From the same creative team that brought you Romeo Must Die and Cradle 2 the Grave comes Exit Wounds, an enjoyable piece of trash that has to be Steven Seagal’s best movie since Under Siege except for that one on the plane where he died in the first 20 minutes.

Now markedly puffy and with out-of-control sideburns, Seagal is a Detroit police officer reassigned to a lesser precinct after saving the life of the U.S. vice president, but embarrassing him in the process. The cops there don’t like him sticking his ever-curious and pudgy nose into their business, especially when he learns they’re dirty and deep into a heroin ring with Internet gazillionaire DMX. Thus begins a barrage of super-slick car chases and gunfights, with lots of requisite slow-motion martial arts and surprising gory violence.

Director Andrzej Bartkowiak certainly has an unapologetically commercial style that’s high on gloss and short on everything else, but there’s something about it I like. Although it’s far from brilliant, it’s also far from incompetent. I’m just not sure why every movie he does has to star DMX and Anthony Anderson (a little of whose ad-libbed shtick goes a long way). Also starring in this outing are Tom Arnold (some of whose scenes with Seagal seem filmed without Seagal even there), Isaiah Washington and, all too briefly, Eva Mendes. —Rod Lott

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Whether you call it Thriller: A Cruel Picture, Hooker’s Revenge or They Call Her One-Eye, there’s no doubt that this Swedish grindhouse/arthouse mélange of awful/awesomeness is the most hardcore rape/revenge picture ever made — both figuratively and literally. Written and directed by Bo Arne Vibenius, the film stars European softcore icon Christina Lindberg as Frigga (in the original Swedish version; Madeleine in the dubbed version), a young country girl whose personal trials would have the Bible’s Job shaking his head with teary-eyed sympathy.

Rendered permanently mute following a childhood rape, the now adult Frigga is on her way to visit her doctor in the city when she’s picked up by a suave, sophisticated gentleman who promptly drugs her unconscious and proceeds to inject pure heroin into her veins. After spending weeks in a druggy haze, she’s informed that her body is now so dependent on horse, she’ll die without a daily dose, which she’ll — naturally — have to fuck strangers for money to receive. To make her terrible situation even worse, her pimp forges a letter to her devoted parents claiming she never wants to see them again, which they promptly respond to by committing suicide!

Frigga quickly learns the consequences of rebellion when her pimp punishes her by plunging a scalpel into her right eye (earning her both the nickname described in one the film’s alternate titles and a reason to sport a series of stylish patches). Instead of breaking her spirit, however, this only inspires her to secretly charge her “clients” extra to do the really dirty shit (which, by today’s Internet porn standards, admittedly doesn’t seem so bad) and use the cash to buy her own drugs, and train with experts in the fine arts of ass-kicking until she’s ready to proclaim her independence and properly exhibit her (extremely justified) dissatisfaction.

Clinical and unrelentingly brutal (Vibenius used an actual cadaver for the eyeball sequence and inserted grimy, XXX-penetration shots featuring a distinctly “brown-eyed” Lindberg body double to graphically highlight Frigga’s degradation), They Call Her One-Eye is less successful as an action movie than as a soberly Scandinavian depiction of man’s inhumanity to (wo)man. Spared the potential indignity of dialogue, Lindberg’s performance is more appropriately enigmatic than unfortunately wooden and the film benefits greatly from her impressive physical presence (which is covered throughout by costumes Tarantino lifted directly for Darryl Hannah in Kill Bill).

Not for the squeamish, politically correct or anyone frightened by foreign sensibilities, They Call Her One-Eye remains an utterly unique cinematic achievement no matter what its title. —Allan Mott

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So Close is the movie that McG’s Charlie’s Angels should have been. It’s slick, it’s cool, it’s three girls kicking ass who — and this is the big difference — are not braying-donkey annoying. Shu Qi (The Transporter) and Zhao Wei (Shaolin Soccer) are two siblings who have been working as an assassin-for-hire team ever since their parents were brutally murdered. Wei sits at home with a super-decked-out, eye-in-the-sky, satellite-linked computer spy system, feeding Qi info as she carries out the actual hits.

The opening sequence is a stunner, with Qi carrying out a hit on a wealthy computer CEO and shooting her way through the enormous office building as a Carpenters-soundalike version of Burt Bacharach’s “Close to You” plays over the structure’s PA system. If this doesn’t suck you in to the film’s offbeat charms, nothing will.

Hot on their trail is cop Karen Mok (Black Mask), which results in a couple of great chase scenes. But to further complicate matters, Qi’s falling in love and Wei’s taking a liking to pulling triggers, something her big sis does not want her to do.

Directed by Hong Kong choreographer Cory Yuen (The Transporter), the high-tech flick takes some surprising turns and doesn’t follow the usual formula that your standard Hollywood action movie would, especially one with a female-led cast. The three leads are all engaging — particularly the sister act of Qi and Wei — proving that sometimes, women can do these things better than the men. So Close, so good! —Rod Lott

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Meet Nick Gunar (Dolph Lundgren), a former mercenary who wears a palooka beret and drinks from a flask. He’s approached by two yuppie maggots about going to the tiny island of South China Sea and making the native give up their mining rights.

Because his former superior tells him that “The art of war is the art of life” or whatever, Nick assembles of team of expendables from all over the nation to stick the business end of their guns, rocket launchers and other weapons in the faces of the islanders to convince them to give up what’s theirs. Of course, they encounter resistance, but what really sways Nick’s soul and mind to the other side are the terrific bared breasts of Charlotte Lewis (The Golden Child). That’ll do it.

Directed by actor Perry Lang (Spring Break), Men of War also features Catherine Bell of TV’s JAG as part of Nick’s team. Unlike Charlotte, she doesn’t take off her clothes. However, this may be a good thing, because here she looks like a man. In fact, her role is so butch, my genitals wept.

Shit blows up in this Thai-shot actioner. And by “shit,” I mean people, mostly. There’s even a bad guy with a burnt face who has what looks like a vulva where his right ear should be. What it lacks in story, it makes up for in mindless violence and Dolphitude. Judging from the credits, I believe the crew may have been locals forced to work for free, under threat of Dolph. Just look: Special effects assistants? Lek, Niphon and Kob. Electrician? Jakkrid. Dolly grip? Meng. —Rod Lott

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Let’s get one thing straight: my penis Despite the plural title of Policewomen, Crown International Pictures’ playful drive-in actioner is really about a singular police woman, and it’s not Sgt. Pepper Anderson. It’s Lacy Bond (Sondra Currie, star of Al Adamson’s rape-revenge Western, Jessi’s Girls), and after thwarting a prison riot, she’s recruited to bring down a gold-smuggling operation run by an old racist coot (“Who’s the black?”) and comprised of babes in bikinis.

The cops give Lacy some gadgets that would make Q semi-erect, and in she goes, using her martial-arts skills to kick various baddies into submission (and one ally in the balls, just for fun). All the while, she rarely wears a bra, but does squeeze her curvy hips into a pair of very 1974 pants whose pattern presages the AIDS quilt.

Speaking of STDs, writer/director Lee Frost (The Black Gestapo, The Thing with Two Heads) packs in some loose love scenes for Lacy, including a partner who post-coitally orders her when the shit starts to hit the fan, “Get me some white pants!” This is actually the flick’s second-best line, behind the aforementioned coot’s insistence that “Nobody gives a shit what happens to an old Volkswagen!”

But they do give a shit about Policewomen. At least I do. It’s hard not to when the screen is set ablaze by Currie’s ridiculous, redheaded hotness. —Rod Lott

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