All posts by Rod Lott

Comedy

Dirty Sanchez: The Movie (2006)

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dirtysanchezShould you be fortunate enough not to know the meaning of the term “dirty Sanchez,” I want to tell you two things:
1. Hi, Mom!
2. You will abhor this movie.

And if the phrase does reside within your vocabulary bank, you may abhor it anyway. As far as I know, Dirty Sanchez: The Movie is the only DVD release to come with its own branded barf bag, tucked into the case; its inclusion is fitting.

What the Jackass crew is to America, the Dirty Sanchez boys are to Great Britain, except that I truly love the Jackass movies. Among the four rabble-rousers of Sanchez, none possesses the likability of a Johnny Knoxville to help mitigate the utter douchebaggery of others. Combined with thought going into the pranks, having a Knoxville on the team makes all the difference. (The Jackass solo projects of Steve-O and especially Bam Margera support this theory.)

dirtysanchez1To quote one of the multitatted Sanchez-ers, “God, you kids will do some stupid things.” And not a one works as funny.

Those things include piercing a fingernail with a dart, squirting chili sauce into the eyes, Super Glue-ing one’s nostrils shut, shooting a pellet gun at one’s own penis and other acts of bodily harm. Unlike Jackass, this gang targets only one another; gone and missed are elaborate, Allen Funt-flavored gags that involve unsuspecting members of the public. (Sanchez plays “Guess the Ladyboy” in Thailand, but those dancers are willing participants, right down to showing the dong.)

In their place? Straight-up urinating — full stream ahead — on a slumbering cohort and allowing one’s face to be the recipient of another man’s shat-out beer enema. The “highlight” centers around one Sanchez teammate submitting to liposuction while awake, and the resulting sucked-out fat later gets knocked back in a shot glass and slurped up with a spoon. Of course the waste doesn’t stay down long, being vomited back up and into a waiting bucket; such is the circle of life. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Horror

Popcorn (1991)

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popcornPopcorn exhibits a deep, abiding love for the movies: the content, the concessions, the venues, the experience. That it does so within the constraints of a slasher film severely limits its audience, both then and now. Their loss.

Hungry for funding, a class of film students decides to put on a one-night-only triple feature of horror — or, as teacher Tony Roberts (Amityville 3-D) pronounces it, “har-ar.” The B titles selected for exhibition in the abandoned Dream Land theater all were released originally with William Castle-style gimmicks, which the kids aim to recreate with full ballyhoo:
• Mosquito!, an Atomic Age tale of giant-bug rampage, in the three dimensions of “Project-O-Vision”;
• The Amazing Electrified Man, a black-and-white Poverty Row shocker with Tingler-esque wired seats, aka “Shock-O-Scope”; and
• The Stench, a Japanese sci-fi stink bomb in “Aroma-Rama.”

popcorn1While cleaning up for the night of 1,000 frights, the students unearth a dusty reel of an avant-garde short made by acid-tripping cultist Lanyard Gates (makeup artist Matt Falls). Years ago, the guy killed his family at the Dream Land screening of his film. While his body never was identified, good-girl student Maggie (Jill Schoelen, 1987’s The Stepfather) recognizes him as the star of her recurring nightmares. The reason why will be as evident to viewers as the identity of the killer punching the tickets of those in attendance.

Although equal time is not in the cards, Popcorn’s punch comes less from the villain and more from the movies-within-the-movie, pieces of each we see projected with tongue planted firmly in cheek. Director Mark Herrier (aka Billy from the Porky’s trilogy) took just enough care to make the fake films look enough like the real deal … or perhaps the credit is due to Popcorn’s original kernel colonel, Deranged’s Alan Ormsby, who wrote the script, but was fired from helming after production began. Whoever deserves the applause, Joe Dante took the facsimile-flick idea to an even more nostalgic degree just two years later in his underrated Matinee, but of course, he had the means (read: studio budget) to provide such a polish.

Smarter than it gets credit for, Popcorn is able to do a lot with a little. While it would be interesting to see the result with more money and less behind-the-scenes turmoil, what we’re left with is worth its weight in artificial butter. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Comedy

Superfast! (2015)

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superfastOne good joke can be found in Superfast!, a super-crappy comedy you should avoid, so I’m going to “spoil” the bit: A police dispatcher is heard saying, “We’ve got a black guy in a white neighborhood minding his own business. All units respond.”

There. Ninety-nine minutes of your life has been saved. No need to thank me; it’s what I do.

In their first parody flick since 2013’s The Starving Games, gruesome twosome Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer apply their razor-dull wit to spoof the Fast and the Furious franchise — largely the 2001 original and 2011’s Fast Five. Whichever chapter of that series is your least favorite, rest assured it is miles upon miles better — and funnier — than this flaccid enterprise. There is not enough nitrous oxide in the world to convince me otherwise.

superfast1So unimaginative are Friedberg and Seltzer that the main characters share the same first names as the F&F actors whose roles they’re making fun of: The Vin Diesel character here is named Vin; the Michelle Rodriguez character is named Michelle, and so on. The exception is the Paul Walker character, who gets rechristened Lucas, presumably out of respect for the too-soon dead. Vin (Dale Pavinksi, Takers) is cross-eyed and chrome-domed; Lucas (Alex Ashbaugh, The Canyons) drives a rainbows-and-unicorns-emblazoned car with an “I Brake for Hugs” bumper sticker; and Michelle (Andrea Navedo, Porn ’n Chicken) is a barely closeted lesbian, because ha-ha.

With throwaway jabs at Pitch Perfect and the Grand Theft Auto video games that land as well a gymnast with no depth perception, Superfast! is like all the other Friedberg/Seltzer mockery movies, including Vampires Suck and Meet the Spartans: It aims low — at Cracked magazine-level — and misses even that. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Reading Material

The Argento Syndrome

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argentosyndromeAs a fan of Dario Argento myself, I feel as if Derek Botelho wrote The Argento Syndrome just for me. Although Maitland McDonagh’s Broken Mirrors/Broken Minds is arguably the definitive book on the director famously dubbed (and derided) as “the Italian Hitchcock,” Botelho’s has the edge for pure entertainment value. Both books are musts for the filmmaker’s followers, as each takes a different tact.

While Botelho curiously fails to delineate Argento’s films on a year-by-year timeline, he covers Argento’s directorial efforts chronologically. Whether largely or nominally giallo (with one sex comedy sticking out like a sore penis), each movie merits its own chapter, from 1970’s wildly influential The Bird with the Crystal Plumage to 2012’s imperfect but harshly judged Dracula 3D.

The result? A thoroughly winning, armchair-style examination of a distinguished career, supplemented by wonderfully stylistic illustrations by Micha Maté to introduce each chapter and interviews of key players when the author could get them. Bonus points are due to Botelho for including Argento’s TV work, particularly 1973’s four-episode Door into Darkness anthology series, and for actually having something to say. Sadly, many indie film books lack this latter element, opting instead for fanboy service instead of genuine introspection.

Published by Bear Manor Media in a oversized paperback format as splashy as the director’s saturated colors, The Argento Syndrome sports a nifty design that complements the text. Only one thing bugged me about Botelho’s book: the chapters in which he recounts his face-to-face meetings with Argento and his famous daughter, Asia (xXx). These come off too starstruck, which I’m guessing was not the first-time author’s intent; the problem is not a fatal one because he calls Argento’s turds when he sees them, so his objectivity appears to remain intact. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon or Bear Manor Media.

Thriller

What the Peeper Saw (1972)

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whatpeeperBoobies. In a word, that’s What the Peeper Saw.

In the British pervo-chiller, the Peeping Tom in question is named Marcus (Mark Lester, Oliver!), a 12-year-old just home from boarding school, presumably due to a chickenpox outbreak. This gives Marcus an opportunity to finally meet his hot stepmother, Elise (Britt Ekland, The Man with the Golden Gun), and perhaps even bond with her, since Dad is stuck in Paris. As the saying goes, while the cat’s away, the mice will feel up New Mom.

To be honest, she doesn’t exactly discourage the “attention,” either. In fact, the day after Marcus reaches from his bubble bath to cop a clothed feel, Elise practically rushes to towel him off as he emerges from the pool. That’s nothing compared to the movie’s most infamous scene, in which Elise strips nude for the tween in exchange for information. (For all the unsimulated squeezes she endures in an hour and a half, poor Britt deserved hazard pay.)

whatpeeper1But, hey, S-E-X is only part of Peeper’s picture. Its real thrills — benign they may be — stem from Elise’s increasing suspicion that Marcus may have murdered his own mother years ago, which means she may be next. And thus unfolds a tale of mistrust, jealousy, voyeurism and pussycat torture.

And it’s not like Elise hinders the kid’s psychopathic tendencies, either: “Hello, genius. What are you reading? De Sade?” she cracks. “Did you love your mother?”

Bottom line: Elise may have been born without maternal instincts, but Marcus is, unquestionably, one odd duck. So is this flick, co-written and co-directed by Andrea Bianchi, who, believe it or not, went even more unnerving in the department of incestuous overtones with 1981’s Burial Ground: The Nights of Terror. If you’ve seen that slice of zombie sleaze, you know The Scene. (And if you don’t, you owe yourself a nip of rectification.)

For all its bizarre themes and, um, touches, What the Peeper Saw barely qualifies for one viewing. Bianchi and cohort James Kelley (The Beast in the Cellar) appear to have written themselves into such a corner, they decided the best route for a wrap-up was to go off the rails. En route to the end credits, they deliver an utterly baffling ending that, while leaving questions floating, at least retains the film’s oh-so-sour disposition. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.