All posts by Louis Fowler

Just a Gigolo (1978)

Not to be confused with the utterly terrible take on the torch tune by David Lee Roth, Just a Gigolo is a highly satirical starring role for a surprisingly gaunt David Bowie, coming fresh off the science-fiction head-scratcher The Man Who Fell to Earth.

Bowie is Paul von Przygodski, a young man who, like a lesser-known Candide, seems to fall in and out of life’s foibles, such as surviving a bombing in World War I, being mistaken for a French soldier in a hospital and so on and so forth. He seems to be the king of dumb luck.

He returns home with a porcine pal in tow, only to find Berlin in a truly crumbling state of its former self, filled with beggars and other miscreants. Still, Paul makes due with a job as a walking beer bottle, befriending an American actress (Sydne Rome) and his former commanding officer, Capt. Kraft (David Hemmings).

Eventually, she abandons him for possible stardom in America and Kraft pushes forward with his plans to rule Germany with a very Nazi-like movement. Heartbroken, Paul meets the Baroness (Marlene Dietrich) in a club and sets him on the path to becoming the world’s most unsatisfying gigolo, performing the title song on a darkened set.

As he works his way through a surprising Kim Novak and other ladies of the German upper crust — almost never finishing the job, mind you — things finally stop going Paul’s way, in the highly apropos finale, where, in death, he is held up as an unknowing scion to Germany’s growing fandom of Nazism.

Of course, the coke-addled Bowie is transcendent as Paul, even if the singer described the film as Elvis Presley’s 32 films “rolled into one” when it spectacularly failed at the box office. I truly don’t see it; I would have loved to have seen Elvis as a paid prostitute pleasing the women of pre-WWII Germany. Sadly, it was never meant to be.

What tends to hold the film back seems to be Hemmings’ velvet-glove direction. He seems unsure about the tone of the film, one second making it a dark comedy with serious underpinnings and the next, a bedroom farce with sexual overtones. It makes for a far more raucous experience than expected, but, then again, maybe that’s the point, mirroring Paul’s own wasted life. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

The Final Countdown (1980)

Released many years before the absolutely terrible song by Swedish metal-lite band Europe, The Final Countdown is mostly famous for being one of the few science-fiction movies that jaded old men — particularly World War II vets — who typically only watch Westerns seemed to somewhat enjoy, as my father did whenever this came on television.

Still steel-jawed in 1980, Kirk Douglas is the tough-ish Navy captain of an aircraft carrier that, during regular maneuvers in the Hawaiian seas, appears to get sucked into an unexplained time vortex that takes the ship back to a few hours before the events of Pearl Harbor.

Between reasonably dealing with Department of Defense liaison Martin Sheen and needlessly arguing with chubby senator Charles Durning, Cap’n Douglas has to decide if he’s going to do something about Pearl Harbor or not while he’s got that burning number on the upcoming events.

What he does — or doesn’t do — leads to one of the most unsatisfying endings I’ve ever seen on film, subdued with a coda I’m sure we all saw coming.

As I watched this flick, directed by Don Taylor and surprisingly associate-produced by Troma head Lloyd Kaufman, I started to wish my dad was still alive — momentarily — so I could have asked him what exactly it was that he liked about this film, especially when he called Douglas an “ass” and Sheen a “communist” whenever they were brought up in everyday conversation.

Now that I think about it, he never said anything about James Farentino … maybe that’s the reason? —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

Kaliman en el Siniestro Mundo de Humanon (1974)

Across Latin America, you didn’t see kids lining up for the latest adventures of Batman or Superman, be it at the newsstand or, later, the movie theater. Instead, they had a reigning culture of their own superheroes who never really crossed over into North America (not that they had to), with the best example being Kaliman.

With blessed powers such as ESP, astral projection, telekinesis and, quite obviously, the martial arts, the mysterious Kaliman made his claim to superhuman fame by traveling the globe and solving dastardly crimes with aid of former street urchin and current young ward Solin, who is in training to become Kaliman’s successor — if that ever happens, honestly.

With well over 1,300 issues of the comic book and a string of popular radio dramas — not to mention a lawsuit from the assholes at Marvel — he made his motion picture debut in 1972 with Dallas talking head Jeff Cooper taking on the somewhat muscular lead to great success in many Latin-based countries.

Sadly, I have not seen it. What I have seen, however, is the follow-up, Kaliman en el Siniestro Mundo de Humanon and, man alive, is this one fun flick!

Here, Kaliman spends his time leisurely walking the beaches of Rio and driving in a car. But when his apartment is telepathically burgled and the inhabitants become murderously possessed by a cursed necklace, he and Solin somehow end up in the jungle, searching for the lackluster hideout of Humanon.

Additionally, Kaliman helps Solin form a completely NSFW drinking tube when their thirst gets the best of them, and there’s a doped-up monkey doing scared flips and tricks somewhere in there, too, among all the stock footage of dangerous animals for them to point at and laugh from a distance.

That’s nothing when compared to when we meet Humanon, the red-cloaked, pointy-capped villain (who reminds me of a rather sassy Grand Dragon) and his army of what I’m guessing are zombies to hunt our heroes down and kill them.

As expected, Cooper is completely ridiculous as a supposedly Middle Eastern mentalist, but the ludicrousness of it helped the movie move forward in a very schlocky way that seems like a lost art. Granted, as far as comic book movies go, it’s not going to blow the roof off the Avengers Tower anytime soon, but how about a big budget retelling of the Kaliman mythos? —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

Santa Sangre (1989)

WTFAlejandro Jodorowsky is a transcendental madman. He’s everything a master of eclecticism who is consistently creating in this world should be, but, as the dollar reigns supreme over us all, sadly can’t be, no matter how hard he tries. That should be obvious given his scant track record of film, placated through other forms of art.

But the mercilessly beautiful tale of Santa Sangre took him from the realm of suspected hippie storyteller to proven grandfather of spiritual interpretation, as the film takes us not only on a journey throughout the life of Fenix, but the life of all of Jodorowsky’s obsessions and damnations, from holy cults and bosomy circus folk to maternal obsessions and the Invisible Man.

Jodorowsky’s sons Adan and Axel are Fenix, young and old, respectively. As a child in the circus, he sees far too much death and sex, and soon, they become intertwined, from his mother obsessively believing in a folkloric saint to his father’s demonic womanizing, all done under an American flag. After another night of bloated cheating, Mom throws acid all over Dad’s penis and, in turn, he slices her arms off.

Having been in an asylum where he is surrounded by mentally handicapped children for most of his life, Fenix sees his mother standing outside his window and escapes — and, in turn, becomes her arms. While I’m sure that’s healthy, it gets worse as Mom can’t stand Fenix thinking about any other women and kills them all, often in the most gorgeously giallo of ways.

A hauntingly challenging film consistently filled with beautiful darkness and feral wonder, I consider this to be Jodorowsky’s apex as a director, taking himself, Fenix and especially the viewer to the ultimate outreaches of religious ecstasy and unholy forgiveness, a combination few directors — if any — could truly present on screen. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

Crawl (2019)

When it comes to dangerous animals I’d never like to meet face to face, I always seem to forget about alligators, but that’s mostly because I’m never in the state of Florida, America’s penis. Regardless. the movie Crawl is a great reminder that, short of being a Cuban drug dealer, there’s really no reason to ever visit.

Sullen teen swimmer Haley (Kaya Scodelario), having recently lost another meet, drives a couple of hours to check on her deadbeat dad Dave (Barry Pepper), a sullen contractor, as a tumultuous Florida-style hurricane is hitting land. Unable to find him, when her smart dog barks a few times near the stairs, she goes to the basement to find him pinned in a corner by a couple of large alligators.

Instead of immediately running to find help, she swims deeper in and becomes trapped, too. Even more gators show up, all hungry or violent — I can’t tell. Various people also show up, from a trio of convenience store thieves to her sister’s cop ex-boyfriend, only to be brutally mangled by the leathery beasts.

Luckily, her dog is all right and makes it to the end, in case you were worried. I was.

Taking everything that is terrifying about Florida and turning it up to 11, Crawl is far better than it has any right to be, and I believe that’s mostly thanks to director Alexandre Aja and, of course, producer Sam Raimi being able to rise above the obviously schlocky material, including the entire state of Florida. That really says a lot. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.