In space, no one can hear you scream “Crikey!” But that’s where, in Collision Course‘s opening moments, a U.S. satellite explodes, sending its beacon-equipped core crash-landing in Australia, where a crocodile promptly swallows it. CIA agents are deployed to retrieve it, unaware it’s in a croc’s belly, putting them on a collision course … with danger!

Meanwhile, Animal Planet host Steve “The Crocodile Hunter” Irwin and his masculine wife, Terri — playing themselves because that’s all they can do — spend their day collecting all sorts of wildlife for zoo research. With all his scenes framed TV-style and talking straight into the camera, Steve finds something, catches something and indulges himself in a five-minute, diarrhea-of-the-mouth treatise on the animal, whether it’s a wily snake, a venomous spider or hungry crocodile. His typical, hypercaffeinated shtick is peppered with such exclamations as “If you ever see a snake like this, DON’T MUCK WIT’ IT!”

The two “stories” converge briefly when the agents come upon the croc in Steve’s possession and he mistakes them for poachers, putting them all on a collision course … with laughter!

Actually the movie puts you on a collision course … with sleep! It’s pretty dull, livened up only by the prospect of seeing Steve have his face penetrated with poison-dripping fangs, but alas, such blooper-worthy shenanigans never come to be. No mistake about it, this is simply an episode of his TV show with a pointless government-agent wraparound, putting me on a collision course with … aw, never mind. —Rod Lott

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Following a production logo outlining a breast with a nipple pointing north, Deathrow Gameshow begins with its own quasi-rap, sax lick-flavored theme song unfolding over cartoon footage of knives and jail cells: “Deathrow gameshow / It’s the only way to go / But if you lose / You’ll be no more.” Despite evidence presented by these deep lyrics, let me pause to tell you that this is a comedy.

The title refers to the chintzy TV show Live or Die, where felons scheduled for execution compete in quizzes and challenges for a reprieve or other rewards, but not necessarily for themselves. Typical scenario: If a contestant’s guillotined head falls into the basket face up, his family nets thousands. Hosting this trash is Chuck Toedan (John McCafferty, who also starred for Deathrow director Mark Pirro in Curse of the Queerwolf, A Polish Vampire in Burbank and, um, Rectuma), he of the 47 death threats a week and occasional busty groupie showing up in his bed.

Opposing him is cute blonde feminist Gloria Sternvirgin (Robyn Blythe, a former Brady Bunch Variety Hour Kroftette), who wonders if he’d stoop so low to air Raping for Dollars. She eventually becomes his ally when Chuck’s life is in danger by Mafia hit man Luigi (who looks like a fat Richard Simmons and is played by a man credited only as Beano) for 86ing mob boss Guido Spumoni on a prior episode. Won’t Luigi be furious when his elderly mom accidentally gets on the show, thinks she’s going to win a fridge, and is instead killed? Hee-haw!

I’m sure some day, the future imagined by Deathrow Gameshow will become reality, but this isn’t to be mistaken for the highbrow works of Paddy Chayefsky. It is, however, awfully fun to watch in spite of / because of its extreme stupidity, what with Blythe’s incredible boobs, Debra Lamb’s “Dance of the Seven Boners” strip number, a nightmare presented as a movie trailer, end-credit commercials that tastelessly defile corpses, and one old lady explosion. —Rod Lott

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A few years ago, my former employer decided to produce a series of videos for the smartphone market and tasked me with writing them. I threw together 25 scripts centered on the concept of the “sport” of curling (their idea, not mine), handed them in and heard nothing about the project for four months.

Then I learned the videos were going to be directed by “exciting new talent” David Ostry, who was then at work on a feature film produced by Kevin Spacey, starring Hayden Panettiere, that cute cheerleader from Heroes. I was excited to find out my scripts were actually going to be produced, and looked forward to hearing from Ostry when he inevitably sought my feedback.

Four more months passed, and I was surprised when I was asked if I wanted to see the completed videos. My surprise turned to horror when I saw that the “exciting new talent” had managed to completely misinterpret all of my scripts, sometimes conveying the exact opposite point and tone I had intended. Adding insult to injury, the only credit that appeared in the videos was Ostry’s, completely negating my own contribution to the project.

So you can forgive me if I approached The Good Student with a distinct bias against it. I try to never start watching a movie wanting to hate it, but in this case, I was willing to make an exception. It’s so poorly made, it’s no wonder the film took so long to be released, even with such a well-known, talented cast, including Tim Daly, William Sadler and Dan Hedaya. Despite starting out as an editor, Ostry has difficulty getting shots that cut well together and the digital-video cinematography makes the work look and feel like an ambitious home movie.

But its biggest flaw is its inability to maintain a consistent tone. Clearly inspired by American Beauty, it loses focus midway through and ceases to be an unsuccessful social satire in favor of being an unsuccessful thriller. But you can’t take my word for it, since I have an admitted ax to grind, which means you’ll have to judge it for yourself.

You poor, poor bastards. —Allan Mott

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Watching, absorbing and trying to stay awake during Gold, you not only realize why Kent State happened, but why it was also fully justified. As a matter of fact, I was so charged up after viewing this musty, shot-in-1968 relic that I went down to my local college campus and shot three kids playing Hacky Sack.

Okay, not really, but I did kick their sack into the sewer just to spite them, and to spite this movie. Like many lost-film obsessives, when word hit that Gold was going to get a proper DVD release, I was excited, picturing an Alejandro Jodorowsky-lite countercultural epic, possibly a pre-indie, all-hippie take on the well-documented American Dream of the ’60s, complete with multicolored acid trips, psych-rock freak-outs and plenty of flower-power pubic hair. At least that’s what I was promised, dammit.

Instead, I got a fifth-rate group of stoned community theater rejects/draft-dodgers — led by “comedian” Del Close — dressed as famed mass-murderer Che Guevara, rolling around in the mud while espousing anti-war sentiments and aimlessly driving sputtering jalopies. Improvised elections are held on a train, The MC5 blares on the soundtrack, and everyone remains happily unemployable. If this is what the young people were doing while our boys were dying face-down in the Vietnam jungles, sign me up to the Ohio National Guard and hand me a bayonet!

With no rhyme, reason or proper editing techniques, it’s as if the school from Billy Jack made a movie and decided to write the screenplay after the thing was already in theaters. Never clever, funny nor enlightening, Gold is a total, unwatchable mess. It’s the Altamont of free-love flicks with every frame a pool cue to Meredith Hunter’s skull. And this Del Close guy: In every book about comedy, every tastemaker to come out of Second City or The Groundlings raves on and on about this so-called “father of improvisational comedy” as “the funniest man you’ve never heard of.” If Gold is any inclination of his talents, there’s a reason for that.

Gold: You blew it, man. —Louis Fowler

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After an incognito viewing of herself in an adult movie shown on a commercial airline (!), American actress Betty Williams (Pia Degermark, Elvira Madigan) lands in Transylvania, where she has just inherited the requisite spooky old castle whose basement is laden with torture devices specifically for use on naked women.

The place also bears — bares? — a nude portrait of her great-grandmother, Baroness Clarimonde (also Degermark), who looks just like her, except that Betty’s hair is blonde to her ancestor’s brunette. Also, Clarimonde is a vampire who emerges from her coffin and corrupts nearby villagers, in particular the leering Catholics next door. Seduction follows, several times over.

All this culminates in quite the swingin’ party-cum-orgy where the guest of honor is none other than Count Dracula himself (Ferdy Mayne, Conan the Destroyer), who swoops in on his own branded helicopter, flashes the devil’s horns to his admirers, and goes inside to enjoy a banana. If you couldn’t tell by now, The Vampire Happening is a stab at sexy horror comedy à la The Fearless Vampire Killers, but minus the touch of Roman Polanski. (In his place is Hammer/Amicus vet Freddie Francis.)

In the most riotous scene, Betty flashes a monk from her window, prompting the lust-suffering holy man to the imagine all the surrounding trees as naughty parts, moss and all, like something from the height of the Zucker/Abrahams/Zucker era. Speaking of, the gay male flight attendant gags in the opening scenes are as un-PC as Stephen Stucker’s running ones in Airplane!, but not as funny. In fact, little in Vamp Hap is truly funny, but the movie is so odd, so laden with nudity, so goofily self-aware, you gotta see it anyway. —Rod Lott

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