Pardon me, but my American heritage is showing. Since childhood, I’ve occasionally confused Heidi with Pippi Longstocking. One Euro white-girl kid-lit icon is the same as another, right?

Until now. Heidi is the one who says, “Rest in cheese, bitch,” as she shoves a rubber hose of milk up her enemy’s pooper. According to the movie Mad Heidi, that is. (Or is that action part of 1880 canon?)

For 20 years, all cheese has been illegal, except the Meili’s brand (“Now 30% lactose!”), owned by and named for the president of Switzerland (Dracula 3000’s Casper Van Dien, clearly having a ball). As the Swiss National Day celebration approaches, Meili schemes with his chief cheese scientist (Pascal Ulli) to ensure his cheese will make his subjects “dumb as fuck.”

But not if mountain girl Heidi (newcomer Alice Lucy) can help it. After her goat-farming boyfriend (Kel Matsena) is murdered for his underground goat cheese operation by Meili’s Kommandant Knorr (the Joe Pesci-esque Max Rüdlinger), she trains in the ways of pointy spears for vengeance.

Her pigtails and Swiss Miss clothing belie her prison-honed makeover as a killing machine, programmed with quips straight from a discarded draft of the Book of Schwarzenegger. “Now that’s what I call a swan song,” she states upon murdering a man with his accordion.

As if you needed telling, the movie is a side-of-barn broad comedy packed with cheese puns, cheese sight gags and cheese allusions — all played out by the second scene. If you think I’ve gone overboard with the word “cheese,” director and co-writer Johannes Hartmann takes note and exclaims, “No whey!”

All a goof, Mad Heidi is cut from the same cheesecloth as the ironic likes of Sharknado, Snakes on a Plane or Hobo with a Shotgun, desperately and transparently attempting to achieve instant cult status through sheer willpower. It doesn’t deserve it, nor will it be granted that, yet the flick is hardly a cash grab or lazy exercise.

Mad Heidi is best when it parodies the women-in-prison subgenre or goes strictly for gore, as purposely garish as the Alps are spacious (and no doubt the influence of Troma veteran Trent Haaga as one of four screenwriters). However, no moment is as funny or knowing than its Swissploitation Films title animation, spoofing the Paramount logo. I give Hartmann and his cast credit for dedicating 110% of themselves to the joke, even if it would work better as a 90-second fake trailer than the 90-minute feature it is. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Six months before William Wellman Jr. and James Stacy went all Winter a-Go-Go in a Beach Party knockoff, they had themselves A Swingin’ Summer in a Beach Party knockoff.

As the respective Rick and Mickey, Wellman and Stacy play different characters than they would that Winter. With Rick’s scorching-hot redheaded girlfriend in tow (Quinn O’Hara, The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini, the California teens head to Lake Arrowhead for the weeklong job at its dance pavilion. When that gainful employment opportunity suddenly dries up, they decide to run it themselves, Andy Hardying the heck out of the place. That way, the likes of Gary Lewis & the Playboys, The Righteous Brothers and The Rip Chords can give full performances — each rockin’ and rousin‘ — to fill precious running time.

No doubt director Robert Sparr (Once You Kiss a Stranger …) was all for that plan, seeing as how the script is absent a plot. Prepare for one light kidnapping, some fistfighting, one instance of asphalt surfing and a lot of butt-shaking, not to mention gratuitous Frugging with a side of Watusi.

Not long Mickey creepily takes a tape measures to girls’ bikini-topped busts (two decades before Screwballs‘ similar but rapeier breast-exam prank), he engages in a “poultry contest,” which is to say a game of chicken on water skis. Most teenpics would slate such an action-packed sequence as the climax, but A Swingin’ Summer instead sticks it in the middle section. That leaves room for quite the twist ending: that the psych student played by a debuting Raquel Welch — shrinking heads while enlarging others — is actually hot, once she removes her glasses and shakes her hair out of a bun. Can you fucking believe it?

Fun enough and equally inconsequential, Swingin’ dog-paddles behind the aforementioned AIP fare. Still, by recruiting Pajama Party’s Diane Bond as The Girl in the Pink Polka Dot Bikini, it’s doing something right. Pop a cap on a return-for-deposit bottle of Bubble Up, then press play. —Rod Lott

Get it at dvdparty.

As memorably harmonized by The Free Design, kites are fun. But they’re not that fun. And so it is with Killer Kites, a decent but ultimately self-immolating creature-feature parody from the makers of the more enjoyable Sewer Gators. This follow-up marks the third movie within the BPU, aka the “Brock Peterson Universe,” so named (by me, just now) for director/producer Paul Dale’s recurring role as an obnoxious TV news reporter.

Also reappearing, albeit in a different role, is leading lady Manon Pages. Here, she’s Abby, whose brother is killed is by a kite passed down from their dead grandfather. (Just roll with it.) Perhaps a visit to the Kuntz Yeast Bread Festival can clear up what’s going on? A total goof with purposely awful effects to poke fun at Birdemic, that’s what, with a few Twin Peaks homages thrown in. The more you’re familiar with those, the more you’re in tune with the movie.

Dale and co-director/writer Austin Frosch exhibit good-natured humor even when the jokes are rimshot-ready bad. To wit:

Abby: “You just want to get in my pants.”
Daniel: “Please, Abby, I can’t fit into those.”

As witnessed in a training montage and semi-buried in-jokes (like “PUT STRING HERE” seen amid the thumbtacked pages and photos on a crazed character’s clichéd wall o’ research), the players seem to be having a ball. Not all of it transfers as well as Sewer Gators did — even Pages seems a little uncomfortable compared to last time — but how many other movies dare to depict kite attacks in 1956 Berlin? —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Indeed, BlackBerry is based on the true story of the early aughts’ favorite smartphone (until the iPhone, of course).

I know, I know: “A movie about a wireless device?” But once upon a time, I wondered how a movie about the creation of Facebook would be, could be any good, and look how that turned out.

BlackBerry isn’t up to the masterpiece level of David Fincher’s The Social Network, but it’s great. These days, in a franchise-drowned market, that’s something to celebrate. Leave it to Canada — specifically, director/co-writer Matt Johnson (Operation Avalanche) — to export the kind of adults-appealing dramedy America used to excel at making before discovering, I dunno, movies about buff, laser-fingered dudes in leather space pajamas.

Mike Lazaridis (Jay Baruchel, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice) is a realist in a Members Only jacket and thick glasses. Doug Fregin (Johnson, The Dirties) is an idealist with omnipresent sweatband and a Velcro Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles wallet. Together, the engineers are 50/50 partners in a revolutionary invention. They just can’t get anyone interested until they meet Jim Balsillie (Glenn Howerton, 2020’s The Hunt), an arrogant-AF tech exec who, smelling a golden goose, makes a Hail Mary investment in them after being fired from his job.

As we already know, Balsillie’s instinct in the potential of the duo’s gizmo proves dead-on correct. As you might expect, with enormous success, a fractured friendship follows. Certain egos balloon so big, they merit inclusion in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. With millions rolling in, corners are cut to make even more. For a while, it appears Gordon Gecko‘s “Greed is good” credo works. Until the SEC gets wind of illegal practices.

If you know Howerton only from TV’s It’s Sunny in Philadelphia and A.P. Bio, prepare yourself. Bald and brooding, he’s rage incarnate in three-figure suspenders — the intimidating-shark type the late Miguel Ferrer played in spades, both scary and scary-good. Howerton is at once hilarious (although not in ways his fans are used to) and delivers a dramatic performance legitimately worthy of awards consideration.

As is BlackBerry itself. Not unlike the satisfaction “CrackBerry” users got from the clicks of its keyboard, its many highs hit with dopamine bumps. Under Johnson’s purview and ace sense of balance, what initially — and worriedly — resembles another handheld aping of workplace sitcoms like The Office quickly grounds itself as a whip-smart account of one of Big Tech’s greatest success stories and greatest cautionary tales of hubris. In contrast to its subject, however, the film never fails. —Rod Lott

It’s amusing to see viewers of The Drone trash the film on whatever site they streamed/stole it from, tapping such keen observations as “This isn’t scary at all.”

Well, duh, because it’s not meant to be. Granted, shame on the Lionsgate marketing department for misleadingly pushing The Drone as a straight-ahead horror-thriller, but anyone paying a quarter of attention to tone — hell, I’ll be generous and round down to one-eighth — can tell it’s a comedy.

After all, we’re talking about a remote-controlled drone possessed with the soul of its late owner — a serial peeper-cum-rapist-cum-killer of redheads, known as The Violator (Neil Sandilands, TV’s Hap and Leonard) — upon being struck by a fatal bolt of lightning. Hey, it worked for Chucky, right? That its very premise is beyond preposterous is very much the point.

The titular gizmo finds its way to newly married new homeowners Rachel (Alex Essoe, Doctor Sleep) and Chris (John Brotherton, The Conjuring), where it surreptitiously makes a sex tape of them and senses the family dog as a threat to its existence — so much so the machine Googles “animal shelter”! Anyone taking the “flying pervert machine” as anything but parody of contemporary horror, The Drone has whooshed over their noggin like a joke they didn’t get or, well, like a drone.

At the helm of this techno-terror circus is Zombeavers director Jordan Rubin, bringing his fellow writers, Al and John Kaplan, for another round of making light of ridiculous horror-flick trends. While not up to the hilarious heights of that underrated 2014 comedy, The Drone offers enough absurdity to keep Rubin on my radar.

If nothing else, you could spend the movie looking for visual nods to iconic scenes from other genre fare, including Alien 3, The Exorcist III and numeral-free The Shining. But don’t let that distract you from seeing the drone using Snapchat and committing murder by invading someone’s rectum. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.