So I snore. Yes, I hog the covers. And I may have even accidentally slapped my wife while jolting awake from a fight-or-flight nightmare.

But at no time have I ever suddenly sat up in bed in the dead of night and ominously uttered, “Someone’s inside,” with no elaboration or explanation. That’s just mean.

That’s just the beginning of the Korean thriller Sleep. In the nights that follow, Hyun-su (Lee Sun-kyun, Parasite) debuts increasingly dangerous nocturnal habits, none of which he recalls once he wakes up. His suffering wife (Jung Yu-mi, Train to Busan), is perplexed. She’s also pregnant, so she needs the rest she’s not getting.

She certainly doesn’t need the stress and pressure brought by the situation, once their downstairs apartment neighbors complain of hearing screams of terror in the night.

Sleep marks the debut film as writer and director for Jason Yu, an assistant director for Bong Joon Hoo on Okja. That Yu’s former boss has endorsed this work as “the smartest debut” he’s seen in 10 years was all the convincing I needed to devote my time. While I wouldn’t necessarily second Bong’s superlative, Sleep is unmistakably sharp and cannily constructed, heralding Yu as a worthy protégé.

Twisty plotting notwithstanding, what makes Sleep work as well as it does is the easy rapport between Jung and Lee. (Sadly, Lee isn’t around to see his work, having committed suicide last year.) They feel real — completely believable as fresh spouses sharing a deep love and respect for one another. Without that caring bond to latch onto, the viewing public’s investment of concern into this more grounded Grudge would pale. —Rod Lott

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No longer a high school cheerleader trying to save the world, Hayden Panettiere tries to save just one little girl in the economical thriller Amber Alert. Suspense is as mild as hospital-cafeteria salsa packets, but hey, it’s there!

Jaq (Panettiere, Scream VI) cruises along as a rideshare passenger when the titular notification buzzes her phone. A 5-year-old has been kidnapped … and by someone whose vehicle matches the description of the one right in front of the one Jaq’s in! Turning into a veritable Nancy Drew, Jaq convinces her reluctant driver (Tyler James Williams, TV’s Abbott Elementary) to tail it.

If that setup sounds familiar, you’re not crazy: Kerry Bellessa’s Amber Alert is a remake of Kerry Bellessa’s own 2012 movie of the same name. In ditching the original’s found-footage format, this new version feels more open, even if it follows the same story beats. Again working with co-scripter Joshua Oram, Bellessa appears to relish the glow-up, showing a behind-the-camera competence he didn’t get to demo the first time around. Now, the film is more than a great idea.

The upgrade’s greatest asset? No longer are we stuck in a car with three annoying young people, one of whom existed solely to hold the camera. Panettiere and Williams share an instant likability, which helps Amber Alert get through the plot’s jankier choices. One of those is halting the momentum to prescribe a “why” for the childless Jaq going to such extremes, which is motivation we don’t need.

Call Amber Alert junk, but it’s well-made junk, like a made-for-cable movie that really, really tries. Asleep at the wheel, it is not. —Rod Lott

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Take one milquetoast traveling salesman. Place him in a diner that’s empty, except for a kindly, beautiful waitress. In another movie, you have the ingredients for the meet-cute of a romcom. In The Last Stop in Yuma County, however, you have a starter kit for a powder keg.

The wonderful and underrated Jim Cummings (The Beta Test) is that salesman; the equally wonderful and underrated Jocelin Donahue (Doctor Sleep), the waitress. Car trouble has him stranded for the near future in the middle of nowhere, Arizona, so he bides his time in a booth at the restaurant next door, even if its A/C is as inoperable as his ride. Coffee and conversation follow. So do crimes, eventually, as more people pass through the door.

To spill the details would deny you the pleasure of experiencing each of the plot’s many about-faces and sudden turns; several surprised me, and one hits as such a rude awakening, it’s the cinematic equivalent of a tasing. Once tension arrives, which is early, it never leaves.

Shocking, sad and funny, the film is nearly a one-roomer, save for a few scenes outdoors and at the local sheriff’s office, which is not too far and also not near enough. Taking into account the arid climate, saloon-style setting and mix of characters of varying savoriness, Yuma County plays like a contemporary Western. I mean, it’s right there in the title, starting with — but hardly limited to — a direct reference to Delmer Daves’ 3:10 to Yuma, a genuine cowboys-and-outlaws classic.

Doing its part to support that theory is the pervasive heat; the oscillating whirs of each electric fan seem immediately defeated, and the audience feels that heavy oppression. (Or, as a lifelong Oklahoman, maybe it’s just me.)

I’ve seen others compare The Last Stop in Yuma County to the Coen brothers, specifically Fargo. That’s perhaps too reductive, although if the TV series‘ next season needed a new creative force, writer, director and editor Francis Galluppi would be a steal.

With Yuma County so assured, it’s difficult to fathom that the list of Galluppi’s previous features is blank, yet it’s easy to see why he’s been snapped up to deliver a new Evil Dead spinoff. The guy knows how to craft, build and sustain suspense. The proof is all here in a tight, taut 90-minute examination of avarice, heartlessness, helplessness and the restorative properties of rhubarb pie. Of all the movies to hit theaters in the first half of 2024, this one remains my favorite. —Rod Lott

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Hey, dig this jazz, cool cat: Because his doll left him for his rich daddy, Stan (Ray Danton, The Centerfold Girls) terrorizes the town as a serial rapist. Basically a walking tube of Brylcreeme, Stan’s known ’round town as “the Aspirin Kid,” so named for the me-gotsa-headache ruse he uses to penetrate thresholds when women are home alone.

Detective Culloran (Steve Cochran, 1949’s White Heat) is on the case, which gets personal after Stan bingos the bongo of the cop’s wife (Fay Spain, The Private Lives of Adam & Eve). And then really, really personal when she discovers she’s got a bun in the oven.

The Beat Generation marks a next-year reunion for High School Confidential! producer Albert Zugsmith and starlet Mamie Van Doren. It’s something of a spiritual follow-up, with Ms. VD playing another saucy, savory sex bomb. Here, she’s victim No. 3 … or would be, if not for the fact that she wants it bad. “I wish I had,” she tells the police. “He looked like real gone kicks.”

The movie sure is, provided you’re willing to take it as a half-serious crime story. It’s even a bit progressive in that director Charles F. Haas (1959’s Girls Town) doesn’t blame the victim for the rape. But he does shame her into nixing her plans for a rhymes-with-smuh-smortion.

To be fair, despite The Beat Generation’s title, beatniks barely figure into the story, although the only and only Vampira, free of wig, spouts some free-verse nonsense while a white rat hangs on her shoulder. Somehow, the whole shebang ends with a fight underwater. —Rod Lott

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Most men — and, honestly, some women — are Peeping Toms. Abasement in all its glory!

The criminal, sexual act of illicit self-pleasure while a person is unknowing, unwilling and nonconsensual is quite damning and will, at the very least, label you as a pervert among family, friends and neighbors.

So remember, kids: Keep an eye out for Mom … unless, of course, you’re peeping on your mom, which will lead to other problems I’m not able to discuss without the care of a professional — a doctor or a hooker.

In the fickle world of pop culture, the stereotypical Peeping Tom is most often a trope of the teen sex comedy, rubbing one out in the girls’ locker room while getting his crank stuck in a vice-like device. But in 1960, filmmaker Micheal Powell decided to cast a unsexy shadow on the world’s most lonely act in the film Peeping Tom.

When the film premiered, people were outraged, and Powell’s name was dragged through the mud, ultimately killing his career. (Sadly, the billions of gallons of sperm while watching the movie waiting for the tame sex scenes were never accounted for …)

It starts with a shadowy man hiding a film camera under his coat as he seeks a prostitute. In her most Cockney accent, she takes to him a flophouse and, unexpectedly, he murders her with an extended leg of his camera’s tripod. As the tape runs out, I imagine he climaxes.

This man is Mark (Carl Boehm). He makes films of the crimes and watches them ad nauseam, as one will wantonly do. He works for a bookshop as a cover for taking snapshots of nudie cuties, but his dream job is to be a film director. (If only he waited about five years for the porn industry to boom!) Mark’s also a sad loner and very quiet, snapping pictures of disfigured woman to masturbate to.

Eventually, he’s befriended by his tenant who views his works, especially the films his father made of him being sexually frightened, as stunting his emotional growth and causing him to deal with the trauma though voyeurism.

Long story short, Mark is punished for his crimes in the worst way possible in the early ’60s.

A true testament to both swingin’ London and swingin’ ballsacks, Powell’s non-illicit camera gets the dirtiest grime in the gear game. Boehm’s Mark is still relevant today — just sub the cheesecake shots with live camgirls who’ll act out your fantasy for an OnlyFans subscription.

Much in the same vein as Joe Spinell’s work on William Lustig’s Maniac, but with a Piccadilly Circus façade, Peeping Tom is a true classic of perverted outré cinema that needs to be reevaluated in these much more maligned times.

Until then, keep it in your pants, Junior! —Louis Fowler

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