After getting kicked out of college — again! — for his dorm mates burning his snake (not a frat ritual), judge’s son Artie Logan (Police Academy: Mission to Moscow’s Charlie Schlatter, the welfare Matthew Broderick) is sent to a university named Fairfield. Sporting a beret, jean jacket and cigarette, Artie gets all JD Brando on his old man: “Don’t lay this on me!”

Seemingly seconds after arriving on the Fairfield campus, however, Artie’s tune changes because he’s fucking the dean’s wife (Joanna Cassidy, Blade Runner). Even more promising (and age-appropriate) is the Prettiest Girl in School, Tally (Josie Bissett, Hitcher in the Dark), takes a liking to Artie’s lecherous stalker moves.

Young love — ain’t it grand? As long as one doesn’t burn to a crisp in a mysterious sorority-house fire? And as long as the other one isn’t wrongly pegged by the police as the prime suspect? This is where Artie should have saved his “Don’t lay this on me!” line.

Not only is hotshot detective P.J. Decker (Christopher Walken) assigned to the case, but incredulously agrees to give Artie 24 hours to prove his innocence! That’s not so easy to do, what with extra corpses running parallel to his every move — and in such gruesome, slasher-plucked exits: a drilled forehead o’er here, a grenade down the gym pants o’er there.

Until recently discovered by the viral corners of the internet, All-American Murder was known primarily for being the first (and only) not-made-for-TV feature film directed by Anson Williams, aka Potsie from the long-running sitcom Happy Days. Now it’s known for its rightful place in history: giving us one of the most memorable, calling-all-kooks performances by Walken. The Oscar winner walks into the flick like a stone-cold stud, taking charge of a megaphone to diffuse a hostage situation by taunting the gunman about boning his wife: “I love that little mole on her butt, don’t you? And how about that sensitive left nipple?”

This character intro is so great, you’ll not only long for Walken to take the story’s focus away from Schlatter, but for his own police procedural series on CBS. (At least that would give me and Mom something to discuss.) Later scenes double-down on Walken’s oddness, with a running joke (?) of Decker sharing an anecdote about “popping the cherry” of a hooker’s badge-fetishizing, 18-year-old sister.

More on the subject of jokes: Schlatter delivers his share as if he’s still stuck in George Burns’ withered turtle body from 18 Again!; Artie’s told, “I’d like to chop your balls off with a pick ax!” and he replies, “I respect your honesty” in such a way that you’re half-looking for the cigar. For some reason, many of Artie’s quips are food-based, e.g., “Thanks … for the whole salami,” “(He’s) one sick peanut!” and “Of course it’s my knife, you sausage!”

Schlatter tries to be funny, yet isn’t; Walken doesn’t try to be funny, yet is. The jury’s still out whether the tonally confused All-American Murder is the movie Williams intended to make, but because it’s progressively off-kilter, it’s never dull.

And hey, how about that sensitive left nipple? —Rod Lott

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When it comes to dangerous animals I’d never like to meet face to face, I always seem to forget about alligators, but that’s mostly because I’m never in the state of Florida, America’s penis. Regardless. the movie Crawl is a great reminder that, short of being a Cuban drug dealer, there’s really no reason to ever visit.

Sullen teen swimmer Haley (Kaya Scodelario), having recently lost another meet, drives a couple of hours to check on her deadbeat dad Dave (Barry Pepper), a sullen contractor, as a tumultuous Florida-style hurricane is hitting land. Unable to find him, when her smart dog barks a few times near the stairs, she goes to the basement to find him pinned in a corner by a couple of large alligators.

Instead of immediately running to find help, she swims deeper in and becomes trapped, too. Even more gators show up, all hungry or violent — I can’t tell. Various people also show up, from a trio of convenience store thieves to her sister’s cop ex-boyfriend, only to be brutally mangled by the leathery beasts.

Luckily, her dog is all right and makes it to the end, in case you were worried. I was.

Taking everything that is terrifying about Florida and turning it up to 11, Crawl is far better than it has any right to be, and I believe that’s mostly thanks to director Alexandre Aja and, of course, producer Sam Raimi being able to rise above the obviously schlocky material, including the entire state of Florida. That really says a lot. —Louis Fowler

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Four boys who look they slam pogs at recess are sitting on the beach, wieners in hand. Unprovoked, an old Indian shaman shambles over and starts rambling about warriors in the sky, which isn’t weird at all, and tells them to make a blood pact. Whipping out their respective pocketknives, they do. Kids, welcome to the world of pediatric AIDS!

Er, I mean Deep Blood. Welcome to the world of Joe D’Amato’s Deep Blood.

Years later, those four boys are four young men, each with their own problems. One is grieving a dead mom. One has to attend a military academy. One attends college, but just wants to golf. One is named Miki. One has a dad named Shelby. I may have mixed them all up, which is only natural, seeing how D’Amato (Emanuelle in America) rushes into things. It doesn’t help that each man acts with the verve of a pre-fairy Pinocchio, but it also doesn’t matter. Besides, one of them succumbs to a shark on the loose comparatively early in the film, which leaves us only three people to discern.

The first shark attack is the best, as a rafting woman is eaten while her little kid watches emotionless from the shore, as if Mom were doing something as benign as cutting the crusts from his PBJ. It’s not that her death is depicted realistically; quite the opposite, it looks as if D’Amato just had someone underwater open a jar of Ragu. Here, as throughout Deep Blood whenever shot from the shark’s POV, we can clearly make out the side of the swimming pool in which D’Amato filmed in broad daylight.

The actual shark content of Deep Blood is rather shallow, especially when so much of its stock footage comes pilfered from another Italian Jaws rip-off, Great White. Like that 1981 romp, this one includes a helicopter scene, too, but here the whirlybird is employed only to let the ever-perspiring Krupke-esque sheriff (Tody Bernard, Hologram Man) berate our protagonists via megaphone for going shark-hunting: “Get back to the harbor immediately. We know what you’re up to. Shelby, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Same goes for you, Joe! This is one of Italy’s shakiest sharksploitation efforts — and that’s saying something. —Rod Lott

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Hey, I understand we all gotta start somewhere. It’s just unfortunate Josie Bissett had to start her career not with TV’s hit Melrose Place, but a few years earlier with Umberto Lenzi’s Hitcher in the Dark. I’m guessing the movie is one she’d rather go unseen … and now that I’ve seen it, I understand that, too.

Angry at catching her jock boyfriend (Jason Saucier of producer Joe D’Amato’s Top Model) for flirting with another woman, Bissett’s Daniela ditches their campsite to return home. She happily accepts a ride to the bus station from the boyish Mark (Joe Balogh of Lenzi’s Black Demons) and his comically large Winnebago. En route, he offers her a Coca-Cola with Rohypnol — I believe it was branded “New Coke” back then — and she blacks out, eventually coming to handcuffed in the RV’s bedroom.

A less likable Christopher Atkins with T-shirts tucked snugly into belted khakis, Balogh’s Mark intends on keeping Daniela captive, because she reminds him of his beloved dead mother. To feed his own delusion, he takes scissors to his prisoner’s hair, making Daniela look like Mom — or, judging by Bissett’s terrible wig, Mary Martin in the 1954 Broadway musical production of Peter Pan. He does this as she sleeps, which is the state she’s in when he shoots nude Polaroids — an act icky on its own, but unintentionally more unpleasant since Bissett, although of legal age, looks to be about 15.

Tiresome when it should titillate, the broad-daylight film lazily trips on the low bar of being a cheap, enjoyable Italian rip-off of 1986’s crazy-popular cable staple The Hitcher. Mostly taking place inside the RV, Hitcher in the Dark is essentially a two-hander, which would be fine if either actor exhibited a kung-fu grip. It’s not that old pro Lenzi had completely lost his touch, since the same year gave us Nightmare Beach, which is nothing but fun.

The most engaging part of Dark is hearing the dated line, “Hey, who do you think are, Mickey Rourke?” and reading all the oddly named (and inconsistently capitalized) characters in the closing credits: to wit, “Big man store,” “Toyota’s woman,” “1 Greaser” and “2 Greaser.” —Rod Lott

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In Drive All Night, cabbie Dave (Yutaka Takeuchi, Battleship) does just that. This taxi driver is no Taxi Driver wishing a real rain to come and wash all the scum off the streets; he’s smart and sweet — a Travis Butterbrickle, if you will.

His passenger for the entire evening is Cara (Lexy Hammonds, 2017’s Escape Room — not the famous one), a young and semi-bratty woman with reserves of Mortal Kombat II trivia, a “We All Die Someday” tattoo and a duffel bag — here called just “duffel,” which is more enigmatic than its unknown contents. As she makes Dave chauffeur her around town for hours and hours, from arcade and café to motel, she’s being followed by a big, bad, bald dude (Johnny Gilligan, Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus) who looks ready to attend a Halloween party as Ryan Gosling in Drive.

Certainly that’s not accidental, as Peter Hsieh’s debut feature arrives gorgeously soaked in the neon-hellhole California ambience of Nicolas Winding Refn’s work (notably Only God Forgives and The Neon Demon) with accompanying mood for days — er, nights). Absorbing a director’s color palette is a relatively easy task, which Hsieh pulls off, no doubt with the help of feature-debuting DP William Hellmuth.

But to also attempt David Lynch-branded surrealism is a too-tall order, especially on one’s first try; just being weird and cryptic isn’t enough. For example, a mysterious torch singer named Midnight Judy (Natalia Berger) is rumored to be a vampire, but her inclusion assumedly seems only to serve a desire to pay homage to the Club Silencio sequence from Lynch’s masterpiece, Mullholland Drive. While Berger’s slinky appearance is sure to satisfy opera-glove fetishists, her dreamlike showcase is out of the filmmaker’s ambitious reach.

Or perhaps Midnight Judy’s purpose might be due to Drive All Night’s bones simply not bearing enough meat to merit a full-length movie. Veering from his strong suit of shot composition, Hsieh’s workarounds include box-turtle pacing and dosing each performance with Dramamine. The effect is like a napping actor waking mid-scene and suddenly realizing his or her line is up — or was:

Cara: “I like you.”
[7-second pause]
Dave: “I like you, too.”

Cara: “You afraid of dying?”
[13-second pause]
Dave: “I try not to think about it.”

One wonders if all that somniferous dead air were in Hsieh’s script. Takeuchi’s built-in affability survives this curious touch; the overall vibe does not.

Hammonds comes off too young to play her Manic Pixie Dream Fare with believability; switching roles with the more experienced Sarah Dumont (Scouts Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse) as a late-night waitress who catches Dave’s eye (and vice versa) would benefit both actresses and the simple story. Another would be to give more scenes for comic-relief cabbie Will Springhorn to steal with his amusing character’s sleazy braggadocio. Whenever Springhorn ambles in, which is not enough, he alights the screen; the rest of the film rarely works up such a spark — not for any considerable stretch and definitely not All Night. —Rod Lott