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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Point of Terror contains so many songs performed in full, it veers dangerously close to being a musical. That performer is Tony Trelos (star/writer/producer Peter Carpenter, Blood Mania), a groovy-esque nightclub singer who fancies himself quite the Tom Jones. Unfortunately, since he headlines at the Lobster House, he’s far more, say, John C. Reilly.

Tony senses that sweet smell of success when he meets giant-haired/giant-breasted record exec Andrea Hillard (Nazi she-wolf Ilsa herself, Dyanne Thorne) and they begin an affair, much to the gritted-teeth disdain of Andrea’s handicapped hubby (Joel Marston, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan).

Other than an admittedly pretty-hot pool rendezvous between Tony and Andrea, the movie’s best scene finds her throwing a lawn chair at her wheelchair-bound spouse as he confronts her about her vow-busting style of “talent relations.” As she mimics the motions of a matador, director Alex Nicol (The Screaming Skull) puts ambient sounds from a public bullfight on the soundtrack and — kind of a spoiler, but really more a reason to watch — as Mr. Hillard accidentally rolls into the pool to a chlorinated death, Andrea whispers, “Olé.”

Olé indeed. Thorne is quite the delicious femme fatale, and Point of Terror could use more of her camp-flavored spice to liven up its soap-opera script. The film is an R-rated soap opera, mind you — Nicol turns a sex-on-the-beach scene into a onscreen checkerboard — but full of melodramatics nonetheless. (It is, after all, an ego vehicle for Carpenter, who overestimated his value as a leading man and sadly died two years before Point got around to being released.) The “twist” ending intends to shock, yet instead will leave you thinking it copped out. It did. —Rod Lott

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Time and time again, the movies prove that drivers for any given state’s Department of Corrections are the worst. Fifteen years before the best example of this — The Fugitive’s “bus, meet train” incident — Blackout boasted an utterly avoidable crash of the DoC’s prisoner-transport wagon, thereby loosing a few hardened criminals onto the Big Apple’s darkened streets.

Inspired by NYC’s real-life citywide blackout of July 13, 1977, this Canadian-made thriller largely confines itself to an apartment high rise, in which the felons — led by a deceptively clean-cut Robert Carradine (Revenge of the Nerds) — go floor to floor, robbing, raping and setting fire to priceless Picassos during the 12-hour electricity outage. And only an out-of-shape, off-duty cop played by Jim Mitchum (Monstroid) can stop them!

Even before the crime spree begins, a lot is going on within the building: for starters, a Greek wedding, an African-American birth, a man on life support and Ray Milland gritting his teeth in yet another of his late-career Angry Old Man roles (see: Frogs). Meanwhile, over at utilities provider Con Edison, cigar-chomping technicians scream at a primitive, wall-sized city grid as if they are jammed in the friggin’ middle of The Taking of Pelham One Two Three.

They’re not — and I’m being kind by including the ’98 made-for-TV version starring Edward James Olmos in that apples-to-crabapples comparison. The dormant Blackout is not unwatchable; it’s just a wasted opportunity, as director Eddy Matalon (Cathy’s Curse) overall fails to take advantage of the possibilities offered by his unique setting. The exception is the parking-garage chase between Mitchum and Carradine, but that’s the film’s next-to-last scene — a little too late to start figuring things out. —Rod Lott

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Who is killing the skanky strippers of the miserably dank Rock Bottom strip club? Middle-aged hottie cop Cody Sheehan (Kay Lenz, 1986’s House) goes undercover to find out. During her investigation and to her surprise, she realizes she likes removing her clothes before the lustful gaze of strangers. (Not to my surprise, I liked her removing her clothes, too.)

When she first performs, it’s both demeaning and laughable, yet Sheehan is egged on by her earring-wearing detective partner (a barely emoting Greg Evigan, DeepStar Six). And kicking off the final decade of his long career, Norman Fell (Mr. Roper of TV’s Three’s Company) is the cigar-chewing club owner who demands his dancers stay topless for a full 30 seconds — a stand-in for executive producer Roger Corman, perhaps?

Coming from Corman, the movie should be more fun. Despite an intriguing (if purely exploitative) premise, Stripped to Kill begins with several strikes against it, not the least of which is being visually hampered. As with virtually all of Corman’s Concorde output, Stripped is shot flat and murky — not the finest choice for a film taking place mostly at night, especially one built upon copious nudity.

Under actress-turned-director Katt Shea Ruben (for example, going from Hollywood Hot Tubs to Poison Ivy), Kill slows to a near-crawl, partially because every character but Sheehan is repellent. Even the film holds contempt for them; the strippers’ dressing room is marked “SLUTS.” Lenz, long a terrific actress, deserved a better showcase; to her credit, she acts as if it were all the same. —Rod Lott

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