The blaxploitation boom of the 1970s was called many things by many people, but “sweet,” “romantic” and “heartwarming” were not the descriptors typically used. That’s one of the reasons that the socially conscious romantic comedy Claudine is held in such high regard by film enthusiasts.

I vaguely remember catching it at 3 in the morning as a preteen, forever intrigued by the titular single mother (Diahann Carroll) who starts dating the local garbageman (James Earl Jones) and encounters plenty of problems along the way, such as rats in the apartment, asshole social workers and, of course, a small-scale riot that ends with the entire family being carted away while happily waving from the back of the paddy wagon.

Still, I have to admit, my young brain probably didn’t understand the movie and I’m sure I was misremembering most of it.

Turns out I wasn’t. The groundbreaking Claudine, directed by former blacklisted filmmaker John Berry, is an anomaly in the blaxploitation cycle, with Carroll portraying a realistic mother of six kids, forever tired and not willing to put up with too much bullshit, from her teen daughter’s pregnancy, which she attempts to beat out of her, to her older son’s vasectomy, railing against him for destroying his “manhood.”

With a soundtrack by both Curtis Mayfield and Gladys Knight & the Pips, Claudine was a minor hit when originally released, yet somehow has been relegated to virtual obscurity in the ensuing years. A gritty but loving entry in the cinematic Black boom of the ’70s, it deserves to be rediscovered or, you know, just plain discovered. —Louis Fowler

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In the year 2020, America has become the first chapter of a particularly bad dystopian sci-fi novel. That’s probably why the excessively optimistic Bill & Ted Face the Music might be the most needed movie of the year, giving a bit of cinematic hope in our hour of needful reality.

Like any self-respecting member of Generation X, 1989’s Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure (and, to a lesser extent, 1991’s Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey) was a defining moment for me and most of my friends, waiting desperately for the fictitious day that the music of Wyld Stallyns changes the world as we know it forever.

Of course, it never happened.

Now middle-aged and married with daughters, Bill (Alex Winter) and Ted (Keanu Reeves) are still trying to write the song that will evolve humanity toward a peaceful existence, with no luck. Ironically, time has seemingly ran out and the fabric of reality is about to collapse in on itself unless the mythical track is finally completed in about 70 minutes. This gives the guys the bright idea to time-travel to the future and steal the song from themselves.

While that’s going on, daughters Billie (Brigette Lundy-Paine) and Thea (Samara Weaving) use a spare time machine to go backward and create the greatest band ever, collecting musical icons such as Louis Armstrong, Jimi Hendrix, Mozart and so on. It’s not a spoiler if I say they definitely have the more solid plan.

With the return of Death (William Sadler), a holographic Rufus (George Carlin) and the never-was catchphrase “Station!,” as much as a goofy trip down memory lane as it wants to be (and is), it becomes something more in our current climate, with Reeves and Winter portraying two genuinely good guys compelled to do the right thing, even if it means giving the role of planetary saviors to their daughters.

It’s hard to not sound apocalyptic when recommending Bill & Ted Face the Music, but it is the movie we truly need right now — and maybe that’s the true peace-bringing message of the Wyld Stallyns and their excellent adventures. —Louis Fowler

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Shot on video, the monster-mash monstrosity known as Franky and His Pals feels like the management team of your local Spirit Halloween store got drunk after closing and improvised a movie. In reality, it’s made by Gerald Cormier, producer of such X-rated fare as Hey! There’s Naked Bodies on My TV!

Thanks to an avalanche, the bolt-templed Franky, the vampire Drak, the wolfman Wolfie, the mummy Mummy and the hunchback Humper live captive in a cave, until Franky (Eric Weathersbee) eats so many chili beans that he farts the boulders away to clear a passage. This allows the group to escape and go looking for the rumored gold in town. Emerging from the mummy’s tummy to crack wise is a talking rat. Also, Wolfie (Wilson Smith) is gay, assumedly so Cormier and his pals could make light of a feminine man named Clover (Shawn West), who wears a tutu and walks around asking in a whiny pout, “Have you seen my Wolfie?”

They attend a costume party — conveniently enough, so no one knows their true nature — at a nearby hotel, where they dance, grope women, hop in the sack, judge a bikini contest and participate in one-joke setups that even Rowan and Martin would reject. One running gag has the monsters individually terrified whenever the obese Tammy appears … yet they overwhelmingly vote her the victor in the aforementioned contest — so much for consistency! The night ends when Franky stumbles upon a pot of chili beans in the kitchen, can’t help himself and farts the place into an explosion, which unearths the gold.

Oh, you’ll also be treated to a rap song that recounts the events of the prior 10 minutes, a pair of Stepin Fetchit stereotypes as gravediggers, an aerobics sequence, gratuitous Pepsi-Cola placement, and a scientist with a time machine that doesn’t come into play until the very end, when the monsters are zapped away to … well, who knows? The scientist (Cormier himself) breaks the fourth wall to inform viewers the sequel will reveal the quintet’s destination. Luckily, that follow-up never came, because one Franky is twice the amount anyone needs. It’s so corny, you’ll spot chunks of it in tomorrow’s stool. —Rod Lott

I hadn’t seen John Hughes’ Sixteen Candles in about 16 years. With changes to the culture happening so fast these days, I’d recently been wondering how this teen film has held up, especially with many accusations of Asian-based racism, possible date rape and so on.

The answer is “not great.”

I’m pretty sure we’re all familiar with the setup by now: Samantha’s (Molly Ringwald) family forgets her “fucking birthday” on the account of her sister’s upcoming nuptials, which sets into motion a series of event that includes giving her panties to a geek (Anthony Michael Hall) at a high school dance while, eventually, ending up with the quintessential hunk (Michael Schoeffling) of her dreams.

While the film is still riotously hilarious, some of these laughs come with pangs of guilt. One of the most troubling is foreign exchange student Long Duk Dong (Gedde Watanabe); while Dong has many of the film’s most memorable lines, his stereotyped character seems more like a one-note joke from one of Hughes’ equally troublesome National Lampoon pieces.

And while Samantha is a realistically relatable character at a time when some of the worst-written ones were often female, her dream guy — even more than ever — comes off more like the Patrick Bateman of date rapists. At one point, he brags how he could “violate” his drunk girlfriend “10 different ways” if he wanted to, and then gives the passed-out prom queen to the geek Farmer Ted, ostensibly to drive home.

Like her when she awakens, we’re not sure if anything happened between her and Ted, but she ultimately forgives him with a chance at a wholly unrealistic relationship. When I was a geeky youth myself, I thought it was the perfect situation; now I’m not so sure. He may be forgiven in and by the film, but it’s kind of hard for the audience, at least by today’s standards, to do the same.

I guess we can play it off with the trite “it was the ’80s” cliché, a different time with strangely lax mores when compared to today. Watched through that retrofitted eye, Sixteen Candles does stand up as one of the most memorable comedies of the time, but ultimately one you couldn’t get away with today and, honestly, why would you want to? —Louis Fowler

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From Coors Light commercials to Saturday afternoon horror flicks, the constant bosomy presence of Elvira on television did a real erotic number on me growing up, implanting a lifelong lust for buxom Gothic females fully loaded with a heart-ripping skill for double entendre and a heartbreaking like for me in their arsenal.

While those dark and stormy romances never turned out the way I devilishly hoped they would, when Elvira went to the big screen in 1988’s Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, it gave me an ironic glimmer of hope that someday a black-clad beauty would cross my path in her ever-lovin’ fight against demonic forces, real or imagined.

Working as a late-night horror hostess, Elvira (Cassandra Peterson) leaves her terrible job to collect an inheritance from a recently deceased aunt. Landing in the conservative town of Fallwell, Massachusetts, she soon learns her mother was the original Mistress of the Dark, which comes in handy when she also learns her Uncle Vincent (W. Morgan Sheppard) is an evil warlock with sights set on world domination.

But the real threat here is the small town, led by the stereotypical busybody Chastity Pariah (Edie McClurg), who, after eating a magical casserole, gets so aroused she sits on some guy’s face in a public park. With the help of the area’s equally horny teens, however, Elvira is able to win the town over and defeat her evil lineage.

With so many Mae West-ian jokes about breasts, fellatio and other sexually explicit acts, it’s amazing this film escaped with a PG-13 rating. But it was a different time, I guess — one where people could burn witches at the stake for surefire laughs. Elvira, Mistress of the Dark is a satanically overlooked comedy that should be rescued from the pyre. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.