Just married, young lovebirds Marion and Frank drive straight to Las Vegas — the city limits of which are denoted by a yard sign — for what will turn out a true Honeymoon of Terror. Their luck doesn’t run out right away; the worst that happens in Sin City is that Frank (Doug Leith) takes his bride to see a sort of Hee Haw-themed stripper act, while later, the virginal Marion (Dwan Marlow) forgets her PJs and attempts to blue-ball the hubs until he falls asleep.

Wishing they could be truly alone, she expresses a desire to go to “a deserted lake.” Frank, in his clothespin-nasal voice, just so happens to know of such a place: Thunder Island, where no one has lived for 15 whole years! And hell, he’s even got a map for it in his suitcase!

Come morning, they boat over and set up camp. Frank has to run into town for supplies, leaving Marion on her own — a perfect opportunity to skinny-dip. Her tan lines are so high-contrast, her rear looks like shorts from a brief distance. As promised, the of Terror portion arrives as she’s being watched by an unshaven old slob with a noticeable limp. The way he rubs his stubble, we know he wants to tumble.

Will Frank return in time to save her? Will Marion spend roughly the entire second half running and screaming? Will writer/director Peter Perry Jr. (Kiss Me Quick!) pause at halftime to give us a greatest-hits reel of the prior 30 minutes?

These questions are more are answered in the affirmative by Honeymoon of Terror (aka Ecstasy on Lovers Island), an amateurs-only psycho-thriller/nudie-cutie combo that comes close to crossing into roughie territory. Even with Ms. Marlow’s limited nakedness, the movie rings fairly innocuous by today’s standards — and equally as fun. I’d rub my stubble to see it in color. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

When proposing marriage to the woman you love, be sure to make it memorable. Not most guys’ idea of memorable, which means in public so she feels enormous pressure to accept. And definitely not 6:45’s idea of memorable, which means she’s immediately gutted by a stranger with a box cutter.

Said unfortunate fate befalls Jules (Augie Duke, Necropolis: Legion), much to the horror of boyfriend/bystander Bobby (Michael Reed, Chupacabra Territory), who then gets his neck cranked a sharp 90˚ angle. The operative word of that sentence is “much,” because then Bobby wakes at the titular time in the B&B bed of their romantic weekend excursion and is forced to relive it over and over again, despite efforts to the contrary.

Playing like a downbeat Groundhog Day, this indie thriller from Dark Ride director Craig Singer is built upon a good-enough idea, although wholly unoriginal. Oddly, once the time loop takes effect, interest wanes and thrills give way to dramatics, with which everyone seems not as comfortable handling. Until then, however, I wanted to see where Singer would take it (although not as much as he made me want to see Asbury Park, the iconic New Jersey seaside city standing in for the lovers’ destination of Bog Grove).

6:45’s ultimate twist becomes conspicuous well before intended, which only reinforces its status as a clothes-free emperor — and one who hates playing by the rules, even within the malleability the genre affords. In other words, it’s as predictable as knowing which number a digital clock will display next. Worse, as if you didn’t process the revelation, Singer hits you over the head with it — and over and over again, much like a serial killer who couldn’t find his box cutter and had to settle for a hammer. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

As seems apt for a second entry of a B-level franchise, Escape Room: Tournament of Champions begins in a “last week on …” style befitting of episodic TV. And immediately, the 2019 sleeper hit‘s two survivors, Zoey (Taylor Russell) and Ben (Logan Miller), track the coordinates of the Minos Corporation, the shady outfit behind the invitation-only attraction that tried to straight up murder them, to Manhattan.

Lest you worry your sequel steeps itself in a mudheap o’ mythology, fear not! Like its predecessor, Tournament of Champions is almost solely a series of for-keeps games with true life-or-death stakes. We get a few rounds of electric hangman in a subway car, a cityscape with acid rain, a faux beach that’s actually a giant hourglass and a bank lobby equipped with criss-crossing laser beams. (Regarding that last one, where are Catherine Zeta-Jones and Vincent Cassel when we need them most?)

Each scenario plays out like puzzle pages torn from a Final Destination-themed workbook. Returning writer/director Adam Robitel again has his stock characters somehow solve incredibly cryptic clues under incredibly stressful timelines, so prepare for a lot of this:

Person A: “Time’s running out, hurry!”

Person B: “I found something! What can this mean?”

Person A: “I dunno, but — oh, look your flop sweat dropped on it and revealed an image of a bird and you’re from Boston so maybe it means Larry Byrd of the Boston Celtics? And he spells his name with a ‘Y,’ right? And ‘Y’ is the 25th letter in the alphabet and-and-and is anyone here 25? No? Oh, snap, we’re surrounded by mirrors, so maybejustmaybe it’s really 52! Who here is — what, Jan, you? You’re 52? That’s it, that’s it! Caw-caw, Jan! Caw-caw like the wind!”

Had the movie not racked up a body count, I may not in such a forgiving mood over their deduction powers that take Sherlock Holmes to the nth degree. But it does; therefore, I am. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

I love a good heist movie. Thirty Dangerous Seconds is not one.

Written, directed and produced as pedestrian as possible by movie newbie Joseph Taft, the Oklahoma City-shot obscurity begins with a phone call as Lori (Kathryn Reynolds, Trilogy of Terror) pleads with her drunken oilman love, Glen (a sleepy Robert Lansing, 4D Man), to return to OKC to get married and knock over an armored car.

One barfly fling later, Glen agrees … not knowing that three professional criminals have the same damn plan (minus the nuptials). Viewers may not know that, either, as this isn’t immediately obvious since Taft’s attempts at setting up who these people are and their relationships to one another are gelatinous at best. Further confounding matters is Lori looks like Patricia (Marj Dusay, A Fire in the Sky), the moll of fresh ex-con Tim (Michael Dante, The Naked Kiss), who’s in cahoots with the bald, wheelchair-bound kingpin, Ed (Peter Hart, Blood Cult).

Two groups, one target — not a bad idea, but Taft bungles it entirely, barely depicting his crime picture’s crux! Suffice to say, Glen, Lori and Glen’s fake mustache beat Ed’s gang to the money punch. Before the newlyweds can flee to Mexico for a happily ever after, Lori is kidnapped, drugged and tortured with a plastic bag.

For Glen to get his bride back, Ed forces him into a game on forking over the stolen bucks at four separate spots around the OKC metro, with only 10 minutes to get to each. (So why isn’t the title Thirty Dangerous Minutes?) While these scavenger-hunt hoops make no narrative sense, they give Thirty Dangerous Seconds its lone memorable stretch, as Glen — sporting a hideous, two-bit Gore-Tex jacket in lipstick red — makes deposits to everyone from a party clown in a room of player pianos to a roller-skating dwarf in a parking garage.

By then, you’ll swear you’re hallucinating, but please don’t take that as encouragement to watch. Taft’s only movie feels like a moderately ambitious student film, but made before he got around to enrolling in Screenwriting 101. If you should succumb, watch for early cameos by John Ferguson (aka OKC TV horror host Count Gregore), Ford Austin (aka future director/actor of the riotous Dahmer vs. Gacy) and some bartender in vertically striped pants. —Rod Lott