All posts by Rod Lott

Electric Boogaloo: The Wild, Untold Story of Cannon Films (2014)

electricboogalooIsraeli cousins Menahem Golan and Yoran Globus absolutely loved movies. It’s just too bad that, during their 1980s reign as owners of The Cannon Group, they had “cash registers where their hearts should be,” as disgruntled actress Laurene Landon puts it, just before she burns a VHS tape of America 3000, the forgotten flick she regrets making for them. Her anecdote represents the kind of filter-free candor that alights Electric Boogaloo: The Wild, Untold Story of Cannon Films, Mark Hartley’s third (and reportedly final) documentary devoted to a specific branch of exploitation film.

Told with the same fervor flavor of his Not Quite Hollywood of 2008 and Machete Maidens Unleashed! two years later, Hartley’s Electric Boogaloo is a wondrous whirlwind tour of the chaos that erupted behind the B-movie label, birthing such releases as Breakin’, Bloodsport, Masters of the Universe, Superman IV: The Quest for Peace, Ninja III: The Domination and practically everything that decade in which Chuck Norris or Charles Bronson starred.

electricboogaloo1In general, those larger-than-life Cannon boys kept costs low, opened wide and, if they were lucky, clicked big with a ticket-buying public — a surefire formula until it suddenly wasn’t. Not coincidentally at the end of the ’80s, Golan and Globus bitterly parted ways; ever the dick-swinging showmen, the two then competed to beat the other to theaters with a movie about (of all things) the lambada dance craze. (Spoiler: Both opened the same day, to empty theaters.)

That “duel” is one of dozens of crazy, can’t-make-this-up stories shared by those Cannon alum who survived their time on various projects (and almost all of whom can do a killer Golan impression). We hear about the guys’ delusion that they were Oscar-bound with the Brooke Shields vehicle Sahara. That they stole private photos from Bo Derek’s bag, which they then issued as publicity stills for Bolero. That they accidentally cast Sharon Stone opposite Richard Chamberlain on King Solomon’s Mines because they thought they were getting Romancing the Stone’s Kathleen Turner. That their mid-movie replacement of a real orangutan with a fake one (a man in a suit) would go unnoticed — which it kinda did, since so few ever saw Going Bananas. That they made Michael Dudikoff a star with American Ninja because a super-vain Norris — not wanting his precious face obscured by ninja fabric — turned it down. There are tons more where those came from.

Supplemented with glorious clips, these tales arrive rapid-fire, ensuring Electric Boogaloo remains a live wire for its whole. Fast, loose and easy, the doc is over in less than two hours, yet so invigorating and engaging that I gladly would have sat for two more. —Rod Lott

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Into the Badlands (1991)

intobadlandsIn this Western-themed anthology (not to be confused with the AMC martial-arts series of the same name) of three tumbleweed-laden tales, The Hateful Eight’s Bruce Dern and his teeth star as morally corrupt bounty hunter T.L. Barston, roaming the prairie in search of his next $50 kill. For everyone he runs across, we see bad things start to happen to them.

Take wanted outlaw McComas (Dylan McDermott, Olympus Has Fallen): No sooner has he crossed paths with Barston than he’s being hit on by a saloon whore played by Twister’s Helen Hunt! Oh, the humanity! They have sex. Not as cruel, he then gets shot by the town sheriff (Andrew Robinson, Hellraiser).

intobadlands1Into the Badlands’ next pointless yarn: Homely Alma Heusser (Mariel Hemingway, Bad Moon) is attacked by wolves. Finally, that sonofabitch Barston gets a taste of his own medicine, courtesy of some ghostly bandits.

From Zandalee director Sam Pillsbury, this made-for-cable flick is dull and boring, in that made-for-cable sorta way, despite a cowpie-sized dollop of horror elements. —Rod Lott

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The Poseidon Adventure (1972)

poseidonadventureShould auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? Nay, they should not. After all, it’s tough to rid your mind of people once you’ve witnessed them plummet to their deaths when a luxury ocean liner goes topsy-turvy. Such a fate befalls the revelers ushering in the New Year aboard a top-heavy ship heading from New York to Athens. If it’s not a party until something gets broken, then holy shit, is The Poseidon Adventure ever a blowout!

Shortly after the stroke of midnight, while the adults are still sloshed enough to wear stupid paper hats, a seaquake triggers a giant wave that flips that ship belly-up! Nature’s cruelty personified, the 180˚ turn transforms the opulent ballroom into a collection of broken glass and dead flesh as the passengers are hurled from floor to ceiling. So harsh is the force that Stella Stevens hardly can keep her breasts contained within her gown. And anyone who’s seen her flaunt the goods in films as disparate as The Silencers and Slaughter knows that’s no easy feat. Here, the stacked starlet plays a former hooker now married to the blustery cop who busted her (Ernest Borgnine, 1979’s The Black Hole).

poseidonadventure1Both are among a handful of survivors who reluctantly follow a faith-challenged man of the cloth (Gene Hackman, The French Connection) up and through a veritable obstacle course to the hull of the upturned Poseidon, in hopes of escape before the boat sinks to join Davy Jones’ locker on the ocean floor. Others on the unscheduled field trip include a one-time swim champion, now overweight (Shelley Winters, The Night of the Hunter); a confirmed bachelor with ginger hair (Red Buttons, When Time Ran Out …); and the groovy lead singer (Carol Lynley of Radley Metzger’s The Cat and the Canary) of the hippie band that plays “The Morning After,” one of the more wretched pop tunes to win the Best Song Oscar. In a story that boldly plays for keeps, not all of them live to see fresh air.

Something of a pet project for producer Irwin Allen (who followed with The Towering Inferno), this adaptation of Paul Gallico’s 1969 novel ditched the rape subplot and, with Ronald Neame (Meteor) at the helm, became a massive hit, kicking off a disaster-movie craze that helped define the decade and kept the Allen household well-fed. Today, The Poseidon Adventure and its brethren get knocked about as witless exercises in largesse — and sure, some are, like the 2006 remake — but, being the granddaddy, this one chooses sobriety over silliness, proving particularly strong in suspense, performances (especially Hackman, giving it his usual all) and special effects. Post-Love Boat, the all-star, kitchen-sink cast began looking unnecessarily bloated, but dammit, that flip-flop sequence has aged wonderfully. —Rod Lott

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A Haunted House 2 (2014)

ahauntedhouse2In this politically overcorrect age, can one pan a Marlon Wayans project without being pegged a racist? No? Allow me to try anyway: Somehow, A Haunted House 2 is even worse than 2013’s A Haunted House, a parody so generic, its title perfectly matched. That a mere 15 months passed between the release of each suggests that “rushed” and “half-assed” were intentional. Give Wayans and director Michael Tiddes (Fifty Shades of Black) 15 months more and the sequel would fare no better; it might even play worse.

Wayans’ character of Malcolm has married — gasp! — a white woman (Jaime Pressly, DOA: Dead or Alive), thereby affording Wayans and frequent co-writer Rick Alvarez the single domino they need to push in order for the couple to move into a new home, which also is haunted. Cue the spoofs of The Possession (an evil box), Sinister (evil home movies) and whichever Paranormal Activity chapter happened to be around then.

But mostly it depends upon The Conjuring, because its creepy Annabelle doll shows up and — I hope you’re sitting down! — she won’t leave after Malcolm has sex with her. That bit stands for everything wrong with this sequel and Wayans’ one-track shtick in general: It’s not enough to let a few thrusts tell the joke; instead, we get to see Wayans hump (and perhaps rape) it in position after position, until the gag is beaten as lifeless as the damn doll. Elongating such a imagination-free joke doesn’t make it funnier — just more desperate.

If Wayans isn’t obsessing over penile whereabouts, he’s reinforcing stereotypes that smart comedies would break down. And if he’s not doing that, he’s going for the even easier laugh by shrieking. Those are his three moves and, over and over, they constitute one worthless movie. —Rod Lott

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Saturday Morning Mystery (2012)

satmornmystZoinks! Spencer Parsons’ Saturday Morning Mystery winkingly makes the opening-credits claim that it is “a real story based on actual televised events.” That is its cheeky way of hinting at — if not quite acknowledging, for legal reasons — that, yes, the movie is perfectly aware its characters and setup resemble TV’s still-chugging Scooby-Doo. That is Saturday Morning Mystery’s point, its selling point and, ultimately, its point of no return.

Unknowns Adam Tate, Josephine Decker, Jonny Mars and Ashley Rae Spillers fill the role archetypes of, respectively, Fred, Daphne, Shaggy and Velma. (Hamlet, their nonspeaking Great Dane, plays himself.) The paranormal-hunting foursome is hired to investigate a mansion that once housed a private school with religion-based curriculum; rumors of satanic sacrifice, an open gate to hell and the occasional meddling kid have plagued the site ever since. With Hamlet in tow and on a leash, the group members unload their van, set up their equipment and steel themselves for an unpredictable night.

satmornmyst1Much of what happens in those dark hours would cause William Hanna and Joseph Barbera to turn beet-red, if they were still alive to see it. In other words, the film’s R rating is entirely warranted.

People drawn to Saturday Morning Mystery strictly because of the Scooby-Doo “connection” are bound to be disappointed. Parsons’ work is not a parody of the beloved cartoon; Warner Bros.’ sanctioned pair of live-action comedies better adhere to that description. This is also more or less humorless, despite a sunny, cheerful title that conjures loving images of sugary cereal and hours of entertainment while the parentals slept in. Saturday Morning Mystery is a mumblecore treatment of in-vogue supernatural horror dripping with Gen X nostalgia; therefore, it is less an actual story and more a concept — one that still requires some fleshing out. At least it is interesting in its shortcomings — no easy task, that. —Rod Lott

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