All posts by Rod Lott

Action

The Chosen One: Legend of the Raven (1998)

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All collagen and silicone, Carmen Electra got her first lead role thanks to The Chosen One: Legend of the Raven. A superhero film before such a thing was in vogue, it merges The Crow, Deliverance and anything ever shot in that sketchy wooded area by every neighborhood. She plays McKenna, a vengeful hussy selected to carry on the longstanding tradition of a Native American tribe. Or something like that.

It begins with her sister, Emma (Shauna Sand, former Playboy Playmate and former human), pursued by the local womanizing redneck (Michael Stadvec, The Dentist) in a town full of womanizing rednecks. He kills her to get his grubby hands on her necklace, which grants the wearer mystical tribal powers, but before expiring, she hides it under a couple of leaves. Why she didn’t use the jewelry’s functionality to escape harm, we’re not supposed to ask.

Upon hearing the news of Emma’s death, McKenna moves back home. Her old flame, Henry (Tim Bagley, The Mask), is now sheriff. He’s shacking up in a mobile home with Nora (Debra Xavier, American Vampire), who may as well be named Whora. Henry ditches her for McKenna faster than a budget divorce, naturally driving Nora to take up meth.

Meanwhile, McKenna sees visions of Natives in her bedroom, beckoning her to become “the chosen one.” (Are Carmen and the devil walkin’ side by side?) Putting in repeat visits is the spirit of Emma, whose vocal delivery leads viewers to believe director Lawrence Lanoff (Playboy: Babes of Baywatch) instructed Sand, “Hey, do your Kathy Ireland.”

So that Legend of the Raven can last longer than 30 minutes, McKenna gives in to the ghosts and wears the necklace, thus imbuing her with aforementioned mystical tribal powers. Suddenly, she’s excitedly licking her dinner plate and dry-humping the air around her. Soon, she and Henry have music-video montage lovin’. When they go at it again, it’s with a half-gallon of milk, which made me want to swear off the moo juice.

An hour into this opus, McKenna finally dons a costume as Indigenous superhero The Raven — which is to say she wears a skin-tight silver spandex onesie, complemented with spiked and steel accessories. Inversely, Nora resurfaces as an out-and-out comic-book villainess in black leather and a yard-sale Lone Ranger mask. They have a poorly choreographed fight to the overacted finish.

Continuity is absent from The Chosen One, as is a logical script. I didn’t even get to mention the subplot about the Route 33 serial killer (Lanoff himself). And check out the cutaway of birds in flight … as one poops. This is the rare movie that dares to play the line “How ’bout a knuckle sandwich?” entirely straight.

At the end, McKenna and Henry agree to eat a cow. The whole experience is best summed up by exclaiming, “Crazy. Froot Loopin’ crazy!” — a line cribbed from the Decampitated trailer preceding this Raven. Nevermore. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Thriller

Hunt Her, Kill Her (2022)

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Single mom Karen has a new gig as a factory’s night-shift custodian. Day 1 is a doozy — and not because she has to scrub toilets. Rather, the warehouse is infiltrated by a few Halloween-masked men who want to punch her clock for good. You probably guessed as much from the film’s title, Hunt Her, Kill Her. I presume the tweak of the military term “hunter-killer” is intentional, as these guys clearly are on a mission; the reason, simple to suss out.

Played by Natalie Terrazzino in her first feature credit, Karen is not the most relatable protagonist. Then again, co-directors Greg Swinson and Ryan Thiessen (Five Across the Eyes) didn’t construct the movie for depth. A simple stalking exercise, the well-shot Hunt Her, Kill Her would work better if the warehouse were more labyrinthian or better spatially established to liven the routine. I’m certain it’d be tiring to chase or be chased by someone for an hour, but now I know it can be tiring to watch, too. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Comedy

What’s Up Front! (1964)

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What’s a nudie cutie without the nudie? Why, it’s What’s Up Front!, directed by Bob Wehling, scripter of 1962’s infamous Eegah. In fact, this film is something of an Eegah reunion, being co-written by Arch Hall Sr. and co-starring caveman-kidnap victim Marilyn Manning.

Homer L. Pettigrew (the weasel-resembling Tommy Holden, Magic Spectacles) used to sell pots and pans. Now, through a setup even a sitcom would reject, the founder of Johnson Bras (Hall Sr. himself) anoints Homer as its first door-to-door brassiere salesman. Homer proves a real mover and shaker, but the sales manager (Carmen Bonacci) schemes with secretary Candy Cotton (Manning) to take credit for all the sales.

Not much of a story hangs on the flick. I’d ask you to forgive that pun, but What’s Up Front! is full of them — all of them. For example, Mr. Johnson laments declining sales by telling his troops, “Bras are sagging!” Homer moves from one mishap to the next, including accidentally stepping on the dress of Mr. Johnson’s lovely daughter (Carolyn Walker), ripping it partly off. His visit to hillbilly territory yields one true laugh when a prospective buyer says, “Last time we bought anything from a travelin’ salesman, I was 13! Just married!”

For a movie about female undergarments, that focus never veers to the fetishistic. Thus, What’s Up Front! feels remarkably modest, as if it’s fearful to take action beyond a wink — sexy, yet sexless. Amid the nudie-cute boom at the box office, its total absence of bared skin makes it a curiosity. So colorful and carefree, it might be mistaken for a Walt Disney picture if production values were present (for example, underwater ocean scenes are so clearly a swimming pool, you can see the floor). Is the sight gag of a goat with lingerie tied to its horns really all that far from a field goal-kicking mule? —Rod Lott

Horror

Winnie-the-Pooh: Blood and Honey (2023)

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Contrary to popular belief, the worst type of movie isn’t a bad one; it’s a bad one that’s not any fun.

Enter Rhys Frake-Waterfield, one of the “talents” behind Spider in the Attic, Firenado, Dinosaur Hotel and other extremely lazy assembly-line flicks, many of which seem to take place on the same piece of property in rural England. The man deserves credit for seizing the day: Jan. 1, 2022, to be exact, when A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh legally entered the public domain, meaning now anyone can make a Pooh film (or TV show or book, etc.), free of fear of copyright infringement. Frake-Waterfield’s literal million-dollar idea was to turn the silly old bear from kiddie icon to serial killer.

Unfortunately, the imagination stopped there. The piss-poor outcome, Winnie-the-Pooh: Blood and Honey, appears to be written and directed by someone who has never seen a feature film. While that’s clearly not the case, Frake-Waterfield struggles (although that implies effort) with the concepts of pacing, plot, frame composition and other elements of storytelling, visual or otherwise. Its poster boasts the tagline, “This ain’t no bedtime story,” because it hasn’t a story at all. Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers are the stuff of Charles Dickens next to this.

A hastily animated prologue in charcoal sketch posits the idea of Pooh, Piglet and friends becoming crazed once young Christopher Robin leaves the 100 Acre Wood for university. Suddenly short of food, they even eat Eeyore.

The second prologue finds Christopher (Nikolai Leon of Frake-Waterfield’s The Killing Tree) returning to introduce his fiancée (Paula Coiz, Tooth Fairy: Queen of Pain) to his animal buddies. Despite many minutes of her sensing danger and pleading they GTFO, they don’t, so he gets to watch her be slaughtered by Pooh (Craig David Dowsett of Frake-Waterfield’s The Area 51 Incident) and Piglet (Chris Cordell, Werewolf Cabal) — now hulking man-creatures in rubber masks because just go with it, I guess.

Prologues now over, we meet Maria (Maria Taylor of the Frake-Waterfield-produced Mega Lightning) and her four friends, none of whose names I caught, not that you need. They’re girl-tripping at a rented cottage, so they, too, can help reduce the world’s population in less than 90 minutes. The most vapid (UK model Natasha Tosini) is yanked from a hot tub to be squished under a Pooh-driven car. Gore looks like cartoon strawberry jelly, because the entire movie is underlit.

Between its kills are enough padding to generously stuff the fluff of the pillows of every orphanage, hospital and hostel within a 100-mile range. I get the curiosity factor; I, too, succumbed. But I implore you: Stick with the trailer. Life’s too short. So short I’ll tell you how the movie ends: Pooh repeatedly stabs Maria in the head; fade to credits; everyone is the audience is agog, like, “What? That’s the finish? Is a scene missing?”

One would expect the thing to keep going to an actual denouement. Instead, Frake-Waterfield will keep going, returning to the honeypot with Winnie-the-Pooh: Blood and Honey 2, Peter Pan’s Neverland Nightmare, Bambi: The Reckoning and assuredly several more until the ROI is DOA. It’s not unlike the brief flurry of classic literature/modern horror mash-ups that followed Seth Grahame-Smith’s 2009 viral-smash novel Pride and Prejudice and Zombies until the craze ran itself dry, except the film adaptation is watchable.

Look, when you cover genre film for as long as I have (three decades plus, professionally), you often end up “taking one for the team.” However, Blood and Honey is a different sort of beast. Upon buying two tickets at the AMC Theatres kiosk and seeing the total exceed $30, it’s the only time I started to question my life’s choices. Oh, bother. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon, if you absolutely have to.

Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Phil Herman’s Doomsday Stories (2023)

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Even if only for marketing purposes, the possessive movie title is usually reserved for your Alfred Hitchcocks and John Carpenters and your Stephen Kings — you know, your name-brand filmmakers and creatives. Nonetheless, here’s Phil Herman’s Doomsday Stories.

For this multidirector microcinema anthology, Herman (behind such SOV faves as Burglar from Hell) hosts as Zorack, one of a mere 8,000 people remaining worldwide, following the apocalyptic “Meanies” virus. As savages outnumber humans, Zorack roams the earth, occasionally stopping to read from a clutched composition book containing “stories from the old world.” Of the five, one entertained me and another impressed me. Also, three characters are named James.

The entertaining one comes from Florida’s prolific Joel D. Wynkoop, offering a possessive of his own: “Joel D. Wynkoop’s 187 Times.” Attempting to prevent the virus, Wynkoop’s nebbish protagonist hops throughout a 30-decade time span, up to 2050. Each time he thinks he succeeds, the ol’ butterfly effect rears its wings. Its slight comic tone, breathless pace, clever premise and good-enough computer effects make it endearing.

The most impressive is “A Broken Promise” from Derek Braasch (Murder for Pleasure). Approaching an epic sweep with a Western flair, Justin Bower’s crawfish-capped Rick Butts and his canine companion scavenge for food in rural Illnois. They encounter everything from kid zombies to rednecks with a hankering for “dog steak.” The short may look like Paul Blart: Last Man on Earth at first glance, but for being so hamstrung, its sheer scope is mighty accomplished.

Lesser segments involve an organ recruiter and a fevered phone call between siblings. And in “Bomb Threats” from Hollywood Warrioress’s James Panetta, a woman (Debbie D, Herman’s Jacker) wrongly decides to seek emergency shelter at the home of a man she just met at a bar (Jim Ewald, Nacho Mountain); W.A.V.E.-style torture ensues. Its high point is her hysterical retort, “You’re a sick, sick weirdo! And a rapist!”

In between each, Herman cuts back to hosting duties — sometimes with the wind beating the crap out of the camera’s microphone — and waxes nostalgic, e.g., “Man, that brings back some memories. Some bad memories.” At two hours and then some, though, there’s enough variety that to leave with a couple of good ones. —Rod Lott

Get it by contacting Phil Herman or Joel D. Wynkoop on Facebook Messenger.