All posts by Rod Lott

Thriller

Swimming Pool (2003)

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Despite loads of young-French-blonde nudity courtesy of then-newcomer nymph Ludivine Sagnier, François Ozon’s Swimming Pool is merely a decent movie. It’s a virtually thrill-less thriller (purposely methodical, one assumes) about a lonely mystery writer with writer’s block (Charlotte Rampling) who goes to her publisher’s summer home in France to get her creative juices flowing.

It works until his highly promiscuous daughter (Sagnier) shows up and keeps the woman up all night with her loud orgasms. Then the girl kills someone and the writer doesn’t seem to mind because it’s good plot fodder. Then, in an effort to keep the crime covered up for the sake of the book, she beds an old sweaty gardener just after he’s mowed the yard. Eeewww!

The film is nicely shot, and I didn’t dislike it, but the ending left me with a “that’s it?” feeling. If you rent the unrated version, you get to see the girl blowing a French guy while Rampling throws rocks at them.

WARNING: But if you rent the unrated version, you also get full-frontal scraggly Rampling. WARNING: No matter which version you rent, you have to see a sleazy, dumpy French guy hanging out of his black cotton underwear. —Rod Lott

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Comedy

The Crocodile Hunter: Collision Course (2002)

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In space, no one can hear you scream “Crikey!” But that’s where, in Collision Course‘s opening moments, a U.S. satellite explodes, sending its beacon-equipped core crash-landing in Australia, where a crocodile promptly swallows it. CIA agents are deployed to retrieve it, unaware it’s in a croc’s belly, putting them on a collision course … with danger!

Meanwhile, Animal Planet host Steve “The Crocodile Hunter” Irwin and his masculine wife, Terri — playing themselves because that’s all they can do — spend their day collecting all sorts of wildlife for zoo research. With all his scenes framed TV-style and talking straight into the camera, Steve finds something, catches something and indulges himself in a five-minute, diarrhea-of-the-mouth treatise on the animal, whether it’s a wily snake, a venomous spider or hungry crocodile. His typical, hypercaffeinated shtick is peppered with such exclamations as “If you ever see a snake like this, DON’T MUCK WIT’ IT!”

The two “stories” converge briefly when the agents come upon the croc in Steve’s possession and he mistakes them for poachers, putting them all on a collision course … with laughter!

Actually the movie puts you on a collision course … with sleep! It’s pretty dull, livened up only by the prospect of seeing Steve have his face penetrated with poison-dripping fangs, but alas, such blooper-worthy shenanigans never come to be. No mistake about it, this is simply an episode of his TV show with a pointless government-agent wraparound, putting me on a collision course with … aw, never mind. —Rod Lott

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Horror

Seven Deaths in the Cat’s Eye (1973)

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Seven Deaths in the Cat’s Eye makes about as much sense as its title, but it’s fun to watch it unfold, bereft of logic and lucidity, provided you’re into Gothic cinematic trappings. While this one comes from the country and era of the giallo, it has more in common with AIP’s Edgar Allan Poe cycle from Roger Corman.

Blame it on the pussy.

Expelled from her all-girl Catholic school, a young woman with the unfortunate name of Corringa (Jane Birkin) returns to her family’s castle at a time of chaos and crisis, with the owners being pressured to sell it all and move away. Corringa’s ready to party until she accidentally throws the Bible into a roaring fire, supposedly inviting bad juju.

Must be true, because shortly thereafter, she discovers a rotting corpse in the castle’s underground tunnels, not to mention a caged gorilla. He’s the pet of Lord James (Hiram Keller), who’s possibly insane and rumored to have killed someone, and possibly even has the power to shape-shift. And every time the titular tabby shows up, someone gets killed, thereby putting the “ow” in “meow.”

Even in the muddy print I saw, the mood set by director Antonio Margheriti (Cannibal Apocalypse) was palpable, fueled by striking visuals more interesting than the murder mystery at its dark heart. You could do worse than having to ogle Birkin for a good portion of it; speaking of the songstress, her rapscallion lover, Serge Gainsbourg, has a small role as an investigating police detective. —Rod Lott

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Thriller

Las Vegas Lady (1975)

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Las Vegas Lady begins, appropriately enough, in a theme park and wax museum. But it’s not as much fun as either. I’m going to dish out blame to a mood-setting (read: mood-destroying) country-rock theme song that’s worse than any turd ever dumped onto drive-in screens by Crown International Pictures.

Said song is about Lucky, played by government-certified MILF Stella Stevens. As the tune goes, “She’s a winner and a sinner,” and the plot is only slightly more complex. In the opening moments, a shadowy figure in a cowboy hat ropes her into a job of robbing a Vegas casino of — pinky toward mouth, Dr. Evil — half a million dollars! The place deserves to lose it, because the unsmiling owner (George DiCenzo, Helter Skelter) is a real douche.

It’s a not-so-ritzy joint where the entertainment isn’t Goth magicians, killer tigers or stick-up-the-ass Billboard divas, but a chintzy circus act starring three busty trapeze artists, one of whom is sick of all the flying around. Lucky corrals her (Linda Scruggs) and a token black woman (Lynne Moody, Scream Blacula Scream) to aid her in the gig, along with Lucky’s fuck buddy (Stuart Whitman), who works security there and won’t stop asking her hand in marriage, even though she’s hot and he’s … well, like a beer gut in unkempt human form.

Ocean’s Eleven this is not, as the heist is as low-tech as the casino, which may as well have wood paneling. It’s so bottom-barrel by today’s standards that you can smell the Pall Mall through the screen. The biggest element into pulling the job off are Stevens’ pendulous breasts, which distract WKRP‘s Frank Bonner, forever endanger the PG rating, and mitigate that the big twist is obvious from the first scene. —Rod Lott

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