For a while there in the mid-2000s — a distant time when Paris Hilton was trailblazing a path for Kim Kardashian and Massachusetts remained the only state where gay couples could get legally hitched — Joseph Gordon-Levitt was one of the most exciting actors around. The onetime kid co-star of TV’s 3rd Rock from the Sun had blossomed into an intense young thespian unbowed by noncommercial projects, whether it was as a prostitute in Gregg Araki’s Mysterious Skin or a teen detective in Rian Johnson’s quirky high school noir, Brick.

Best of all was The Lookout, a crackerjack thriller that boasted ample smarts and style.

Gordon-Levitt plays Chris Pratt, (no, not that Chris Pratt), a young man enduring a nominal existence in small-town Kansas after a car accident left him with a debilitating head injury. Once a high school jock, Chris now copes with severe memory loss by keeping notebooks in which he jots down everything he wants to remember. He has inexplicable crying jags, too, and is incapable of filtering thoughts better left unsaid, particularly when it comes to good-looking women he meets. For him, trying to open a can of tomatoes becomes a monumental ordeal.

But the onetime big man on campus remains haunted by a nagging sense of entitlement. That feeling is putty in the hands of Chris’ new best pal, a sleazeball named Gary (Matthew Goode, Watchmen), who enlists the young man to help rob the small bank where Chris works as a janitor.

The plot thickens, as they say — and irresistibly so, thanks to a sharp screenplay courtesy writer/director Scott Frank. One of Hollywood’s top scribes at the time (Out of Sight, Minority Report), Frank had resolved to try his hand at direction after watching The Lookout’s script languish for a couple of years. His directorial debut was remarkably self-assured. The movie echoes Christopher Nolan’s Memento and Harold Ramis’ little-seen The Ice Harvest without being derivative, crackling renewed energy into the tropes of film noir. —Phil Bacharach

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Right away, hindsight emerges as the key theme of Poker Night — namely, its inherent benefit to sizing up one’s condition and circumstance … albeit well after needed. It’s an apt topic because I suspect the plot of Greg Francis’ twisty crime thriller wouldn’t hold up to the scrutiny of a second viewing.

But why worry about that when the first ride is fun?

Baby-faced police detective Jeter (Beau Mirchoff, The Grudge 3) recalls the advice of older, wiser cops when he’s caught in a sticky situation after trying to rescue a pretty girl (Halston Sage, 2014’s Neighbors): He’s Tasered, drugged and handcuffed by a psychopath hiding behind a reptilian mask in part sewn with dirty shoelaces. As deep as slogans on motivational posters sold at office supply stores, the words of wisdom were dispensed to Jeter during regular card games attended by fellow officers to whom he is subordinate.

Among them are Ron Perlman (Hellboy), Titus Welliver (Argo) and Super 8’s Ron Eldard (whose hair makes him look like he’s ready for trick-or-treating as Gerard Depardieu). When each cop shares his dick-measuring (metaphorically speaking) anecdote of life in the line of duty, we see it played out in full, making Poker Night a quasi-anthology of crime. Through each vignette, Jeter gleans a nugget of gumption to gain the upper hand against his crazed captor (Michael Eklund, Nurse 3D).

Since the entire movie is essentially a flashback — hindsight, ’member? — Francis shows off by continuing to dig as his characters’ recollections beget further recollections, often dipping a level or two deeper than necessary; at a couple of spots, I think we had a flashback within a flashback within a flashback within a flashback, but I can’t be 100 percent certain, and certainly you can see why. Responsible for both the script and direction, Francis is always on the move, which keeps Poker Night from becoming boring. It also makes it feel original, even though it’s not, borrowing openly from Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs and Joe Carnahan’s Smokin’ Aces, wicked sense of humor included.

Viewers may be worn out by the time the Night comes to a close, and if not, perhaps the multiple endings will expend your eyeballs’ last bit of energy for you. Francis’ flick is all over the board and as crazy as the Krazy Glue with which Jeter’s nearly nude body is affixed to the wall. But in a good way, hindsight and all. —Rod Lott

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Second in the Airport quadrilogy, Airport 1975 puts cross-eyed stewardess Nancy (Karen Black, The Pyx) in the pilot’s seat when the 747 on which she serves coffee, tea and boilermakers accidentally collides head-on with a tiny, twin-engine plane.

That’s the fate that befalls the D.C.-to-L.A. commercial flight, disrupted by the sudden, rear-projected and laughably out-of-scale appearance of a Beechcraft Baron, due to a heart attack suffered by the man behind the stick (Dana Andrews, Curse of the Demon). The resulting hole in the 747’s cockpit sucks the co-pilot — or an obvious dummy stand-in — up and out to his doom, so have your finger ready on the rewind button; the scene’s a hoot.

Because Airport 1975 taxied in an era when women weren’t let near “a man’s job,” Nancy is judged ill-equipped to navigate the terrain and put the plane down in Salt Lake City, so airlines ops exec Joe Patroni (George Kennedy, reprising his role from the 1970 original) makes the Executive Decision for a midair transfer of someone more experienced via an umbilical cord from a helicopter. Even Nancy’s he-man boyfriend (Omega Man Charlton Heston) thinks the idea equates to insanity, to which a visibly vexed Patroni yells forcefully enough to provoke an aneurysm, “Goddammit, there isn’t any other way!”

Hollywood corn rarely comes as sweet as this enjoyably self-important sequel, directed by Jack Smight (The Illustrated Man) with costumes by the prestigious Edith Head. Actually released in 1974 no matter what the title says, Airport 1975 adheres to the rules of the decade’s white-hot disaster genre, namely in casting more stars than any movie needs. In the cockpit, we have Erik Estrada as the horndog navigator, but that was pre-CHiPs fame.

No matter — the cabin is jam-packed with has-beens, never-quite-weres and a couple of bona fide legends, including:
• a quip-happy Sid Caesar;
• folksinger Helen Reddy as a nun;
• Sunset Boulevard’s Gloria Swanson playing herself in what would be her cinematic swan song;
• Myrna Loy, Norman Fell, Jerry Stiller and Conrad Janis all trying to out-drink one another;
• and, most famously, The Exorcist’s Linda Blair as a girl being rushed to her kidney transplant — an audience-manipulative element that made for prime roasting material in 1980’s feature-length spoof, Airplane! —Rod Lott

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Smack-dab in the age of AIDS, crack, Bernie Goetz (but one year before the latter inadvertently shot his way to fame), William Lustig’s Vigilante played with and preyed upon (white) Americans’ fear of becoming a victim of violence, especially in the big, bad (and minority-teeming) city. Naturally, no setting embodies that idea of a felonious metropolis more than New York City — if it can happen there, it can happen anywhere — and Vigilante is quick to claim the rotting Apple as its home.

In the precredit scene, the pissed-off Nick (Fred Williamson, Original Gangstas) tells his neighbors — and, by extension, the audience — all we need to know: The neighborhood has gone to shit and they’re not going to take this anymore. The cops have their hands full, so he rallies his fellow man by referencing their situation as “our Waterloo, baby! Take it back, dig it?” If they don’t, they soon will.

That’s because the so-called Headhunter gang terrorizing their ’hood hunt the heads of the wife and toddler son of Nick’s pal Eddie Marino (Robert Forster, Jackie Brown). Mrs. Marino (Rutanya Alda, Amityville II: The Possession) survives her brutal attack, but the little tyke is not so lucky, having a shotgun blast tear through his tiny body (thankfully offscreen — perhaps the only time the Maniac Lustig has held back in his directorial career). When an on-the-take judge gives the Headhunter leader (musician Willie Colón) a measly two-year sentence — suspended at that! — Eddie goes loco in the courtroom, ironically landing himself in jail.

As behind-bars Eddie is saved from shower rape and other misdeeds by his prison mentor (Woody Strode, Once Upon a Time in the West), Nick and pals do some hunting of their own. Eventually, these two story halves converge, but Lustig keeps them apart for so long, Forster doesn’t feel like the star of his own film. In all, the movie makes ill use of the actor, who’s more dynamic than allowed, which keeps Vigilante from being as cathartic as one would like, yet appropriately grim. —Rod Lott

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Myra Savage isn’t just your run-of-the-mill psychic. She’s got ambition; the woman just needs a little free media. So it is in Seance on a Wet Afternoon, a psychological thriller starring Kim Stanley (The Right Stuff) as the aforementioned psychic and Richard Attenborough (Jurassic Park) as her long-suffering, henpecked husband, Billy.

The pair kidnap the daughter of a wealthy London couple in a cockamamie scheme that would find Myra demonstrating her clairvoyant chops to police by helping them find the girl. But the best-laid plans of mystics named Myra, wouldn’t you know, oft go astray. Or something like that.

Stanley, an American actress whose most notable work had been on the stage, only snagged the role of Myra after a string of other would-be leads, including Deborah Kerr and Shelley Winters, fizzled out. Good for the gods of casting. Stanley, magnificently creepy as the increasingly unhinged woman, earned a Best Actress Oscar nomination for Seance, but lost to Julie Andrews, who had more pleasant interaction with children in that year’s Mary Poppins.

Attenborough, who also co-produced, is every bit her equal. The direction by Bryan Forbes (1975’s The Stepford Wives) is sharp, unfussy and atmospheric. It’s a perfect picture to DVR and watch on a wet afternoon. —Phil Bacharach

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