Call it Dario Argento’s adaptation of Video Poker. Just don’t call it slow to get going. In the first scene, its simple plot is already in place: A madman has invited policewoman Anna Mari (Stefania Rocca) to play a game of online poker. The stakes? The life of the young woman he’s nabbed, bound, gagged and set in front of a webcam. The rules? First to three hands wins. And for each hand Anna loses, he “will amputate something.”

This being Argento, la polizia initially lose, and a nude corpse soon washes ashore with a joker card stored in her vagina and a seed shoved up her nose. Oh, well — better luck next time, newbie!

After wising up, the cops recruit a young poker expert (Silvio Muccino) to spar in future matches, which comes in handy when the chief’s daughter is one of the unsuspecting victims. Horror elements aside, The Card Player is really a mystery — more CSI than Suspiria — and one not too terribly tough at figuring out. The draw — no pun intended — is seeing what Argento does with it. Sad to say, but few shots carry his once-magic, instantly recognizable touch. Anyone could have directed this telefilm (but, it should be noted, a telefilm with nipples, pubic hair and “fuck!”).

That said, his script tries to make up for a lack of suspense with a few
perverse touches. Some work (howdy, spiked trap door!); others don’t (watching two people on train tracks play poker on a laptop is as dull as, well, watching two people play poker on a laptop). Argento nearly squanders all goodwill with this Player‘s final line/shot. Cliché alert! —Rod Lott

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Even the most die-hard of armchair sleuths would be intimidated by a 300-minute mystery. While your schedule and your ass may be unable to take Five Days all in one sitting, your mind and your curiosity will want to. A production of the great BBC, the Gwyneth Hughes-penned miniseries is comprised of five one-hour episodes, each depicting a single day in the aftermath of a crime.

That crime is the sudden, shocking disappearance and presumed murder of Leanne Wellings (Christine Tremarco), a twice-married mother of three who vanishes while buying flowers from a roadside vendor, leaving her two youngest children waiting in the car. The kids make their way toward home, but they, too, are soon missing.

Hot-tempered husband/father Matt (David Oyelowo) is torn up at the prospect of losing his entire immediate family, while also considered a possible suspect by the authorities leading the investigation (Hugh Bonneville and Janet McTeer). Their widening net weaves in encounters with journalists, a potential pedophile, a nursing home resident (Edward Woodward) and one horny young woman (Sarah Smart) with a secret.

While full of twists and revelations, Hughes’ screenplay doesn’t ignore characterization, and there are plenty of people you get to know in that amount of time. The day-an-episode structure could be a gimmick, but she smartly avoids that, mostly in making those days not consecutive, which heightens the drama and asks viewers to fill in part of what happened in the time that elapsed. A second season, with a new story and characters, has yet to play the States. —Rod Lott

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You just have to look at its credits to appreciate what a one-of-a-kind movie The Last of Sheila is. Co-written as a lark by legendary Broadway composer/lyricist Stephen Sondhiem and Psycho star Anthony Perkins, the script was directly inspired by the intricate parlor games they both enjoyed devising for their friends.

Beyond their famed intelligence and love of brainteasers, the two men also shared a gleeful fondness for bitchy gossip, which compelled them to cast their mystery with characters based on real-life Hollywood personalities, albeit just loosely enough to avoid lawsuits and inspire some fun guessing games (except in the case of Dyan Cannon’s character, who is so obviously Sue Mengers, you don’t even have to know who Sue Mengers is to figure it out).

In the movie, James Coburn plays a games-obsessed producer who has gathered a group of fellow industry folks (including Cannon, Richard Benjamin, James Mason, Raquel Welch, Joan Hackett and Ian McShane) for a weeklong trip on his private yacht. All of his guests have two things in common: They harbor a potentially embarrassing secret their host knows about, and they were all present at Coburn’s house the night his wife, the titular Sheila, died under mysterious circumstances.

To give away any more of the plot would spoil the fun, but it does say something about the confidence and chutzpah of Sondheim and Perkins that the solution to their cinematic puzzle can actually be found directly in the film’s title. As fun and entertaining as The Last of Sheila is, however, its uniqueness adds a touch of melancholy to its existence. Watching it, you can’t help but wonder what other wonderful games its two famous scribes might have allowed us to play had they decided to work together again. —Allan Mott

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Agatha Christie’s classic novel And Then There Were None has been adapted for the screen many times, but none more swingin’ than schlockmeister Harry Alan Towers’ 1965 production, Ten Little Indians. This version is inferior to the first and best, 1945’s And Then There Were None, directed by René Clair, but don’t let that dissuade you.

Christie’s amazingly influential premise is directly ported onto screen as 10 strangers — a doctor, a judge, an actress, a singer, etc. — are summoned to a weekend in the mountaintop mansion of one Mr. U.N. Owen, a host none of them know. They’re awaiting his arrival when a recording of his voice (a disembodied Christopher Lee) accuses each of them of having commited murder of an innocent. Their punishment is getting murdered in turn, as they’re trapped in the estate until Monday.

Not long after they notice the presence of the “Ten Little Indians” nursery rhyme all over the rooms, one of them dies, and in the exact manner as the rhyme’s first couplet. Just who is this Mr. Owen? Why is he doing this? And will they be able to find out before there are none of them left? You’ll have a ball being stumped.

Only in the ’60s would teen idol Fabian be cast, making some of the strangest facial expressions the screen wouldn’t see the likes of until Daniel Day-Lewis in My Left Foot. Only in the ’60s would the lead roles be given to featherweight actors like Hugh O’Brian and former Bond girl Shirley Eaton (who, however, disrobes twice). And only in the ’60s would it be given a William Castle-esque gimmick in the form of a “Whodunit Break,” a minute-long intermission during which a clock countdowns the seconds, shows you clues and invites you to figure out the solution beforehand. —Rod Lott

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Following a plague of murders committed by the titular beast, a rich man (Lionel Atwill) receives a note that fingers him as the monkey’s next victim, to be killed at midnight. He calls his niece, her fiancée and three bumbling detectives (The Ritz Brothers) to his mansion, which turns out to house a ton of secret passages, which the gorilla uses to terrify the houseguests (which include butler Bela Lugosi).

But director Allan Dwan’s The Gorilla is no horror film — rather, it’s Edgar Allan Poe’s “Murders at the Rue Morgue” mystery rejiggered as a screwball comedy. And the comedy is perfectly stupid, which helps make the movie perfectly enjoyable.

The Ritz Brothers are like a combination of The Marx Brothers, Abbott & Costello and … oh, I dunno, Sammy Petrillo and Duke Mitchell, just to even things out a bit. (Typical exchange: “How do you spell ‘gorilla’? Two Rs or two Ls?” “Gorilla. G-O … Gee! Oh! Gorilla!”)

Every old, dirt-cheap, 66-minute movie should have a killer monkey on the loose running through a hidden maze of corridors, bonking guys on the head. Yeah, I kinda loved it. —Rod Lott

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