Aboard a cruise ship, cheapskate crook Rooney (Don Gordon, Bullitt) poses as a doctor in order to con an aristocrat (Massimo Serato, Killer Nun) out of his considerable wealth. Making Rooney’s job easier is that his mark loves to gamble. 

Meanwhile, Rooney hopes to get into the bikini bottoms of an incomparably beautiful passenger (Torso’s Suzy Kendall, suntanned within an inch of, well, every inch).

Okay, so The Gamblers isn’t exactly Dostoevsky. 

Except — surprise! — it is! Writer/director Ron Winston (Banning) based his film on the Russian novelist’s 1866 follow-up to Crime and Punishment. Liberties have been taken. (Or so I assume. I don’t read Dostoevsky unless eight pages of full-color photos of Kendall come inserted at the book’s midpoint.)

With the story fresh from celebrating its first century at the time, the third-act twist is obvious as soon the first act puts its players in place. Obviousness notwithstanding, The Gamblers reveals itself as a more-than-capable caper as bubbly as the champagne its characters imbibe, with a jaunty score to match, courtesy of Mel Brooks’ regular composer, John Morris. 

With dated but delightful support from Richard Ng (Winners & Sinners) in his first feature, the comedy is featherweight-light until the last couple of minutes. At that point, Winston seems to realize he’s wasted Kendall on every level but eye candy, and ends The Gamblers with a grand, unearned romantic gesture. From what I gather, that’s the kind of scenario that happens among people more attractive than you, gallivanting about more attractive places you’ll never be able to visit. —Rod Lott

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Country singers Del Reeves and Hugh X. Lewis don’t play themselves in Cottonpickin’ Chickenpickers, but considering their obscurity, who would know the difference? As the respective Darby (the one in a red cap) and Jerry (the one not in a red cap), Reeves and Lewis are the most well-dressed hobos ever to grace the picture show as they make their way to My-am-uh — “Miami” to you and me — but get stuck in the swampy Toover County, Florida.

It’s the kind of backwater boondocks populated with all sorts of crazy characters and trouble awaiting at every turn, as are a git-tar or banjo, each as near-omnipresent as a jug of moonshine. So starved that Quincy Jones and Bob Geldof could build competing all-star charity singles around them, Darby and Jerry raid a chicken farm — hence the title — which lands them in the clinker. But not for long!

Full of gators and groaners, this film produced by Dick Randall (Pieces) and David Putnam (not that one) earns itself the moniker of “prize dingaling of all time,” to borrow a line from Jerry. (Or was that Darby? It doesn’t matter.) The action (as it were) pauses often for a diegetic country song. Perhaps most notable is Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison novelty, “Dirty Old Egg-Sucking Dog,” performed here by future Burt Reynolds punchline Mel Tillis.

There’s something to the hicksploitation brand of cornpone comedy-musical that tickles me, even though its world is as alien to me as, say, Uganda. (Despite my red-state residency, I don’t own a truck, belt buckle or pair of boots, and can’t stomach one fucking second of Hee Haw.) Chickenpickers scratches the same itch as the Ferlin Husky Hillbillys duology, half of which incidentally features Reeves and a script by this pic’s director, Larry E. Jackson.

As Cousin Elmore, Robert V. Barron (Abe Lincoln of Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure) supplies most of the slapstick, while the spoken-aloud jokes resemble Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First?” routine, if it were kicked in the head by a horse:

“Sylvia’s my real name, but nobody knows that.”
“You can trust us. We won’t tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?”
“That your real name is Sylvia.”
“How did you know about that?”

Like its own dentistry gag about gum removal, Cottonpickin’ Chickenpickers possesses no teeth for humor, but has all it needs to smile. So shall you, in between rolling your eyes. —Rod Lott

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Fans of the VHS classic Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama were clamoring for a sequel. Well, in 1988, maybe. Three decades too late comes Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama 2.

Caught committing sex crimes against the sorority members of Pi Epsilon Delta, three frat boys thirsty for T&A agree to join the ladies in a little B&E: an after-hours trip to the local bowling alley to retrieve a hallowed trophy. Yes, it’s the same trophy that unleashes the same foul-mouthed imp, now made of minimally articulated foam, quoting MLK and voiced by Derek Jeremiah Reid (Bad Impulse).

One by one, the imp grants their wishes as literally as possible, to fatal results. Por ejemplo, a guy expressing desire to be “a famous rapper” is magically and moronically turned into a — wait for it — candy bar wrapper, which the imp then eats.

Scripted by Full Moon regular Kent Roudebush (Ooga Booga), Bowl-O-Rama 2 isn’t so much written as it is written over. More remake than sequel, it repeats the events of the original, but shorn of half an hour, the horror elements and, frankly, all of the fun. Given its general nonchalance and low production values, you’d be forgiven for assuming David DeCoteau returned to the director’s throne, but those duties fell to Brinke Stevens. She and fellow Sorority Babe Michelle Bauer reprise their roles in cameos, albeit separate from the action since they’re ghosts and not on the set. Linnea Quigley, however, is a no-show, so Kelli Maroney (Slayground) takes her part as the Pi Ep house mom.

Unless you want to see what Full Moon’s round of starlets look like in a group shower, skip it, as Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama 2 rolls straight into the gutter. Its use of clips from the ’88 film serve as flashbacks, as well as a sad reminder of how producer Charles Band keeps lowering the bar for the Full Moon brand. —Rod Lott

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Frisbee! Hacky sack! Sarcophagi! All abound the college campus in The University of Illinois vs a Mummy.

Yes, this is an actual feature.

No, it can’t live up to that incredible title.

But by no means is Chris Lukeman’s shot-on-video flick a case of false advertising. A nerd named Casey (Paul Karpenko) leads a small group of fellow first-year Fighting Illini through the halls of the natural history building to locate the 75-year-old mummy murdering undergrads. Its killer bandages shoot out in all directions — a nifty cheap effect — and no student appears safe. The mummy’s name is Ted.

Heavy in puns and slapstick, Illinois vs a Mummy reminded me a little of Zucker/Abrahams/Zucker’s solo-effort spoofs and a lot of Ray Dennis Steckler‘s misadventures with The Lemon Grove Kids, but using possibly less money. I don’t know whether the movie was made for a grade or just for fun; either way, Lukeman succeeded, even if most of the ingenuity comes front-loaded.

It’s never better than an early scene that gives new meaning to “freshman musical”: an all-out song-and-dance number that’s massively impressive in tune, delivery, choreography and sheer scope. Later, his editing skills are showcased in a video game-inspired fight sequence.

No doubt The University of Illinois vs a Mummy is best enjoyed by the school’s alum, but enough pieces are relatable for any one-time undergrad, what with the awkward first dates, parking tickets, crappy roommates, football rivalries and Egyptian slaughter. —Rod Lott

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On one hand, I can count the number of times a movie’s audience burst into applause at the climax:
• In 1981, when E.T. levitates the kids and their bicycles o’er the heads of authorities.
• Six years later, in Fatal Attraction, when Anne Archer shoots Glenn Close dead.
• And now, when four dogs — spoiler — rip Will Forte’s dick off.

Strays, ladies and gentlemen. Whereas singer Sarah MacLachlan famously tugged at your heartstrings in ASCAP commercials to get you to spend $18 a month to rescue dogs, Universal Pictures spent $30 million on a live-action comedy in which dogs’ mouths are animated to say “fuck” a lot. We’re talking Scorsese and Scarface level of “fuck”s. Add all the humping and the pooping — oh, do they ever hump and poop — and Strays is nothing if not filthy.

To be clear, that’s a plus, but only because the doers are adorable dogs instead of asshole adults. Will Ferrell voices Reggie, the canine so clueless he has no idea his ever-stoned, trailer-trash owner, Doug (Forte, MacGruber), has ditched him. Jamie Foxx’s Bug, a Boston Terrier, immediately befriends Reggie to share his street smarts. That includes an intro to his park-hanging pals, a pretty Shepherd (Isla Fisher, 2018’s Tag) and a cone-necked Great Dane (Randall Park, Office Christmas Party) who go all-in for a sausage string of episodic encounters — involving hungry eagles and hallucinogenic mushrooms — accompanying Reggie on his way back home to de-dick Doug.

Is there a normal child in America who wouldn’t laugh their ass off scene to scene? But Strays is hard-rated R on purpose, and that subversiveness often compensates for its narrow range of jokes, much like how Bug talks big to make up for his small size. And I don’t mean his penis, although the movie sure does. Several times.

Like Reggie, the film from director Josh Greenbaum (Barb & Star Go to Vista Del Mar) and screenwriter Dan Perrault (TV’s American Vandal) is cute, scruffy and just dumb enough you can’t resist giving it a little affection. Even if the CGI to animate the mutts’ mouths is often dodgy, like a paid version of your iPhone’s My Talking Pet app. —Rod Lott

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