Wedding bells are ringing … until they don’t, when the bride decides she can’t go through with the nuptials and flees. To find her, the gobsmacked groom sends his seven groomsmen on a “containment mission” — odd word choice, if not for all of them being highly trained assassins, would-be spouses included.

Til Death Do Us Part. Get it?

From Timothy Woodward Jr., director of 2020’s The Call, the colorful thriller plays like a siege picture, as the bride (Natalie Burn, Mechanic: Resurrection) holes herself up in a house whose threshold the groomsmen attempt to penetrate. As they do, the bride goes mano y womano against them, whether using a chainsaw, a golf club or considerable martial arts skills that can’t be easy to execute while wearing a wedding gown.

These balletically choreographed fight sequences are the strongest minutes of Til Death Do Us Part; as a showcase for Burn’s pure physicality and athleticism, the film succeeds. Outside of that, it’s a mess. We’re made to feel the pain of every punch of a tussle, until the soundtrack suddenly does a tonal 180˚ by pulling a cover of “Rockin’ Robin” or a Frankie Valli soundalike single from its jukebox. In this way and others, the movie is often at odds with itself.

While many of the groomsmen look and behave like Tarantino cast-offs, best man Cam Gigandet (2017’s The Magnificent Seven) dances (sometimes literally) through his part as if he were competing against George Clooney for the lead in a comic caper set at a charm school. Meanwhile, an unrecognizable Jason Patric (Speed 2: Cruise Control) pops up in a super-sober subplot I don’t believe was designed to confuse its audience as long as it does.

One thing that is designed to pull the proverbial wool is the movie advertising itself as “from the creator of Final Destination.” While Jeffrey Reddick serves as a primary producer alongside Burn and Woodward, he’s not credited with the script. Til Death Do Us Part lives not only in a different genre, but has none of that franchise’s cleverness or entertainment ROI. Consider that a divorce. —Rod Lott

One of the last features to showcase ailing Boris Karloff and his iconic work, Targets is a long-admired, rarely seen treatise on the old-school way of moviemaking as the new school leads the way. It also predicts, sadly, the way well-armed gunmen will undertake thrill-killing by any means necessary — an entertaining blueprint, if you will.

Targets is also the debut of a kinder kind of director Peter Bogdanovich, long before Tatum O’Neal had a sip of vodka, dating soon-deceased Playboy Playmate Dorothy Stratten and, worst of all, making At Long Last Love. Sorry!

Based on the real-life shootings at the University of Texas at Austin campus by Charles Whitman in 1966, the film is about the unmotivated actions of the personable Bobby (Tim O’Kelly). Those include killing his entire family, shooting at drivers on the highway and then headed for the local drive-in. Meanwhile, horror legend Orlok (Karloff) has decided to quit acting, but shows up at one last event: the premiere of his new picture (depicted with Karloff clips from Roger Corman’s The Terror) at the local drive-in.

Worlds collide when the madman confronts the monster, in a scene that is stilted but emotional, especially knowing the movie uses the basis for workplace and school shootings that continue to thrive in our violent culture. The last 50-plus years have seen Targets become more chilling and downright scary, even if Whitman’s name has been lost to time.

Bogdanovich’s film is incredibly well-made, with a great script and great characters; the duality between Bobby and Orlok is apparent. O’Kelly is terrific as the mild-mannered lad with the brooding veneer of a psycho; it’s the way real killers should act on screen, instead of being a carbon-copy of Charles Manson.

Targets is a wholly engaging picture of a fictionally creative mind against the horror of a psychotic mind. Like Stephen King’s Rage or Judas Priest’s music, it targets the art, the artists and how the diseased mind works, good or bad. Either way, Targets respects the filmic past while it immolates the immediate future. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

One of Britain’s more notorious serial killers, John Christie claimed at least eight victims in the 1940s and ’50s. Thankfully, given its potency, 10 Rillington Place depicts precious few. The film by The Boston Strangler director Richard Fleischer limits itself to events in 1949, when the down-on-their-luck Evans family rents a room in Christie’s flat.

A thumb of a man in unassuming suspenders and spectacles, Christie (Richard Attenborough) redefines manipulative with his new tenants, illiterate workingman Tim (John Hurt, 2014’s Hercules) and brand-new mother Beryl (Judy Geeson, Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush). Christie possesses a roving eye and accompanying urges for Mrs. Evans. When she gets pregnant again — not ideal as they’re barely scrape by — Christie all too eagerly volunteers to perform a scraping of his own.

From there, 10 Rillington Place goes to horrific places. Time has not diluted the film’s ability to shock, not even for watchers desensitized by contemporary true-crime series about Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy and their sick ilk. While staged with professional excellence by Fleischer, the movie’s primary source is Attenborough. His childlike psychopath will forever change subsequent viewings of his happy-go-lucky Dr. Hammond in Jurassic Park. His Christie is unforgettable. In one scene, Attenborough seamless goes from confident to terrified to calm to sexual over the course of a single action. He’s perfect casting.

Ditto for Hurt, whose beleaguered Tim undergoes a transition from boarish to sympathetic in the face of tragedy. Make no mistake, the real-life events within the Notting Hill address were nothing less. While Fleischer dares to “go there,” so to speak, Rillington never feels tacky or crass. After all, it’s just a movie, standing in front of a viewer, asking them to relive it. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Before we discuss Follow Her, we have to talk about its screenwriter and lead actress, Dani Barker. You’re less likely to have heard of her from her credits (The Scarehouse, anyone?) than you are her YouTube documentary series, Starvival. As a struggling actress in NYC across its two seasons, she answered oddball audition ads, recording the suspicious encounters — from skeevy to phony, like being tickled for an hour — via hidden camera to warn fellow women and, yes, to get her name out there.

Now, in Follow Her, Barker plays Jess, a fictionalized version of herself. Jess does the same undercover work for the cash and the likes, all while Dad implores her to get a “real” job. While I find the Barker of yesteryear’s Starvival cloying, the Barker of Follow Her has gifted her talents quite the showcase. Directed by Sylvia Caminer (the Rick Springfield documentary An Affair of the Heart), the movie stands tall on its own merits, but is even more interesting once you know about its real-life origins.

After responding to an ad seeking an “attractive female writer” to help finish an erotic thriller script, Jess realizes she may have crossed a line in her quest for influencer infamy. After all, the guy (Luke Cook, TV’s Chilling Adventures of Sabrina) wants to meet in an uncrowded park and invites her to his remote barn. Despite all the red flags unfurled, she accepts, and most of Follow Her depicts the evening — perhaps her last — as it unfolds.

Although Barker gives a terrific performance, her script impresses most. To her immense credit, I wasn’t always sure what was on the up and up. The plot is so well-structured, I kept wondering whether the story would end up at Door A or Door B, only to arrive at a third option I hadn’t considered. Cook’s intensity matches Barker’s vulnerability as their characters play games both psychological and physical. With so much of it occurring in a single location among two people, the picture exudes a refreshing degree of intimacy, almost as if presented for the stage. It may sound like overpraise, but I sensed some Deathtrap vibes for the entirety of the second act; for this stretch, Ira Levin might be, if not proud, at least a smidge jealous. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Based on a 2001 British made-for-TV movie, Danny Boyle’s Trance casts X-Men: First Class’ James McAvoy (presumably standing in for Ewan McGregor) as Simon, an art auctioneer who becomes a media hero for foiling the heist of an über-valuable painting, yet pays the price when the would-be thief, Franck (Vincent Cassel, Jason Bourne), comes looking for it.

Trouble is, the knock to the noggin Franck gives Simon during the fray results in a bout of amnesia. To jog the priceless artwork’s location from the recesses of Simon’s mind, Franck sends him to a hypnotherapist (Rosario Dawson, Sin City).

From then on, viewers can question how much of what Boyle shows you can be trusted, as fragments of their hypnotizing sessions bleed into reality, and vice versa. While some may call this approach a mind-fuck, Trance emerges as too much of a mess to earn that badge.

Boyle sandwiched this baby in between his two-year planning stint as artistic director for the 2012 Olympics in London, and it shows. Whereas every twist and turn and layer of Christopher Nolan’s then-recent Inception felt meticulously graphed and charted and calculated, Trance feels as if its script pages were thrown into the air, and whatever Boyle caught, he shot and edited in that order.

The result is minor Boyle (as opposed to the major likes of Trainspotting). I admire sequences of the film while being somewhat cold on it as a whole. The theatricality of certain scenes is one plus, bearing influence of Boyle’s other Olympics side project, a UK stage production of a radically rebuilt Frankenstein. I think in particular of a scene where Simon hears Franck and his goons plotting against him in a loft above; he and we see the bad guys only as larger-than-life silhouettes amid butterscotch-colored light — a gorgeously structured image in a movie teeming with ugly deeds.

At least one of those scenes springs with a smidgen of goodwill, but it’s an unintended howler. I won’t spoil it, but you’ll know it when you see it. Or hear it, rather — just listen for the sound of an electric razor buzzing to life.

Art and artifice are Boyle’s ultimate themes, and he joyously maneuvers his characters so we’re constantly wondering, “Who’s manipulating whom?” The answer is that Boyle is manipulating his audience, but not skillfully enough that most viewers will be in the mood to be shifted and shoved. Trance is too slick and too empty for its own good. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.