All posts by Rod Lott

Comedy

Invaders from Proxima B (2023)

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Looking like Oscar the Grouch made from your Memaw’s discarded fur coat, an alien named Chuck lands in the backyard of the Howie Jankins family. Chuck’s made this pilgrimage to save the human race because he says Earth is up for auction to the highest celestial bidder. He simply needs to swap bodies with Howie (Chillerama’s Ward Roberts, dressed in full Bespoke Church Bro mode) for a couple of hours to secure the planet.

Simple, right? Not when Chuck’s also being pursued by a dreadlocked conspiracy theorist/influencer (Sarah Lassez, The Clown at Midnight), a religious nut from animal control (Jeremiah Birkett, CB4) and two nitwit intergalactic bounty hunters (Office Space’s Richard Riehle and The Mortuary Collection’s Mike C. Nelson) in — wait for it — Hawaiian shirts! Ho-ho, let the wackiness begin! 

Despite its kid-unfriendly title, Invaders from Proxima B is a family-friendly sci-fi comedy, what with its cartoon sequences, ninja lizards and the ALF-esque Chuck. As Proxima’s writer and director, Roberts overloads his passion project with lowest-hanging-fruit jokes on farts, poop and Howie’s wife (Samantha Sloyan, 2016’s Hush) having boobs. I don’t mean to imply the movie is offensive; it’s not.

But it is strikingly unfunny. Like the puppet at its hollow center, Invaders bares no teeth. While its attempt at satirizing YouTubers suggests an intended bite, the overall comedic vibe is physical and slapstick. When Chuck and Howie swap bodies, Roberts’ worst impulses to manifest Jim Carrey circa 1994 are not only realized, but cringe-inducing.

Rugrats might be more open to such silliness, as well as the effects and action — well-staged, if a bit too Sam Raimi-cribbed. However, children also may be confused trying to keep track of all the swapping, as everybody trades bodies with everybody else. It’s like the movie’s grooming youngsters for key parties.

That last line’s a joke, to be clear. But this is not: In terms of enjoyment, I expected Proxima B to at least surpass Nukie. That shouldn’t be so much to ask. —Rod Lott

Horror

Pandemonium (2023)

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Hell is other people. That, you knew. But in the case of Pandemonium, an artful French anthology, the saying is literal, as a newcomer to the underworld gets to see the origin stories of the corpses strewn about him.

That person is Nathan (Hugo Dillon, The Sisters Brothers), entering hell through a portal appearing on the snowy highway after he’s involved in a car crash that claims three lives in total. Upon arrival, it looks like he’s stepped into the barren wasteland at the finale of Lucio Fulci’s The Beyond. 

Furthering examining and exorcising themes he explored in 2018’s All the Gods in the Sky, writer/director Quarxx — just Quarxx, merci beaucoup — shows us how two others arrived there. First, a little girl (Manon Maindivide) who wakes to find her parents murdered, presumably at the hands of a deformed man (Meander’s Carl Laforêt, acting behind a triumph of makeup) residing in the cellar.

In another scenario, a single mother (Ophélia Kolb, Gainsbourg: A Heroic Life) goes to extremes in denying that her bullied daughter (Sidwell Weber, 2014’s Among the Living) has committed suicide. Finally, it’s Nathan’s turn. Then, unlike the others, we get to witness punishment meted. And, with Quarxx as a card-carrying member of the New French Extremity, it ain’t pretty.

Story to story, the acting is superb. As a child, Maindivide deserves special mention for turning in a performance somehow in line with the segment’s dark comedic overtones. Throughout, whether the vibe is philosophical or unspeakable, the visuals startle. As Pandemonium descends further and further, building to a depraved ending Clive Barker would admire, Quarxx’s imagination grows. Pretentious moniker notwithstanding, he’s one to watch. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Mystery

The Curse of King Tut’s Tomb (1980)

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If you weren’t alive and aware of your surroundings in the late 1970s, you can’t comprehend the level of popularity and pervasiveness the Egyptian pharaoh Tutankhamen gripped on our culture. It’d be impressive for anyone, but it’s extraordinary for a dude who’d spent the previous 3,000 years as a pile of dust. 

Among the cashing-inners: NBC, broadcasting The Curse of King Tut’s Tomb, a horror-tinged, mystery-minded work of fiction somehow based on Barry Wynne nonfiction book. A dapper Robin Ellis (TV’s original Poldark) headlines the made-for-telly movie as real-life tomb raider Howard Carter, whose bowtie looms larger than the bottom half of his face. Carter endears himself at the start by asking a local boy his name and, apparently not liking all the consonants and weird accents, tells the kid dismissively, “I’ll just call you ‘Fishbait.’”

In the sands of Egypt, archeologist Carter and his crew unearth an artifact that warns of death for anyone who dares disturb the king’s sleep. Near immediately, “accidents” befall others: a scorpion attack, a snakebite, an earthquake, the snapping of a biddy’s parasol in two! Say, how do you expect that biplane with a skull-and-crossbones decal will fare? 

The “mystery” at play is whether is the harm — fatal or not — is proof of a true supernatural curse or the work of a corrupt dealer played by Raymond Burr (Godzilla 1985) in brownface and various color sashes. Only everybody watching knows for sure! 

Eva Marie Saint (North by Northwest) is on hand to lend Oscar-minted credibility to the project, but her role as Carter’s love interest is thankless. Somehow they also recruited the venerated Paul Scofield (Quiz Show) to deliver narration, which only adds to — rather than offsets — the telepic’s old-fashioned fussiness. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Reading Material

Pure: The Sexual Revolutions of Marilyn Chambers

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I don’t recall a time in which I wasn’t aware of ’70s porn sensation Marilyn Chambers; growing up watching Johnny Carson’s monologue from the foot of your parents’ bed will do that to a kid. Let’s put aside whether a child should even understand what Behind the Green Door was, much less what went on there. The fact is, Chambers’ name was everywhere, even if her work wasn’t as accessible as the three network TV channels. 

To this day, I’ve never seen her appear in anything other than David Cronenberg’s Rabid, which, being rated R, kneels a level below the style of films for which she became famous and/or infamous. I hold neither either affection nor attachment (nor ire, it should be noted.) 

All that to say, for 2024, Jared Stearns’ Pure: The Sexual Revolutions of Marilyn Chambers is the biography I didn’t know I needed. 

Given the subject matter, I was concerned Pure might reveal itself as hackwork. I can’t tell you how many fringe-culture bios read like public records, even beginning with, “[Name] was born on [date] in [city and state].” My worries were unfounded; like his subject, Stearns is determined to defy expectations from the outset. 

You wouldn’t know this was his first rodeo. He’s a gifted writer who knows how to tell a story, and it would be difficult to imagine a tale with as many ups and downs (and ins and outs) as Chambers’. From his own interviews and extensive research, he relays her modest beginnings as a “show-off” among in an emotionally cold Connecticut family to a high school model wholesome enough to be selected for the Ivory Snow detergent box. 

By the time that packaging hit grocery shelves, Chambers had accidentally leapt into the career that forever defined her: porn star. She thought no one would see Behind the Green Door; instead, it rode the Deep Throat wave into a cultural behemoth of “porn chic,” making the actress an instant icon. 

Most of the remainder of Pure, published by Headpress and named after Ivory’s “99 44/100th pure” slogan, details her attempts to use porn as a stepping stone, only to be shoved aside every time. Whatever she reached for — Hollywood legitimacy, a recording contract, a loving spouse — was removed from her grasp. Although Chambers could be her own worst enemy, many of her setbacks can be blamed on husband No. 2, Chuck Traynor, the former Mr. Linda Lovelace and professional piece of shit. (Not for nothing does “Dog Fucker (short)” appear atop “domestic violence” in the index.) 

It’s a hell of a survival story — and one without a happy ending, as Chambers died in 2009 at the tragically young age of 56. 

Stearns’ portrait is mostly sympathetic. Clearly, he holds magnificent reverence for her, yet does not shy away from sharing incidents that place her in a negative light. In total, the point of Pure is granting Chambers the credit and acceptance she deserves, which the author argues go beyond acts captured on celluloid. She was, after all, what most of America refused to see her as in her lifetime: human. —Rod Lott

Get it at Headpress.

Action

Expend4bles (2023)

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Gaddafi’s old chemical plant: Remember that ol’ thing? Expend4bles sure does! By using those four words onscreen in its prologue, the ’80s throwback franchise gives a nod to those better times — the “glory days,” we called them — when Expend4bles didn’t exist.

Why the movie didn’t just go with The Expendables 4 is a from-the-start sign of h0w 5tup1d 1t i5. Need another? Right after the title sequence, Barney (Sylvester Stallone) visits a local strip club to retrieve his wedding ring from a two-pronged dildo behind the bar. 

I almost wish that alone were the plot, since that’s a scenario I’ve never seen, whereas assemblages of shipping containers? Been there.

But since this series loves it some shipping containers, it tasks Barney and Christmas (Jason Statham, The Beekeeper) — and any other Expendables just chillin’ at HQ — with keeping stolen nuclear detonators from falling into the hands of a shadowy terrorist. Because this madman goes by the name “Ocelot,” prepare to hear that word more than you’d find in an entire run of Zoobooks magazine.

The movie’s largest problem is how little it resembles one. As helmed by Need for Speed’s Scott Waugh, it’s way too clean, looking like a Nickelodeon kidcom at worst or a Jardiance commercial at best. Consider the following:
• Nearly every outdoors shot of our principals is green-screened, even if they’re merely standing on a front porch in the suburbs.
• All instances of blood splatter appear swiped from a decade-old video game.
• Effects sequences involving planes, trucks and anything else explodable are animated no more realistic than episodes of Hot Wheels AcceleRacers. 
• Former Transformers eye candy Megan Fox is the one effect not in need of meddling, yet someone has Clone Stamped her entire face in Photoshop to give her an eerie RealDoll look.

With three-peat Expendables like Jet Li, Terry Crews and Arnold Schwarzenegger hard-passing on a return, new recruits have been drafted apparently at random from Redbox, by Redbox. When he’s not steering a tugboat, Tony Jaa (Furious 7) impresses with his lightning-fast moves, and Levy Tran (The First Purge) makes a brief impression wielding a chain. Meanwhile, Andy Garcia (Geostorm) chews a toothpick, and 50 Cent (Den of Thieves) utters modern action cinema’s most clichéd line: “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout!”

Despite the brainpower of three screenwriters, one good scene made it through to final product: Dolph Lundgren’s sniper character can’t shoot for shit without first donning reading glasses.

I enjoyed the first film. Same goes with The Expendables 2 and 3, albeit to a lesser, messier degree, and I can’t tell you a single thing that happens in them. Expend4bles is such a huge step down in quality — not to mention literacy — that it’s too often indistinguishable from the franchise’s direct-to-video imitators. Perhaps it’s time for The Expendables to go from expandable to expunged.

Sly almost makes a wise decision to ensure if there’s a fifth chapter, it’d be without him. But you know the 33 credited producers wouldn’t allow that. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.