Seven years after fleeing his Alaskan hometown, prodigal son Rowan (James Marsden, X-Men: Days of Future Past) returns, only to step in a big ol’ mess of animal instincts. “Would that,” you ask, “involve going Into the Grizzly Maze?” To that query, I respond rhetorically (and obviously), does a bear shit in the woods?

His estranged brother, Beckett (Thomas Jane, Deep Blue Sea), among them, the local po-po are busy investigating deaths in the forest caused by a giant grizzly, “portrayed” by an actual bear whose billing sits higher than co-star Billy Bob Thornton. Beckett needs Rowan’s help in retrieving his wife (Piper Perabo, Looper), who’s not only oblivious to being in danger because she’s taking nature photos at the time, but also because she happens to be deaf, thereby greatly upping her chances of becoming one super supper of all-white meat. (Admit it: It’s weird the grizzly has more lines than the damsel in distress.)

Hired by the sheriff’s department, Thornton’s straight-faced bear tapper sums up the situation at hand — and, by extension, the entire film: “This isn’t your average bear. It’s a clever bear. … You’ve never met a bear like this before. … I’m just tellin’ ya.”

What he doesn’t tell ya is that this wilderness thriller plays like a high-gloss, kitsch-stripped update of William Girdler’s 1976 cult hit Grizzly, which itself was a furry take on Jaws for the Cabela’s crowd. While adept enough at staging suspense, director David Hackl seems more interested in ending each set piece with an act of gore, each so wet and lingered upon that they would not be out-of-place in Hackl’s previous film, Saw V. Because these bits are largely (and admirably) practical rather than digital, they convince enough to wince; same goes for the clawed beast serving as Maze’s maker of mayhem.

Although unlikely to leave any lasting impressions, the movie is absorbing as a paper towel dropped on the puddle of dog urine found on the dining room floor, but without applying pressure: not ideal, but works for the time being. —Rod Lott

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Angst has bounce. That’s because for some of the running time, the camera is attached to the German-language film’s lead character. A certifiable psychopath, he’s not the kind of person to whom you would wish to be so close.

Played by Erwin Leder (Das Boot), who narrates almost the entire picture, the normal-looking man is, in actuality, an evil brute whose uncontrollable urge to torture humans bubbles over mere minutes after being released from a 10-year prison stint for murder; he had chosen a random house and, just for the hell of it, pulled a gun and point-blank executed the elderly woman who made the unfortunate mistake of answering the door.

Now freed from bars once more, he’s got that itch that really needs scratching, and finds it in a fairly secluded home occupied by a small family that includes a wheelchair-bound young man who drools uncontrollably. Thus begins the “meat” of the movie: a triple murder played out in excruciating, graphic detail and violence that escalates to vile.

It’s revolting enough early in the film to see an extreme close-up of the psychopath tear into a sausage like an animal; it’s near-unbearable — those with a weak constitution should nix the “near-” — to witness what is essentially a how-to piece. Director/co-writer Gerald Kargl never made another picture before or since, so at least his lone foray into features is unforgettable — just not in the way the populace likes. Based on real-life events, it’s tough and uncompromising and hardly “entertainment.” Aided and abetted by Tangerine Dream co-founder Klaus Schulze’s score and with astute, dark-humored details such as a dog chewing on the dentures knocked out of an old woman’s mouth, Angst has artistry that can be acknowledged while simultaneously loathing the work as a whole. —Rod Lott

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Seven Golden Men is the rare heist film that opens with the heist. Heck, its entire first half is the heist. There’s no planning, no telegraphing of what the caper entails; we learn what happens as it happens, and our enjoyment is heightened all the more because of it.

Masterminded by the erudite Professor (Philippe Leroy, La Femme Nikita), said heist is of a Swiss bank containing the world’s only electronic-controlled vault with an electromagnetic locking device. It’s said to be physically impenetrable, but the Professor’s team of six men prove that wrong by tunneling their way in underground — kinda like in Roger Donaldson’s The Bank Job — right outside on the street, through the water mane and then straight up into the neatly stacked loot of 24-karat gold bars. Providing distraction on the street and elsewhere is the Professor’s gal pal (the stunning Rossana Podestà, 1983’s Hercules), making umpteen costume changes — including one memorable see-through bodysuit — during the whole charade.

What the second half entails, I leave for you to discover. Suffice to say, it’s as frivolously paced as the first, full of comic flourishes, only-in-the-movies gadgetry and, like all Italian genre films of its era, themes that slide smoothly into the ear canal and stay there. Directed and co-written by The Sensual Man’s Marco Vicario, then married to Podestà, this Golden pic is as light as a serving of cotton candy tied to four dozen helium balloons — in other words, pure pop-cinema pleasure.

One year later, the Seven Golden Men struck again in Seven Golden Men Strike Again. —Rod Lott

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The November Man is not a sequel to The January Man, for all three of you who remember that failed Kevin Kline vehicle of 1989. Casting aside source material for the moment, the reason The November Man is called The November Man isn’t even revealed until the film’s penultimate scene, yet the explanation is so passively delivered and decidedly inconsequential that viewers will think, “That’s it?” In the same exchange, Pierce Brosnan’s ex-CIA character is given another nickname — one that actually makes sense and has the virtue of being a better title, if the MPAA ever would allow it, which it would not: “one bleak motherfucker.”

Just close your eyes and hear the trailer’s announcer in your head: “This summer … Pierce Brosnan … is … One Bleak Motherfucker!” On the conservative end, the box-office take would have doubled.

Not playing James Bond here but a suave secret agent all the same, Brosnan is Devereaux, temporarily lured out of retirement to extract a fellow operative (Bosnian actress Mediha Musliovic) from her undercover post in Moscow, where she’s surreptitiously gathered incriminating intel on the war-criminal past of Russia’s presidential hopeful Federov (Lazar Ristovski, 2006’s Casino Royale). The female agent also happens to be Devereaux’s former lover and the mother of their child, so if you think he’ll swoop in and succeed, let me welcome you to the world of espionage thrillers! You’re gonna have a blast!

But with The November Man, expect the equivalent of a Dr Pepper can shaken violently before being dropped on the kitchen tile. Impact is lessened by a convoluted plot (based on the late Bill Granger’s 1987 novel There Are No Spies, book seven of 13 in his Devereaux series) that directly pits our 60-something hero against his one-time protégé (a flat Luke Bracey, 2015’s Point Break) and has him enlist the aid of a smokin’-hot Chechen refugee (Olga Kurylenko, Quantum of Solace) seeking revenge on Federov herself. These are two of the story’s three driving forces, but that only becomes evident after the introduction of so many characters — and their various subplots — that ultimately emerge no further than the periphery; you’re left not knowing to whom you should or should not pay attention.

Old pro Roger Donaldson used to craft these stylish thrillers in his sleep: 1987’s No Way Out, 1992’s White Sands, 1995’s Species. All of those works are agile and highly competent, if not particularly lasting. The November Man is the same — just with a noticeable limp in its step.

Aging incredibly well, Brosnan is top-notch, with nary a nod nor a wink to the cheekiness of his 007 days. Gritting his teeth and tasting the blood, Devereaux is both phenomenal and fallible. I just wish this film — a faint attempt to launch a franchise — were less of the latter. —Rod Lott

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I’m only against the idea of remakes when the new version emerges from the oven as a charred chunk. That is the fate of 2007’s Michael Bay-produced The Hitcher, whether compared to the 1986 original or standing on its own. Lead Sophia Bush (John Tucker Must Die) says as much when she informs the authorities during a chase, “This is bad. … Listen, we’re really not too good, okay?”

She’s being much too kind.

Shortly after urinating at Grandy’s (now that’s product placement!), Bush’s college student Grace hits the road in a un-air-conditioned car with her shaggy-haired beau, Jim (Cherry Falls’ Zachary Knighton, no C. Thomas Howell), to meet her parents. When night falls, accompanied by a downpour, they nearly run over a hitchhiker (Sean Bean, Black Death) standing still in the middle of the rural highway. Odd behavior, right?

So odd that they neglect to give him a lift … until he catches up with them at a gas station later, and then they agree to let him ride shotgun … whereupon he pulls a knife. Says Jim, in what should be rhetorical given the events of the preceding paragraph, yet isn’t, “How was I supposed to know he was a sick-fuck lunatic?” Don’t answer; kids today never learn.

Foolish director Dave Meyers sure did; he got behind the wheel of this next-gen Hitcher after helming music videos for the likes of Britney Spears, The Offspring, OutKast, Missy Elliott, Jennifer Lopez and Creed, and those roots show — none more apparent than the aforementioned, intended-to-be-intense chase sequence, which unfortunately is scored to Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer.” The whole movie is one chase after another in some form or fashion, feeling like a washing machine stuck on the final rinse cycle. Will it ever stop? Will this ever end? Won’t someone please get ripped apart by two trucks? —Rod Lott

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