Circa 2000, Troma’s Terror Firmer was one of a handful of discs I purchased when I picked up my first DVD player and man, what a high point that was. I must had watched the film a hundred times that summer and, even worse, tried to show it to every single person who dared set foot in my then-hovel.

As impressionable as I was back then, true to form, I firmly believed Terror Firmer to be more than just another Troma flick; I believed it to be director Lloyd Kaufman’s testament to his life in independent cinema, straight from the fart heart.

Twenty years later, while much of the offensive humor is now, admittedly, “of the time,” the spirit of the film and what it stands for is still more important than ever, an idealized and wholly personal take on the now long-dead sentiment of art for art’s sake, something this generation has forgotten in the search for easy cash and easier fame.

On the set of blind director Larry Benjamin’s (a meta-Kaufman) latest Toxic Avenger flick, the cast and crew of the film are graphically murdered by a long cool woman (?) in a black dress, seemingly with an ax to grind (literally) against independent film. But even that’s a minor quibble when compared to the constant trouble that goes on behind the scenes.

Besides the ample nudity that is more questionable than erotic, there are plenty of gross-out gags and gag-out grossness, such as busty actor Joe Fleishaker chewing on his own guts as he’s mutilated by an escalator; caged monster Ron Jeremy singing “Amazing Grace” as his appendages are hacked off; and, most famously, Yaniv Sharon as a P.A. with a tiny pecker who goes on an all-nude tour of NYC before having his head crushed by a piece of Troma’s best stock footage.

And while all of that still works in goo-covered spades, the oft-repeated rallying cry of “Let’s make some art!” is the message of this medium; if you have a vision, you’ll do anything to get it up on the screen, even if it means capturing random acts of tractor-truck maiming, dill-pickle coitus or transsexual immolation. It’s something that Troma’s been doing it for well over 40 years, dollar signs be damned. —Louis Fowler

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If you consider yourself any of the below, chances are I hate you:
• influencer
• thought leader
• public figure
• storyteller

All are narcissistic labels for that most 21st-century of phenomena: the “internet celebrity,” famous for being famous. Fewer targets mark themselves more ripe for skewering, which is why something like the mockumentary The Social Ones holds delicious appeal. I say “something like” because for all its potential, the movie is toothless where it should be ruthless.

The Social Ones is written, directed and produced by tyro Laura Kosann. She and her sister, Danielle Kosann, also star as the sane ones in this ensemble comedy. Working at the thankfully fictional magazine The National Influencer, they feverishly prep for — and stress-puke over — the following month’s fifth-anniversary cover shoot, which will showcase such superstars of social media as a teen-dream Snapchat king (Colton Ryan), a demanding Instagram fashion model (Amanda Giobbi), a high-strung YouTube chef (Desi Domo, The Conjuring), an insecure vlogger (Nicole Kang, TV’s Batwoman) and “meme god” Kap Phat Jawacki (Setareki Wainiqolo). For the sake of story, the stakes could not be any lower.

Although the film is clearly modeled from the Christopher Guest template, it is difficult to tell whether the jokes are driven by the script or improv. Either way, with few exceptions, they’re simply not funny, no matter how hard the actors try; unfortunately, most of them do so by cranking their exaggeration dials three or four notches further than the illusory nature of the mockumentary subgenre recommends, if not demands.

If Kosann had trimmed her scenes to align with the short attention span of the digital generation, the film could settle into a more natural comedic rhythm. As is, the bits drag on and on, with the most glaring offender being Kap Phat creating a meme in real time from disparate elements on a huge bulletin board — the kind you see on every obsessive-detective crime show, full of clippings and pushpins and string connecting them. The sequence is painful.

The movie is not a complete #fail, even if each occasional plus gets canceled out. Domo’s Holly Hunter lilt is endearing, as opposed to Giobbi’s annoying Judy Garland. Peter Scolari delivers an amusing-enough cameo, whereas Richard Kind grates. I enjoyed the magazine intern (Nicky Maindiratta) harboring a stalker-like same-sex crush on Ryan’s Snapchat kid, but we’re ghosted by a payoff. Kosann nails several aspects of the characters, from the minor (the mangling of “important” as “impor’ant”) to the major (vacuous self-importance), so she obviously knows her subjects well. I simply wish she had followed through on the setup by satirizing them instead of celebrating them. —Rod Lott

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In many sports, a “hot dog” is typically a nickname for a skillful show-off, but, in context of the ski-slope sex comedy Hot Dog … the Movie, I’m pretty sure it means penis … the movie!

It’s the loose story of Harkin (Patrick Houser), a farm boy with high hopes to win an international skiing competition, coached by an American horndog in Tahoe, Dan (An American Werewolf in London’s David Naughton). While learning the ins and outs of the slopes, Harkin also takes time for some ins and outs with the female clientele, most namely Shannon Tweed (Possessed by the Night) in a scene that really should have been included as one of the AFI’s 100 Masturbatory Moments.

In between the skillfully shot sequences of downhill racing and snowbound ballet, there’s also less-skillfully shot wet T-shirt contests, sexual spa antics and a ski-lift blowie or two — I guess for the nonsporty dudes who can’t get off on every twisting helicopter or spread eagle attempted on that fresh powder.

Speaking of powder, I really hope everyone involved was on some primo cocaine during the filming of this, most notably writer Mike Marvin and director Peter Markle. By the grace of God, they took about 15 minutes of actual film and stretched it into an overlong 99 minutes, just by adding plenty of softcore sex, slalom six-packs and a few somewhat rocking songs about love being at the top of a mountain — something I’m sure we all can identify with. —Louis Fowler

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If man could talk to the animals, what conversations would we have? Personally, I’d like to engage my family’s nearly blind, nearly deaf Shih Tzu, Emmy, in a discussion of the hole she has scratched into the side of her neck. We didn’t notice it until the smell of death wafted from across the living room; upon closer examination, we discovered a nauseating, John F. Kennedy half-dollar-sized crater of flesh and blood and gunk of unspeakable coloring, with a newly burst abscess that screamed infection. Frankly, four rounds of antibiotics later, I’d like to ask her what the hell she was thinking.

To get metaphorical, that damn dog’s neck hole — reeking with an ungodly, unforgivable stench of nostrils-torn-asunder rot — is the Robert Downey Jr. vehicle Dolittle.

Remember how much Eddie Murphy’s cachet suffered by wallowing in family-friendly dreck like 1998’s Dr. Dolittle? Downey must have forgotten, in the process tainting the Iron-clad reputation he worked so hard over the last decade to rebuild. With Murphy now enjoying the crest of career resurgence, and Downey stuck chatting up and trading barbs with stunningly unfunny CGI animals, the two superstars appear to have switched places. Who saw that coming?

Downey’s venereal-looking veterinarian is called out of retirement to retrieve a faraway fruit to save the life of a comatose Queen Victoria (Jessie Buckley, TV’s Chernobyl). Attempting to foil Dolittle at every turn, Boris Badenov-style, is Dr. Müdfly (Michael Sheen, 2016’s Passengers). Aiding Dolittle just as often are anthropomorphic members of his mobile menagerie, voiced by some supremely talented people — including John Cena, Emma Thompson, Kumail Nanjiani, Octavia Spencer, Ralph Fiennes and, immortally, “Rami Malek as Chee-Chee” — all of whom have the blessed fortune to be only heard and not seen, especially since their jokes land as neatly as elephant feces.

Who else to helm this artificially sunny, PG-rated ego project/confection of fauna, folly and fantasy? Almost any director but the one who got the job: Stephen Gaghan, he of the suicide bombers and electrocuted children of the political-corruption drama Syriana. His nonmusical remake of 1967’s Doctor Dolittle emerges as a soulless, artless, witless, “cash, please!” corporate enterprise — one in which no one had the guts to even suggest to Downey that his Jack Sparrow-style accent was not the least bit cute, but thoroughly repellent. In which computer rendering of the sometimes-disproportionate animals appears to have been halted around 65% completion and deemed “good enough.” In which poor Antonio Banderas is reduced to parading around in genie pants.

In the opening-weekend matinee I attended, an audience full of kids — kids, for chrissakes, comedy’s easiest lay! — could not be bothered to laugh, except when a dragon ripped a massive fart in Downey’s face. He deserved it.

Dolittle? Most certainly do not. But if you are forced? Do nap. —Rod Lott

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Many would say that, during his vaunted career, Richard Pryor never found the right filmic vehicle for his considerable talents; having recently viewed Brewster’s Millions for the first time in nearly 30 years, I have to say … they’re probably right.

Here, Pryor is Montgomery Brewster, a down-on-his-luck minor-league pitcher who, along with pal Spike (John Candy), spends most of his time humping groupies on the road, which is quite understandable. Sadly, that fun-living casual sex comes to an end when he inherits $300 million from his dead “honky” uncle (Hume Cronyn).

The plot-worthy catch? He has to spend $30 million in thirty days, with nothing to show for it but the shirt on his back by the end.

This leads to a mildly amusing 90 minutes as Pryor buys a bunch of people lunch, mails a rare postage stamp and runs as the anti-mayor of New York. And while that sounds like it’s a surefire laugh-getter, most of the jokes fall sideways and, even worse, are just plain unfunny. I guess we could throw most of the blame on director Walter Hill; straight comedy, it seems, isn’t really his forte.

With such a strong premise and an even stronger comedian, it’s kind of sad just how comedically bankrupt the whole outing is — but at least it ain’t The Toy.  —Louis Fowler

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