All posts by Rod Lott

Comedy

Thunderstruck (2012)

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Congratulations, 21st century: With Thunderstruck, you now have your very own Kazaam!

By that, I mean a family-oriented fantasy comedy featuring a current NBA superstar imbued with supernatural powers, playing second fiddle to an annoying kid, and saddled with a lazy script. (I’d expect nothing less from John Whitesell, director of such laff vacuums as Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son, Deck the Halls, Malibu’s Most Wanted and See Spot Run.)

Oklahoma City Thunder’s Kevin Durant plays himself, while Nickelodeon kidcom vet Taylor Gray essays the role of Brian, a 16-year-old high school student who loves shooting hoops, but has the aim of a postcoital penis. Through a crushingly stupid idea that the screenwriters make no attempt to unexplain, the Durantula’s mad b-ball skillz are switched with Brian’s lack of when the two simultaneously touch a basketball during their meet-cute off the court.

Therefore, Brian becomes a cocky and popular athlete, while his well-paid hero suffers “a slump.” Oh, if only the curse could be reversed! It can, of course, but how that comes to pass is an insult to viewers’ intelligence, making one long for the relative concrete logic of 18 Again! and Vice Versa.

Potentially more insulting is not that it perpetuates the myth that African-American youth are interested in World of Warcraft, but that Whitesell allows Durant to shill his Nike shoes with a commercial in the middle … and again at the end. Lord knows how talk-show host Conan O’Brien was corralled into a credibility-shattering cameo, but the casting of Jim Belushi is no mystery. He plays Brian’s coach, who screams to his team — or perhaps craft services? — “Put some jelly in that doughnut!”

Yes, Durant is perfectly affable, because he’s not really acting. And yes, Thunderstruck is wholesome and inoffensive, but if that’s all you ask of a family film, you’re settling, because they can be smart and funny, too. This one’s woefully wretched — the cinematic equivalent of an air ball. —Rod Lott

Horror

Rogue (2007)

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Easily the best of three giant-croc offerings from 2007 — Primeval and Black Water being the others — Rogue is a semisolid slice of Ozploitation from Wolf Creek writer/director/producer Greg Mclean.

His near-two-hour tour plops viewers on a two-bit riverboat commanded by Kate Ryan (Radha Mitchell, Pitch Black), an Aussie native who’s never left the territory and seems to love her life of driving tourists up and down the muddy waters of the outback. On the half-full voyage are, among others, a grieving widower; two married couples, one with a teen daughter (Mia Wasikowska, Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland); and an American magazine travel writer (Michael Vartan, TV’s Alias).

A flare for help diverts Ryan’s usual route into sacred land. Shortly after finding the flare’s source — ripped to pieces, of course — she and her passengers are bumped by one mega-mammoth crocodile onto a pocket of land. It’d be a safe spot until rescue if it weren’t located in a tidal river, making them sitting ducks at the mercy of ticking time.

A midpoint, midnight set piece in which they attempt to move to safer parts by traversing a rope hanging over the river is a real nerve-wracker, well-orchestrated by Mclean. It’s all downhill from there, mate, as the last third is occupied by a long, quiet stretch of Vartan attempting to outsmart a CGI creation. Had Mclean kept the monster mostly unseen, Rogue may have worked wonders for its entirety.

His camera captures some beautiful scenery of Northern Australia, but also some horrible conditions that make me never want to visit: the unrelenting heat, the ever-present flies, the ass crack of Avatar‘s Sam Worthington. I’ll continue to settle for vicarious, periodic trips to Outback Steakhouse. —Rod Lott

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Comedy

The Onion Movie (2008)

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Spun off from the ever-popular humor website of fake news, The Onion Movie isn’t as bad as its five-year sit on the shelf would suggest. It’s just that with a couple of producers behind Airplane! and The Naked Gun series involved, you’d expect something funnier. Although unceremoniously dumped to DVD, it has its moments — enough to warrant a watch.

Using the Onion News Network as a loose wraparound, the sketch-filled satire has old-guard anchor Norm Archer (Len Cariou, 1408) deliver quick headlines and introduce on-the-scene reports. Some are so stupid in concept, you wonder how they survived the first draft, like neck belts in cars. Others are so dead-on, you wonder if they might not be seen as humor by half the viewing audience, such as a child’s accidental fatal shooting of himself being dubbed as an exercise of the Second Amendment, “hailed by gun-rights activists as a victory for America and the Constitution.”

Popping in here and there are a few repeat characters, most notably Melissa Cherry (sexy Sarah McElligott), a Britney Spears-esque pop tart who denies any sexual content in her songs, even when the videos for them feature such acts as her being taken doggy-style by a giant blue teddy bear. Steven Seagal plays himself in a faux trailer for the actioner Cockpuncher — his catchphrase: “I don’t think you have the balls” — and other cameos include Michael Bolton, Rodney Dangerfield and Meredith Baxter Birney, the latter cooking cats.

As with granddaddy Kentucky Fried Movie, the scattershot Onion Movie zooms through bits so fast, at least you can’t get bored: a terrorist training video, an ad for a celebrity roast, a film-review TV show that critiques The Onion Movie in progress, a commercial for a gay cruise, a show called Little-Known Racial Stereotypes (“Did you know blacks love taffy?”) and a group of friends who tire of playing a murder-mystery game, so they instead host a role-playing rape. Hey, I never said they were in good taste.

Something truly tasteless would open with … oh, say, a nun drinking from a jar labeled “APE CUM.” That’s saved until the end. —Rod Lott

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Horror

Audrey Rose (1977)

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Lil’ Audrey Rose, age 5, is killed within the first minute of the film that bears her name, burning to death with her mother in their overturned car, following a head-on collision on the highway. Several years later, a man in a novelty beard (Anthony Hopkins, The Silence of the Lambs) is seen stalking the Templeton family all over New York City, from Central Park to their 11-year-old daughter’s private school.

What links the two events? As Elliot Hoover (Hopkins) tells Mr. and Mrs. Templeton (Rollerball‘s John Beck and Heartbreak Ridge‘s Marsha Mason) after persuading them to meet him, he firmly believes that the soul of his dead daughter, Audrey, resides in the body of their very much alive one, Ivy (Susan Swift, Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers, in a great child-actor performance). Naturally, the parents think he’s nucking futs, but you know, come to think of it, Ivy has been experiencing some violent nightmares. Soon, she’s throwing herself all over their West 67th apartment like she’s going for the gold at a gymnastics tourney, all while supposedly asleep.

Judging from his work helming 1963’s The Haunting and, to a lesser degree, 1949’s Curse of the Cat People, director Robert Wise once knew what worked in horror — especially that which is suggested rather than seen — but exhibits that skill only in Audrey‘s first half. Before taking a huge shift in story direction, Wise achieves a creepy uneasiness that will remind viewers of The Exorcist‘s early scenes, as an apple-cheeked only child not suffering from a lack of parental love and attention suddenly becomes inexplicably abnormal.

What kills the momentum? Hoover tries to convince the Templetons to allow him access to Ivy, in order to free Audrey’s soul that cries out for help. This leads to the film becoming a courtroom drama, like Kramer vs. Kramer for the pro-reincarnation community. Stock footage of funeral practices in India is about the least of the back half’s problems when one considers a lengthy hypnosis session and an ending so terrible, it’s insulting. Letting Frank De Felitta (The Entity) adapt his own novel was perhaps not so Wise, Bob. —Rod Lott

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Thriller

Femme Fatale (2002)

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Long derided for ripping off Alfred Hitchcock, Brian De Palma instead entered the new millennium with an erotic thriller that looks like he’s ripping off Brian De Palma ripping off Alfred Hitchcock. I generally love the guy, but Femme Fatale is one of his worst pervo-mysterioso efforts (but not at bad as the utterly flaccid The Black Dahlia).

Rebecca Romjin (then using her brief “-Stamos” tag) stars as a double-crossing diamond thief who escapes her Parisian partners by assuming the identity of a dead woman. As that ruse starts to unravel, she attempts to use disgraced paparazzi photographer Nicolas Bardo (Antonio Banderas, Desperado) to protect herself and make off with millions of dollars.

The plot is overly complex for a script so simple-minded, and seems to exist only for the clever, it-all-comes-together ending, rendered in De Palma’s usual slow-motion style. It’s a set piece that, like Fatale‘s opening bathroom seduction at the Cannes Film Festival, is the kind of thing that De Palma does so damned well. It’s everything in between that he does not so well, and as writer and director, he has no one to blame but himself.

Romjin actually acquits herself quite admirably and manages to bare her breasts. She gets a lot more dialogue than she did as blue-skinned seductress Mystique in the X-Men franchise; unfortunately, a lot of that dialogue is along the lines of “You don’t have to lick my ass — just fuck me!” —Rod Lott

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