All posts by Rod Lott

Kitchen Sink

Bellflower (2011)

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While I would hope that viewers give the genre-defying Bellflower a chance, I’m astute enough to know that won’t be the case. So odd is its tone and so initially awkward are some of the performances — not the least of which from its leading man, writer/producer/director Evan Glodell — that I can sense people hitting “STOP,” if not “EJECT,” after just a few minutes, if even that. I can’t say I blame them; I almost did myself.

The thin-at-first story shuffles behind 20-something best buds Woodrow (Glodell) and Aiden (Tyler Dawson), whose shared pastime is jerry-rigging flamethrowers and other apocalyptic-ready tools for kicks and out of love for the Mad Max movies; Woodrow’s car even has been modified to include a whiskey dispenser in the dash. They also drink a lot of alcohol, smoke a lot of a cigarettes, and utter a lot of “fuck”s and its variations.

Then Woodrow meets Milly (Jessie Wiseman) during a cricket-eating contest in a bar, and the two hatch an instant relationship. What occurs after the meet-cute is where Bellflower gets really engrossing … and details of which I can’t share, lest the moments be spoiled. I can say that moods are flipped like someone with an unmedicated diagnosis of bipolar, that Woodrow’s very existence is shaken to its foundation, that things unfold in a manner incongruent to predictable movie plots, that Bellflower grows considerably weird and wild and even unsettling.

I can also say that when it was over, I wasn’t quite sure what had just gone down, but was anxious to give it another spin to see if it could process it in full. A week later, I was still haunted by it. In other words, Bellflower is a challenge, but in the same way that Mulholland Dr. or even Inception were: a welcome mind-rape. It may not be for everyone — in this case, it’s safe to say it’s nearly the opposite — but don’t you owe it to yourself to take one hit? —Rod Lott

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Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Island of Lost Souls (1932)

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As the first and best of the three official adaptations of H.G. Wells’ 1896 novel The Island of Dr. Moreau, Erle C. Kenton’s Island of Lost Souls brings the horror elements of the science-fiction tale to the forefront. The film remains chilling even today, despite having the most primitive of technology.

Pomade-haired shipwreck victim Edward (Richard Arlen) is brought to the title tropical site where the arrogant, power-mad scientist Dr. Moreau (Charles Laughton, looking a little like Fat Hitler) rules over his House of Pain, a laboratory where he creates ungodly mutations of half-men/half-beasts. Some resemble wolves, simians, even owls; all cower at the crack of their maker’s whip.

A victim of censorship, Island contains some crazy-ass ideas it has to dance around rather than discuss outright — namely, Moreau wanting to unleash his panther woman, Lota (Kathleen Burke), on his good-looking guest, Edward, to see what would happen if he would put his pee-pee into her hoohah until he had a big tickle. (Has the porn industry not leapt upon this idea yet?)

With expansive sets and excellent make-up effects, Island is a feast for the eyes, even in black and white. It’s also startlingly as relevant, with the particular issue of evolution still ridiculously as hot-button as ever. Perhaps one day, we as a society will be able to acknowledge the possibility of a higher power and let man fuck leopard whores freely and without judgment. One can hope. —Rod Lott

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Action

Stacey (1973)

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It may have a Playboy Playmate in the lead, but Andy Sidaris’ Stacey is the most un-Sidaris movie Sidaris ever made (documentary The Racing Scene excepted). No matter. It’s still a damn good time. Anne Randall portrays Stacey, “the centerfold private eye,” and she’s actually a better actress than one usually finds in Sidaris movies, exuding a real wholesome, Heather Graham quality. As the film begins, she tells us she “just finished a case involving a pet chimpanzee and a talking parrot. The chimp was a slob and the bird knew too much. The maid shot them both.” Whatever that means.

Stacey is hired by a rich, old bat in Bel Air who is confined to a wheelchair, on which hangs a bullhorn so she can yell for people to push her. The woman wants Stacey to find out exactly who’s who and what’s what among her family members so she’ll know to whom she should leave her inheritance.

It doesn’t take long for Stacey to find out the chauffeur is banging the whoreish wife and trying to blackmail her with pictures of their trysts. The real mystery comes when the chauffeur is stabbed to death, but Stacey — whether she’s wearing blouses, bikinis or bare breasts — is on the case, lugging her pilot boyfriend around as she investigates. After barely escaping death a second time in one day, he finally asks her calmly, “Stace, will you tell me what that was all about?”

The action centerpiece is a bloody shootout in the parking lot of a speedway (where nary a bystander even bats an eye), soon leading to two goons in a helicopter chasing Stacey in a borrowed race car down the coastline highway. This being a Sidaris film, there’s plenty of action in the bedroom, too, and Randall is quite the hottie. Hell, even with the huge hair and the ugliest of ’70s outfits, she’s still a hottie. I also didn’t mind her T-shirt, which reads “FONDLE WITH CARE,” too. —Rod Lott

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Comedy

Do Not Disturb (2010)

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Do Not Disturb is a microbudgeted, all-hands-on-deck affair in which some actors dabble as directors and whatnot for an anthology film. Furthermore, the structure is experimental and even improvisational. They should not have bothered. Despite a fine concept — five stories set in Room 316 at a hotel — it’s one of the worst-executed films I’ve ever seen, making Four Rooms look like The Four Feathers by comparison.

First, a sad sack of a man (Harris Goldberg) hires an escort (Maureen Flannigan, Teenage Bonnie and Klepto Clyde) to read his eulogy while he lay in bed. Hysterical, no? No. Next, skeevy, flight-suited Eric Balfour (Skyline) meets his love, Lindsay Pulsipher (the girl in True Blood who looks like she’s 12), and it turns into nonsensical sci-fi with lizard tongues and marked impatience for the viewer.

During a student trip, a white gay guy has to room with a black straight guy. Nothing happens. I don’t mean sexually — I mean nothing happens. (At least the movie is consistent.) Finally, there’s a two-parter (seemingly to stretch the film to its big, bad feature length of 69 minutes) in which a guy thinks he’s going to get his rocks off, but instead gets his kidney stolen.

Wrapping this ball of bullshit from start to finish are interludes with Diva Zappa as a new maid. The actors really aren’t the problem — it’s all in the writing. Not a single joke is funny. Not a single story is interesting. Not a minute went by that I wished I were doing anything else but suffering through this. Do Not Disturb? Do not watch. —Rod Lott

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Horror

Amer (2009)

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If you have a hard-on for the works of Mario Bava and Dario Argento, you’ll love Amer, a quasi-anthology French film that pays tribute to those Italian masters. While the giallo celebration’s title translates to “bitter,” Amer is oh-so-sweet, a thrilling debut from filmmakers Hélenè Cattet and Bruno Forzani. Does it hurt that it contains the best visual representation of an orgasm I’ve ever seen? Aucun.

The movie is comprised of three chapters in the life of Ana, first as an only child (Cassandra Forêt) who lives in a lakeside mansion with her parents and an elderly housekeeper they suspect of being a witch. Told with an array of eyeballs and keyholes in extreme close-ups, it’s the most overtly horror portion, imparting a strong, unsettling vibe reminiscent of the “Drop of Water” segment from Bava’s Black Sabbath.

The middle (and shortest) part of Amer finds Ana as an adolescent (Charlotte Eugène Guibbaud) with bee-stung lips and a budding sexuality that threatens to turn into danger, as she accompanies her mother (Bianca Maria D’Amato) on a walk into the dizzying, labyrinthian cobblestone streets of the nearby village. By the final tale, Ana is a full-blown gorgeous woman (Marie Bos) returning to her childhood home now abandoned and in disrepair … and complete with one of those black-gloved, razor-wielding psychos on the grounds.

If the music score sounds spot-on, it should, sporting ’70s cuts from Ennio Morricone, Bruno Nicolai and Stelvio Cipriani, putting it squarely at the head of the class of giallo grad school. Amer may baffle those whose viewing habits don’t cross oceans, but I found it absolutely absorbing and fascinating — the art film at its most accessible. Take a stab at it. —Rod Lott

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