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
Call this softcore entry Star Whores or Fuck Rogers. Described by its very own producer, David F. Friedman, as “the worst science-fiction movie ever made,” 
The plot — James wants to stop them from reaching a California desert, oops, I mean far-off planet — is simply an excuse to allow the various and numerous sexual couplings. Strangely, the women (one of whom is named Portia — a Shakespearean reference, perhaps? Nah!) are allowed to fully disrobe, but the guys keep their pants on and simply do a lot of rolling around. Capt. Mother even gets her groove on with another girl and wields a stinging whip to another.
And you two started complaining about weird things happening, and Dennis set up a couple of totally sweet camcorders ’round the house to see what was what. (Even I gotta admit, rigging the cam on the oscillating fan’s base was ingenious.) And boy, did his DIY spirit pay off! The house had its own invisible demon — Toby, his name was, and he didn’t like to be called fat — who moved objects askew and had this cool trick he liked to do where people would fly across the room like puppets who suddenly had their strings yanked. 
Long after the 
Thor doesn’t even really act like the Thor of the comics. He acts like Fabio after a week’s training of Hooked on Phonics. Posing and winking like a pro wrestler, he walks around shirtless, downs gallons and gallons of beer, and greets visitors to Banner’s apartment by asking, “Why must you pound on my door with such insolence?” This is where you know director Nicholas Corea wanted to hit the button on the mixing console marked “LAFF TRACK.”