Aboard a cruise ship, cheapskate crook Rooney (Don Gordon, Bullitt) poses as a doctor in order to con an aristocrat (Massimo Serato, Killer Nun) out of his considerable wealth. Making Rooney’s job easier is that his mark loves to gamble. 

Meanwhile, Rooney hopes to get into the bikini bottoms of an incomparably beautiful passenger (Torso’s Suzy Kendall, suntanned within an inch of, well, every inch).

Okay, so The Gamblers isn’t exactly Dostoevsky. 

Except — surprise! — it is! Writer/director Ron Winston (Banning) based his film on the Russian novelist’s 1866 follow-up to Crime and Punishment. Liberties have been taken. (Or so I assume. I don’t read Dostoevsky unless eight pages of full-color photos of Kendall come inserted at the book’s midpoint.)

With the story fresh from celebrating its first century at the time, the third-act twist is obvious as soon the first act puts its players in place. Obviousness notwithstanding, The Gamblers reveals itself as a more-than-capable caper as bubbly as the champagne its characters imbibe, with a jaunty score to match, courtesy of Mel Brooks’ regular composer, John Morris. 

With dated but delightful support from Richard Ng (Winners & Sinners) in his first feature, the comedy is featherweight-light until the last couple of minutes. At that point, Winston seems to realize he’s wasted Kendall on every level but eye candy, and ends The Gamblers with a grand, unearned romantic gesture. From what I gather, that’s the kind of scenario that happens among people more attractive than you, gallivanting about more attractive places you’ll never be able to visit. —Rod Lott

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Country singers Del Reeves and Hugh X. Lewis don’t play themselves in Cottonpickin’ Chickenpickers, but considering their obscurity, who would know the difference? As the respective Darby (the one in a red cap) and Jerry (the one not in a red cap), Reeves and Lewis are the most well-dressed hobos ever to grace the picture show as they make their way to My-am-uh — “Miami” to you and me — but get stuck in the swampy Toover County, Florida.

It’s the kind of backwater boondocks populated with all sorts of crazy characters and trouble awaiting at every turn, as are a git-tar or banjo, each as near-omnipresent as a jug of moonshine. So starved that Quincy Jones and Bob Geldof could build competing all-star charity singles around them, Darby and Jerry raid a chicken farm — hence the title — which lands them in the clinker. But not for long!

Full of gators and groaners, this film produced by Dick Randall (Pieces) and David Putnam (not that one) earns itself the moniker of “prize dingaling of all time,” to borrow a line from Jerry. (Or was that Darby? It doesn’t matter.) The action (as it were) pauses often for a diegetic country song. Perhaps most notable is Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison novelty, “Dirty Old Egg-Sucking Dog,” performed here by future Burt Reynolds punchline Mel Tillis.

There’s something to the hicksploitation brand of cornpone comedy-musical that tickles me, even though its world is as alien to me as, say, Uganda. (Despite my red-state residency, I don’t own a truck, belt buckle or pair of boots, and can’t stomach one fucking second of Hee Haw.) Chickenpickers scratches the same itch as the Ferlin Husky Hillbillys duology, half of which incidentally features Reeves and a script by this pic’s director, Larry E. Jackson.

As Cousin Elmore, Robert V. Barron (Abe Lincoln of Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure) supplies most of the slapstick, while the spoken-aloud jokes resemble Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First?” routine, if it were kicked in the head by a horse:

“Sylvia’s my real name, but nobody knows that.”
“You can trust us. We won’t tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?”
“That your real name is Sylvia.”
“How did you know about that?”

Like its own dentistry gag about gum removal, Cottonpickin’ Chickenpickers possesses no teeth for humor, but has all it needs to smile. So shall you, in between rolling your eyes. —Rod Lott

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