Thanks to its status as a perennial late-night movie during the ’80s and early ’90s, I’ve probably seen Sean Cunningham’s Spring Break at least six or seven times during the course of my life. But despite the number of times I’ve seen it, I’m still hard-pressed to tell you what it’s actually about.

Here’s what I can remember: There are two dorks (David Knell and Perry Lang) and two non-dorks (Paul Land and Steve Bassett). The two dorks have a room at a hotel that’s fully booked, and the non-dorks don’t, so they convince the dorks to let them stay in their room in exchange for letting them hang out with them and enjoy their non-dorky adventures.

One of the dorks has an important father, so there’s some concern that he shouldn’t be spring breaking and possibly ruin his father’s image, and one of the non-dorks falls in love with the really hot singer (Corrine Alphen) of an all-girl rock band (whose presence in the film is the only reason I’ve watched this movie as many times as I have).

Cunningham’s refusal to abide such narrative conventions as character and plot would be forgivable if he presented us with an entertaining representation of the event his film was made to celebrate, but even here, he holds back, giving us a lame spring break most of us would bitch miserably about if we had lived through it ourselves.

Subdued and tame when it should be wild and raucous, there is — as I’ve already mentioned — only one reason to party during this Spring Break and I’ve thoughtfully compiled the following video to save you the time and effort of having to experience the rest. —Allan Mott

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Remember in the days after 9/11 when media reports and overly sensitive people asked/moaned, “Will we ever be able to laugh again?” Well, of course, you dumb shits. And not to downplay the horrible, horrible, horrible tragedy of Sept. 11, 2001, but with nearly a decade past, not only are we still laughing, but we’ve grown to the point of having an actual terrorist comedy, in the uproarious Four Lions.

The title refers to a group of young, fresh-outta-training Jihadists who plot an act of terrorism on British soil. There’s nothing funny about that, except that they are stunningly incompetent. From failed disguises to accidental explosions, they prove practically incapable of executing the simplest move. And it’s all done with a script — seemingly improvised, but more likely just that sharp — loaded with smart, impeccable timing.

Director/co-writer Chris Morris’ film has the feel of a documentary, and reminds one of last year’s similarly scoped and structured In the Loop, except all around stronger, funnier and better. This is not poking fun at the Muslim religion, but its minute fraction of extremists (akin to Christianity’s abortion-doc bombers/shooters) who embrace misinterpretation on their road to martyrdom.

However rollicking, Four Lions has an unexpected heart to it, and a bittersweet end that’s not out of character for the piece. Bonus points: It might actually make you feel more at ease about the world around you. Fear not that you may not recognize anyone in the cast — save maybe Sherlock‘s Benedict Cumberbatch — because its laughs are so well-placed, so powerful, they emerge as the true star. —Rod Lott

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For that segment of the population that doesn’t remember a time before e-mail and smartphones, the 1980s have taken on the faint haze of nostalgia, a romanticism borne from such snappy oddities as skinny ties, checkered sneakers and Andrew McCarthy. Don’t believe it, youngsters. It wasn’t all lollipops and John Hughes.

Not even the syrupy gaze of nostalgia can help Valley Girl, among the surfeit of teen comedies that passed like gallstones through movie theaters in the Eighties. Dull, uneven and flat as a (insert teen flick joke here), the picture is a particular letdown coming from well-heeled director Martha Coolidge, whose credits include 1985’s infinitely more entertaining Real Genius. It also marks the gangly film debut of Nicolas Cage, whose hipster loner shtick is a pale version of what he would later bring.

Deborah Foreman stars as Julie, a good-looking, popular, high-school hottie in San Fernando Valley who’s tired of her good-looking, popular, high-school hottie boyfriend, Tommy (Michael Bowen). In true Capulet fashion, she is drawn to Randy (Cage), an L.A. County punker whose haircut and clothes suggest a certain mousse-addled worldliness … if The Fixx embodied worldiness.

All the language curiosities of the Valley ring especially hollow coming a year after Moon Unit Zappa and daddy Frank had skewered the pampered class in the song “Valley Girl.” By contrast, the comedy and satire (?) of the picture feels like an afterthought. In the final outrage, Valley Girl has the audacity to skimp on the nudity, opting instead to simply peter out in a wheezy climax at the prom — a scene only marginally less competent than 96 percent of soft-core porn viewed by lonely salesmen in discount airport hotels.

At least it boasts a bitchin’ soundtrack populated by the likes of The Psychedelic Furs, Modern English, Sparks and The Plimsouls. Good for iTunes. —Phil Bacharach

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Before I watched it just now, Splitz lingered in my memory as one of those movies every video store in the ’80s seemed to have, but no one ever seemed to rent. It had one of those strange video covers you always noticed on the shelf, but never felt obligated to pick up. I had always assumed it was about a bunch of sexy girls who triumph over the domination of another group of sexy girls via the power of aerobic cheerleading — kind of a combination of H.O.T.S. and Heavenly Bodies.

Turns out my imagination was wrong, and it’s really about how a trio of sexy female musicians join forces with their manager to help a bunch of homely girls triumph over the domination of two groups of other homely girls via the power of intramural college athletics.

What really surprised me about Splitz was how much I was charmed by it. That’s not to say it’s a good movie — it’s far too hamstrung by the competing sensibilities of its four credited screenwriters to work as a successful whole — but I found it full of enough charming characters and worthwhile moments to allow me to patiently get through the scenes that were obviously written by whichever of the four writers was a hack-tastic moron.

I will admit that I’m probably biased by my affection for movies that feature sexy all-girl bands. As a fake band, The Splitz are a surprisingly catchy trio — nowhere near as good as The Carrie Nations, but in the same league as Josie and the Pussycats. Robin Johnson (Times Square) especially stands out as Gina, the group’s lead guitarist who looks like a New Wave goddess, but sounds just like Jo from The Facts of Life (which is really much hotter than it sounds). —Allan Mott

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Dear Hollywood,

I miss Deborah Foreman. Why did you stop making movies with her in them? Did she do something to piss you off? I’ve checked online, and the most recent photographs I’ve seen prove she’s still as hot as ever. Have you seen Valley Girl or April Fool’s Day or Waxwork or Sundown: The Vampire in Retreat? If you had, you’d know she was that rare actress who effortlessly mixed genuine sex appeal with likable adorability.

No greater proof of that exists than My Chauffeur, where she played an adorably sexy space cadet mysteriously hired by a secret benefactor to be the first female driver at a stuffy limousine company. Sure, it’s a haphazard, uneven production made by the schlockmeisters at the now-defunct Crown International Pictures, but she’s hilarious in it. And sexy. And adorable.

Just watch her wonderful under-reaction to the news that her and Sam Jones’ blossoming intimate relationship might be an incestuous one and tell me why she didn’t at least get her own badly written, cheesy ’80s sitcom! Truthfully, I can take or leave the rest of the picture — including the bizarre appearance by a fetal Penn & Teller — but that hasn’t stopped me from watching it a dozen times since it first came out.

Okay, maybe you’ve tried to get her back and she refuses to return your phone calls. Try harder. With Amanda Bynes teetering on and off the edge of retirement, we need all of the sexy-adorable we can get.

Yours Expectantly, —Allan Mott

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