nude scene with Randy Quaid in Dead Solid Perfect.

Although Revenge of the IV: Nerds in Love culminates with a Valentine’s Day wedding (oh, shit, spoiler), it premiered in summer sweeps week. A brand-new sequel watered down from the hit original wasn’t enough of a draw, so Fox broadcast it in 3-D with select scenes in scratch-and-sniff, as if you couldn’t already tell it stinks. Hey, at least I laughed once (“What will he lie about next? You saw The Crying Game!”), which is more than I can say for Revenge of the Nerds III: The Next Generation. —Rod Lott

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Comedy

The Premiere (2024)

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While you await the next Scream sequel, you could try to sate your Ghostface jones with The Premiere, a mockumentary about the making of a Scream musical. But I doubt it’ll do the trick.

Made in the Hamptons (with every bit of insularity as that sounds), this improvised comedy follows the cart-before-the-horse theatrical ambitions of Sam (Sam Pezzullo) as he attempts to stage the show — and fails spectacularly. As you’ve already guessed, he’s incompetent, oblivious, passive-aggressive, narcissistic and as questionably talented as he is underfunded.

Any comparisons to Christopher Guest’s Corky St. Clair of Waiting for Guffman are entirely merited and, one assumes, invited with ornate calligraphy and burgundy wax seals. The glaring difference is here, I found nothing funny. Sam yammers incessantly, as if doing so increases the chances something will hit a target. It comes off not as a matter of calculation, but desperation, overestimating his audience appeal by a magnificent mile. Other characters you want to see more of get short-shrifted.

The Premiere is spotted with germs of good ideas, like one of the leads having no knowledge of the Scream franchise, or the only rejected actor from auditions protesting the production, yet none are properly mined to yield laughs. (To that end, you could add its premise to the list.) I did smile at one bit, when Sam gasps at breaking news of Queen Elizabeth’s passing, not out of empathy, but the threat he believes the event poses to his press release.

In addition to starring, Pezzullo shares writing, directing and producing duties with Christopher Bouckoms. But only Pezzullo is credited as editor, which may be the root cause of an avoidable problem: He’s too close to the material, with Exhibit A being the pic nearly running an oxygen-sucking two hours. (Ironically, in his everyday career, Pezzullo excels in the short form, being behind some of your YouTube feed’s favorite viral marketing stunts in recent years.)

Look, I’m not saying The Premiere is an ego project; I’ll let the closing credits’ red-carpet photos of him and him and him and his friends and him do all the talking there. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.