All posts by Rod Lott

Horror

House of Terror (1973)

Leave a comment

houseofterrorIn need of a fresh start, Jennifer (Jenifer Bishop, Mako: The Jaws of Death) moves into the House of Terror to care for the ailing wife of wealthy businessman Emmett Kramer (Mitchell Gregg, he of the chalk-white hair and jet-black mustache). The bedridden Mrs. Kramer (Jacquelyn Hyde, 1979’s The Dark) is suicidal, pissy and cursed with a horrid, unnaturally vertical hairdo that must be coined the Crazy Hag.

With her nurse’s cap tucked atop Princess Leia-style buns, Jennifer diligently goes about her duties, despite her patient’s acid tongue and — speaking of — the creepy mute housekeeper (Irenee Byatt, Bunny O’Hare). Plus, someone is spying on Jennifer in her room through a peephole — perhaps the same someone who stabs her Raggedy Andy doll.

houseofterror1Directed by Gypsy Angels producer Sergei Goncharoff, House of Terror sits on multiple levels of ineptitude. First of all, it presents Jennifer as our heroine, only to abruptly switch gears one-third in and make her a villainess when her ex-con ex-boyfriend (Arell Blanton, Assault of the Killer Bimbos) reappears in her life with a scheme in need of hatching. Second, the film starts as horror and ends as the same, but is pure soap-opera theatrics in between.

Finally, it’s just plain dull, like a plastic knife from KFC. Even with Bishop’s ridiculous facial contortions when she’s called upon to feign shock, not a single scene stands out as memorable — Goncharoff’s lone area of consistency in made-for-TV execution. If you must watch it, at least watch Retromedia’s so-called “40th Anniversary Edition,” but only because it offers a superb digestif in the DVD’s extra feature, Super Horror Trailer-Rama. In keeping with House of Terror’s own misnomer status, this hour-long bonus includes coming attractions from fright flicks, but also numerous movies that fall into other genres, like science fiction and sword-and-sandal. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Mystery

Death Walks at Midnight (1972)

Leave a comment

deathwalksmidnightFashion model Valentina (Nieves Navarro, aka Susan Scott, The Big Gundown) agrees to be the guinea pig in a toxicology professor’s test of HDS, an experimental hallucinogen he’s developed. Scandal-sheet journalist Gio (Simón Andreu, The Blood Spattered Bride) documents her resulting trip, during which fits of uncontrollable laughter give way to visions of a young woman being brutally murdered by a man with an armored glove bearing four metal spikes.

Still shaken after the experience, Valentina soon learns that a woman actually died that way six months prior, in the office building directly across from her apartment. Not only that, but Valentina believes she’s become a target herself, as she comes face-to-face with the killer direct from her drug-fueled state — you know, that mutton-chopped dude with the groovy shades that practically qualify as Terminator goggles. Or has she? Perhaps, it’s suggested, the lingering aftereffects of HDS are to blame? It’s a not a spoiler to say the game of pursuer and pursued is not all in Valentina’s glamorous little head.

deathwalksmidnight1From there, director Luciano Ercoli (The Forbidden Photos of a Lady Above Suspicion) introduces us to so many loons, it’s too bad Katharine Hepburn and Henry Fonda weren’t on hand to imitate them. Working from a story by Django helmer Sergio Corbucci and demonstrating a keen eye for geometry in his frame compositions — aided tremendously by the swank ’60s surroundings — Ercoli pulls off a couple of sequences that Brian De Palma had to have absorbed before trying his hand at the same thing. With one hell of a heroine in Navarro, Death Walks at Midnight is a stylish and at times rather gruesome giallo that wrings pleasure up until its denouement, delivered in an info dump so rushed, it not only doesn’t give you time to make sense of it, but raises even more questions.

Ercoli redeems himself with the final scene, an action-packed fight atop the rooftops with at least one twisted idea for dispatching a giggling henchman. Also, let the record show that despite the title, death actually walks in broad daylight. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Action

Police Story: Lockdown (2013)

Leave a comment

policestorylockdownEntry No. 7 in Hong Kong cinema’s unrelated Police Story franchise (if we count Michelle Yeoh’s Supercop 2 spin-off), Police Story: Lockdown again stars Jackie Chan, this time as Capt. Zhong, a middle-aged career cop and now a widower. He meets his emo-medical daughter, Miao (Jing Tian, Special ID), at a trendy, two-story nightclub complete with private rooms, go-go girls and frickin’ live piranha.

Resentful of her workaholic father’s years of absenteeism, Miao nonetheless makes an effort to reconnect, starting with introducing him to her new beau, Wu (Liu Ye, The Chef, the Actor and the Scoundrel), formerly a pugilist in an illegal boxing ring, currently owner of this very hot spot. Zhong immediately dislikes Wu and … well, father knows best, because Wu takes his whole bar hostage, plopping all patrons who weren’t able to flee during the melée into the dancing cages. (No word if such dual use was in mind when Wu designed the club, but the cages certainly came in handy, no?)

policestorylockdown1As villains go, Wu is pretty cardboard — or maybe candy glass is more apt here — and as heroes go, Chan is Jackie Chan, the ever-reliable, brand-name action star. From Little Big Soldier director Ding Sheng, Lockdown is middling fare at best — nowhere near Chan’s peak (which includes a handful of the Police Story stories), but equally distant from his more-recent nadir. It is what it is, which means that while the film is limited by its (mostly) single location, it’s worth tuning in just to watch the fight sequences (and usually the bloopers, although that’s not the case here). The 60-something Chan isn’t quite as fast on his feet these days, but like Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, he’s never going to lose all those moves. Aging suits him well, even when the scripts fall short. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Kitchen Sink

Extreme Jukebox (2013)

Leave a comment

extremejukeboxWTFLook at a jukebox — if you can find a pub or pizza parlor that still has one — and peruse its tunes. Among those 45s, you’re likely to find a mix of musical genres from which the automated arm can pluck: rock, pop, country. Fittingly but annoyingly, Extreme Jukebox is every bit as scattered in its DNA.

In the Italian film from first-time writer/director/producer/actor Alberto Bogo, the music industry of Nova Springs is terrorized as its pop stars, rock gods and metal heads are offed by a serial killer or two decked out in quasi- Juggalo disguises. Their gruesome slayings may have something to do with the disappearance of a psych-rocker 20 years ago. Or they may have something to do with a supernatural curse that locks souls within a slab of vinyl.

extremejukebox1Then again, they may not. It’s hard to say for certain, because Extreme Jukebox is an excruciating mess of self-pleasuring slop. Narratively, it just flies by the seat of its (soiled) pants, ending up as confused as any potential audience member — even those who make it all the way to the punchable final shot. It seems that Bogo wanted to salute slasher movies and send up slasher movies, and since neither tone works alone, the approaches are downright discordant sharing the same frames; scenes don’t flow as much as they trip over one another.

Does the movie think it is scary? Does it find itself funny? Are we supposed to laugh or cringe? Scream or smile? Was Bogo aiming for this level of amateurism? Or did he merely settle for it? And why am I not surprised to find the Troma brand affixed to its U.S. release? This shaggy Jukebox arrives at No. 1 with a bullet. Unfortunately, that bullet is right between its eyes, and viewer-inflicted. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Thriller

The November Man (2014)

3 Comments

novembermanThe November Man is not a sequel to The January Man, for all three of you who remember that failed Kevin Kline vehicle of 1989. Casting aside source material for the moment, the reason The November Man is called The November Man isn’t even revealed until the film’s penultimate scene, yet the explanation is so passively delivered and decidedly inconsequential that viewers will think, “That’s it?” In the same exchange, Pierce Brosnan’s ex-CIA character is given another nickname — one that actually makes sense and has the virtue of being a better title, if the MPAA ever would allow it, which it would not: “one bleak motherfucker.”

Just close your eyes and hear the trailer’s announcer in your head: “This summer … Pierce Brosnan … is … One Bleak Motherfucker!” On the conservative end, the box-office take would have doubled.

THE NOVEMBER MANNot playing James Bond here but a suave secret agent all the same, Brosnan is Devereaux, temporarily lured out of retirement to extract a fellow operative (Bosnian actress Mediha Musliovic) from her undercover post in Moscow, where she’s surreptitiously gathered incriminating intel on the war-criminal past of Russia’s presidential hopeful Federov (Lazar Ristovski, 2006’s Casino Royale). The female agent also happens to be Devereaux’s former lover and the mother of their child, so if you think he’ll swoop in and succeed, let me welcome you to the world of espionage thrillers! You’re gonna have a blast!

But with The November Man, expect the equivalent of a Dr Pepper can shaken violently before being dropped on the kitchen tile. Impact is lessened by a convoluted plot (based on the late Bill Granger’s 1987 novel There Are No Spies, book seven of 13 in his Devereaux series) that directly pits our 60-something hero against his one-time protégé (a flat Luke Bracey, 2015’s Point Break) and has him enlist the aid of a smokin’-hot Chechen refugee (Olga Kurylenko, Quantum of Solace) seeking revenge on Federov herself. These are two of the story’s three driving forces, but that only becomes evident after the introduction of so many characters — and their various subplots — that ultimately emerge no further than the periphery; you’re left not knowing to whom you should or should not pay attention.

Old pro Roger Donaldson used to craft these stylish thrillers in his sleep: 1987’s No Way Out, 1992’s White Sands, 1995’s Species. All of those works are agile and highly competent, if not particularly lasting. The November Man is the same — just with a noticeable limp in its step.

Aging incredibly well, Brosnan is top-notch, with nary a nod nor a wink to the cheekiness of his 007 days. Gritting his teeth and tasting the blood, Devereaux is both phenomenal and fallible. I just wish this film — a faint attempt to launch a franchise — were less of the latter. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.