On the website WatchUsDorm.com, seven sexy supposed co-eds have their every move livestreamed 24/7 to the delight of chronic masturbators everywhere.

And in the movie WatchUsDie.com, the WatchUsDorm.com vacancy rate increases by one as a Noh-masked killer dispatches them, bimbo by bimbo. It’s the opportune time for new girl Brenna (one-timer Jennifer Cooper) to move in, seeing how she’s secretly a journalist going undercover to write a juicy exposé.

With Bambi eyes and an open mouth suggesting a constant mental state of golly-gee-willikers, Brenna joins a Noah’s Ark of i-candy, including an Asian massage therapist, a French maid, a fortune teller, a master of Conan the Barbarian-style swordplay and, saving the breast for last, a stripper named Amber Coldbath (because Amber Coldshower is too on-the-nose?). Played by Playboy Cyber Girl (remember those?) Amy Miller with so much boop-oop-a-doop that even Judy Landers would cringe, Amber is a Bill Ward cartoon in human form, dutifully prancing around in push-up bra and silk panties like a more bubbly (yet more coherent) Anna Nicole. She and the others are introduced to viewers by onscreen text that’s part Playmate Data Sheet, part spy dossier and all TMI.

As the murders occur, frat boys, perspiring incels and concerned Billie Bird types remain glued (but by what?) to their monitors. (How they manage to see anything on the pixelated, postage stamp-sized feed captured from angles befitting bank security cameras, one-time director Ryan Woo doesn’t address.) From strategically placed high heels to electricity-rigged hot tubs, who’s responsible for these instruments of doom? Could it be Even (Doug Blimline), the himbo handyman? Or the owner, the greasy goombah they call Falconer (Peter Vita)? Only the team of Agatha Christie and Joe Francis know for sure.

Just kidding — it’s exactly who Woo and Keith W. Strandberg (screenwriter of the No Retreat, No Surrender trilogy) set it up to be, right along with the awkward underlining of Breena’s otherwise outta-nowhere sign-language skills. That’s how foreshadowing works.

If WatchUsDie weren’t so harebrained in construction and execution that it comes off like its own parody, its icky invite to delight in the ladies’ looks as much as the way they look with their face bashed against bath tile, viewing might require a shower afterward — and not the Coldshower kind. Enjoy the film on that level, because there is no suspense beyond whether the dial-up modem in the opening credits will drop its connection.

Wait, that’s not entirely true; I kinda wanted to see if Miller would lose playing Strip Clue. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Only a few years after the demise of Hollywood’s production code, 1971 must have prompted some serious handwringing from pundits eager to bemoan the end of civilization. Movies were seemingly awash in blood-spattered permissiveness. Dirty Harry and The French Connection showed cops whose ruthless brutality occasionally resembled that of the criminals they chased, while A Clockwork Orange and The Devils initially received X ratings for their sexual violence.

And right in the middle of it all was Straw Dogs.

Even five decades after its theatrical release, Sam Peckinpah’s tale of rape and murder in the British moorlands remains the filmmaker’s most controversial work, what New Yorker movie critic Pauline Kael derisively dubbed “the first American film that is a fascist work of art.”

While the characters’ motives and politics are far too problematic for tidy condemnation, one thing is clear: Straw Dogs is a masterful thriller as complicated as it is viscerally exciting.

Dustin Hoffman and Susan George portray David and Amy Sumner. The young couple have moved to a stone farmhouse in Amy’s native Cornwall in the UK, where David, an American astral mathematician, has a grant to study stellar structures. In other words, David is an intellectual, and a socially awkward one at that, which doesn’t exactly endear him to the noncerebral, beer-swilling louts who frequent the neighborhood pub.

It doesn’t help that half the men in the village appear to be lusting after David’s blonde, beautiful wife. In fact, Peckinpah’s camera introduces us to Amy with a shot squarely of her chest, sans bra and in a tight sweater, as she strolls along a street. Among those who take notice of Amy’s return to town is Charlie Venner (Del Henney), her old flame. David, unaware of their history, hires Charlie to join a few other workmen building a garage for the Sumners.

Aside from Charlie, the work crew includes brutish Norman Scutt (Ken Hutchison), who proudly shows Charlie a pair of undies he has stolen from the Sumner home; as well as a maniacally giggling rat-catcher named Cawsey (Jim Norton). While the men leer at Amy and scoff at David, the Sumners are busy navigating a marriage on the rocks. He is selfish and irritable; she is sullen and immature; both share a talent for passive-aggressiveness. Tensions rise. And then the cat goes missing …

Adapted by Peckinpah and David Zelag Goodman (Logan’s Run) from a Gordon Williams potboiler called The Siege of Trencher’s Farm, Straw Dogs exudes unease in its opening minutes and doesn’t let up through the inevitably explosive conclusion. Peckinpah choreographs the violence expertly, employing a dazzling array of quick edits, slow-motion and other techniques that had catapulted him to superstardom with 1969’s The Wild Bunch. He takes his time getting to the bloodshed, too, teasing out how the marital slights and sniping begin to pile up. Hoffman and George are both magnificent in their challenging roles.

What makes Straw Dogs such a troubling watch – even after 51 years – is its graphic depiction of Amy’s rape by Charlie, and then Norman. Amy initially fights off her attacker, who slugs her, drags her across the floor by her hair, and rips open her shirt. But then Amy caresses Charlie’s face, and she responds sexually. The pair even engage in some post-coital cuddling before Norman, brandishing a shotgun, takes over for a decidedly unambiguous attack.

The scene, which earned the movie an X rating from British censors, also proved to be an offscreen ordeal for George. The shoot took three days, during which Peckinpah reportedly refused to utter a word to the then-20-year-old actress.

Does Straw Dogs foster the toxic male myth that women secretly want to be raped? Many critics at the time certainly thought so, and still do. Peckinpah also has his defenders, who point to the twisted dynamics between the characters. They note that Charlie is Amy’s ex-lover and that her marriage is dissolving. And there is always the possibility, as some have suggested, that Amy only surrenders when it is clear Charlie has overpowered her.

Maybe so, but I am skeptical, especially given Peckinpah’s hard-to-miss misogyny in The Wild Bunch and The Getaway. Still, it is a testament to Straw Dogs’ brilliant ambivalence that even a brutal rape is open for interpretation. —Phil Bacharach

Get it at Amazon.

While young men play a cricket match, one team member plays with his girlfriend in an apple orchard directly across the street. After he’s called back to the field, Pauline (Tracy Hyde, Melody), bides her time wandering ’round the grounds.

A path takes her to a gnome-statued garden at a railhouse occupied by a pubic-bearded hunchback (Brazil’s Bill Wallis, almost too creepy) and a towering idiot (Clive Mantle, Alien 3), making for an even grimmer version of John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. And if you want me to tell you about the rabbits, George, they’re as short-lived as the perilous Pauline.

At just under 50 minutes, The Orchard End Murder is a nasty little piece of work. The British picture heralds great promise for documentarian Christian Marnham in his fiction-film debut, particularly as a practitioner of crime and suspense, but to date, he’s made one lone feature: the 1988 rape-revenger Lethal Woman.

Too bad, because rare is the thriller whose suspense lever can be plotted like a diagonal line, rising in proportion with each passing minute toward a slow-burn end more satisfying than films twice its length. Designed to unsettle, hard to shake, The Orchard End Murder proves potent to the core. How ’bout them apples? —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Crime Wave is a crackerjack noir that packs a wallop and assembles an impressive array of ’50s-era character actors. While it might fall a little short of the promise of its kick-ass title, this B picture starring Sterling Hayden and directed by André De Toth is nevertheless a gem of criminal goodness.

Trouble begins when three prison escapees from San Quentin rob a Glendale, California, gas station, but not before one shoots a police officer who has the misfortune of showing up at the wrong time. Shortly after, they reach out for help from Steve Lacey (Gene Nelson), a former fellow inmate. Steve, now married and determined to remain on the straight and narrow, declines their request.

Enter Hayden as the imposing police Lt. Sims. Hot on the trail of the escapees, Sims’ gut tells him that Steve can lead him to the bad guys. There is no room for rehabilitation in Sims’ cynical mind; once a crook, he reasons, always a crook. When Sims has another officer phone the Lacey household and no one picks up, the intrepid lawman concludes that the unanswered ringing “doesn’t look good” for Steve.

Sims doesn’t know how right he is. One of the escapees, Gat Morgan (Nedrick Young), hoofs it to Lacey’s apartment after being seriously injured in the gas station robbery; Gat shows up just in time to die in Steve’s easy chair. Sims, suspecting Steve knows more than he lets on, jails the ex-con for several days before grudgingly letting the man return to wife Ellen (Phyllis Kirk). The timing is unfortunate. The two surviving escapees, Doc Penny (Ted de Corsia) and the brutish Ben Hastings (Charles Bronson, then still going by Charles Buchinsky), track down Steve and force him into their scheme to knock off a bank before fleeing the country. Steve reluctantly goes along to keep Ellen from harm’s way.

Perhaps it’s unsurprising that Nelson is miscast in the central role. Primarily a dancer who later turned to directing TV and movies (including two Elvis Presley flicks), Nelson is a little too pretty and self-satisfied for the part, his smug demeanor seemingly at odds with a character wound tighter than a hangman’s noose. But Nelson is surrounded by a bevy of terrific character actors happily chewing on enough scenery to warrant a bite block. The toothpick-gnawing Hayden delivers his hardboiled dialogue with machine-gun ferocity. De Corsia and Bronson are believably menacing, while Jay Novello steals his scenes as a disgraced doctor and ex-con who gets pulled into the nastiness. Dub Taylor (billed here as “Dubb Taylor”) has a memorable turn as a bumpkin gas station attendant, and an uncredited Timothy Carey appears as a gang member so batshit crazy, you half expect him to begin drooling at any minute.

Shot on location in Glendale in naturalistic black and white, Crime Wave has the lean, no-nonsense feel of the early-television crime dramas that undoubtedly were pulling away movie audiences of the time. Director De Toth and screenwriter Crane Wilbur, both of whom had also collaborated on the the first 3D picture, House of Wax, keep the pace snappy and brusque enough for a compact 73-minute running time. Crime might not pay (or so they say) but Crime Wave definitely pays off as entertaining noir. —Phil Bacharach

Get it at Amazon.

Couched in the hustle and bustle of a Manhattan Christmas season, The Scary of Sixty-First is an equal-parts exercise in conspiracy-theory paranoia and art-school fuckery. Ho-ho-ho-hum.

String-bean roomies Addie (Betsey Brown, Assholes) and Noelle (co-writer Madeline Quinn) score an oddly affordable apartment, complete with two levels, bloody mattresses and one rat-infested ham in the fridge. Growing tension between the friends escalates after an unnamed and unannounced visitor (Dasha Nekrasova, TV’s Succession, making her directorial debut) drops quite the truth bomb: “Something extremely sinister happened in this apartment.”

That is this: The place was owned by financier/pedophile Jeffrey Epstein, who utilized it as “some kind of orgy flophouse.” Mumblecore, meet Pedobear.

As Noelle willingly gets entangled in the visitor’s rabbit-hole internet research of Epstein’s considerable misdeeds and mysterious death behind bars, Addie shows signs of possession by one of his underage victims. Just as those sex-trafficked survivors had to wonder what on Earth they’d gotten themselves into, so may the Scary of Sixty-First viewer as Addie is compelled to furiously masturbate at the stoop of Epstein’s townhouse, even fingering the negative space of the metal “E” on the wall (Later, Addie commits unspeakable acts upon souvenir trinkets of the royal family featuring Prince Andrew.)

It’s not clear whether Nekrasova intended these transgressive scenes as terror or camp, yet I felt embarrassment all the same for Brown, no stranger to willingly humiliating herself onscreen. At least she can act, which cannot be said for front-of-camera newbie Quinn, whose presence registers somewhere between monotonic and blank. Although her rhetorical, likely improvised lines provide the film’s best seconds — from “What kind of loser would fuck somebody in a twin bed?” to especially “Why does Ghislane dress like a fucking nutcracker?” — a performer, she is not.

In the opening sequence, Nekrasova capitalizes on the inherent evil of gargoyles and other statues adorning the borough’s buildings, promising something special that never arrives. By the time she appears at the apartment door to kick off a second act, her grip gives way, and the film flies off the rails. Condemning the male gaze as she actively courts it, Nekrasova seems unsure where to take her tale, so the climax acknowledges word-for-word cribbing from Stanley Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut. In the end, The Scary of Sixty-First proves as refreshing as the warm White Claw downed by Quinn on moving day. —Rod Lott