The late Blake Edwards is probably one of the last filmmakers you’d ever think would dip his toes into the murky waters of post-modernism, but it’s impossible not to notice the meta qualities of S.O.B. (we’re told it stands for “Standard Operational Bullshit”), his ode to the crass insanities of the filmmaking industry.

How else would you describe a movie about a filmmaker who attempts to create a hit by baring the breasts of his movie-star wife — a famous paragon of onscreen innocence and virtue — that just happened to be made by a filmmaker who was attempting to create a hit by baring the breasts of his movie-star wife, who just happened to be Maria Von Trapp and Mary Fucking Poppins?

Unlike the film within the film, the sight of Julie Andrews’ breasts didn’t cause anyone to rush to the box office, but that doesn’t mean S.O.B. isn’t a classic satire of early ’80s Hollywood culture. While occasionally overly broad and at least 30 minutes too long (I would have cut most of the last 20 minutes and everything to do with Loretta Swit’s gossip columnist), the movie is often laugh-out-loud funny and features an amazing cast doing what they do best.

This includes William Holden, appearing as a slightly happier version of the same character he played in the similarly themed Network; Richard Mulligan as the crazed producer who decides to transform his G-rated flop into a X-rated hit; a young Rosanna Arquette, who doesn’t say or do much, but who is braless and topless just long enough to earn a mention; and Robert Preston, who easily steals the show as the laid-back physician who’s seen it all at least twice, and done it himself at least once.

And, because you are wondering, despite the fact that Julie Andrews was 46 when the movie was made, they’re real and they’re spectacular. —Allan Mott

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A condemned nobleman sits in his jail cell, mere hours away from his appointment with a noose. The epitome of good grace, he’s seems to have accepted his fate as calmly as any man could, although he is innocent of the murder for which he has been convicted. With so little time left, he has to hurry if he is to properly jot down the tale of his rise to the nobility and all of the people he really did kill before finding himself in this somewhat ironic predicament.

Kind Hearts and Coronets is not just a black comedy; it is the black comedy by which the entire genre should be judged. It is the story of a bitter, deceitful, murderous, narcissistic sociopath whom you’ll happily root for as he purposefully kills all of the useless relatives standing between him and the noble birthright he believes was denied him by their class snobbery.

As played by Dennis Price, Louis Mazzini is so upfront and charming about his crimes and his reasons for committing them that it’s only in retrospect you realize there might be something wrong with him. It’s easy to imagine yourself in his place, doing exactly the same thing. The only reason he isn’t considered one of the greatest villains in film history is because writer/director Robert Hamer so expertly presents him as its hero, it’s impossible to think of him as anything else.

By far the best movie to come out of Britain’s estimable Ealing Studios, Kind Hearts and Coronets is one of those timeless, black-and-white films whose sensibility is so unique and perfect, it feels as if it could have been made yesterday. I think I’ve seen it at least 20 times since I first discovered it, and I’ve been shocked and surprised by its brilliance on every viewing. —Allan Mott

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Happy Hour (also known as Sour Grapes) is the very rare example of a comedy that made me sad — not because it was irredeemably terrible, but rather because it consistently made me laugh. This was especially surprising because I went into it with extremely low expectations. When a film’s biggest names include Jamie Farr, Rich Little, Eddie Deezen and Tawny Kitaen, it’s hard not to brace for the worst.

But, in this case, the worst never happens. Instead, the movie finds the same strange balance between absurdist buffoonery and prescient satire also seen in the underrated Killer Tomatoes franchise, which isn’t a coincidence since Happy Hour was writer/director John De Bello’s sophomore effort following the cult success of 1978’s infamous Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.

Recognizable TV character actor Richard Gilliland stars as a chemist who accidentally discovers an additive that makes Marshall Beer dangerously addictive. The promotion that results enrages his lab partner/ex-girlfriend, prompting her to steal half of the formula and take it to Marshall’s largest competitor. Little, who limits himself to just one (terrible) Cary Grant impression, is the James Bond-like spy hired to steal the formula from Marshall, while sleazy scumbag Farr and his psycho partner Kitaen (in a clear bit of typecasting) are tasked to steal the formula from Marshall’s competition.

While the movie has its share of clumsy moments (more the result of budget than anything else), Happy Hour is far funnier than it has any right to be, which makes the fact that De Bello is now working in advertising instead of still making features the cause of my post-credits melancholy. There’s no one who can’t tell me he shouldn’t have been at least as prolific as Dennis Fucking Dugan. —Allan Mott

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What do you get when you take most of the cast of Jackass franchise, but remove Johnny Knoxville, Spike Jonze, Jeff Tremaine and the backing of MTV and Paramount Pictures from the equation? Absolutely zero laughs, judging by National Lampoon’s TV: The Movie.

Partly written and produced by Preston Lacy, who’s like Chris Farley minus comedic timing, TV: The Movie also stars his fellow Jackass asses Steve-O, Jason “Wee Man” Acuña, Chris Pontius and Ehren McGhehey, plus real actors Clifton Collins Jr., Lee Majors, Judd Nelson, Tony Cox, Danny Trejo and Ian Somerhalder, all of whom I’m going to just assume were bribed.

The Kentucky Fried Movie wannabe presents one unfunny sketch after another, with a mix of show and commercial parodies. Among the “targets” are Cops, Fear Factor, Miami Vice, Desperate Housewives and Girls Gone Wild. Among the elements used often to spoof such things: purported jokes built upon drugs, masturbation, homophobia and the word “motherfucker.”

I’m on record admitting to laughing a few times at another recent Lampoon loser, National Lampoon’s Dirty Movie, which plays like Billy Wilder by comparison. At one point, my DVD player kicked out this disc because of a damaged section, which I should’ve taken as a sign. Even technology hates worthless shit. If you find it funny, you’re likely high or living off Jackass royalties, in which case you’re likely high. —Rod Lott

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Recently I watched the Australian superhero satire The Return of Captain Invincible. I mention this because it happened to be an unfunny comedy that suddenly and inexplicably turned into a terrible musical 20 minutes into its running time, so when I was 15 minutes into Saturday the 14th Strikes Back and the peroxide blonde vampiress who looked just like an ’80s New Wave porn star started singing about how much she misses vegetables, I was hit by a profound case of the what-the-fucks.

Luckily, this scene turned out to be an aberration, and none of the other characters felt compelled to burst out into song over the hour that remained until the movie limped along to its merciful conclusion, but the constant threat that they might at least managed to inspire the kind of tension the rest of Strikes Back sorely lacked.

Written and directed by Howard R. Cohen, the auteur also responsible for the original Saturday the 14th, Strikes Back was clearly made for a young audience, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that it is neither funny nor scary. The cast is game and there are some potentially amusing surreal touches (such as the mother’s strange aversion to serving healthy foods), but they are all so poorly timed and executed that none of them stick.

It doesn’t help that the film includes several shots from Allan Arkush’s Rock ‘n’ Roll High School during its inexplicable climax, painfully reminding you of a much better way you could have spent the previous 80 minutes of your life. —Allan Mott

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