“How are you going to kill me this time?” she asks teasingly, as she takes her lover into her arms.

“I’m going to slash your throat,” he answers his mistress, welcoming the embrace.

As they undress and slide under the silk sheets, he makes good on his playful threat. That the man actually kills her is one shock. That he is also the chief of the police’s homicide division is another.

Never named, the inspector (Gian Maria Volonté, A Fistful of Dollars) is worshipped by the officers below him, whereas they view the deceased Miss Terzi (Floridan Bolkan, A Lizard in a Woman’s Skin) as “a libertine” for owning no undergarments. Then again, Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion takes place in an era when Italy kept secret files on homosexuals and communists alike, which the inspector lords over as potential blackmail material, so the authorities are all about snap judgments.

Preaching precision and repression, he embarks on the investigation of Terzi’s murder despite being the crime’s perpetrator. He even leaves a slew of clues at the scene that point directly to him. Why? He feels he is so above the law, he never could be taken seriously as a suspect. He even informs his superior of his affair with the woman.

Investigation is not your ordinary Italian thriller, and not just because it won the Academy Award that year for Best Foreign Language Film. It is built with a heavy streak of political satire, some of which may be lost on American viewers, but hardly to a point of indifference; the mystery of the inspector’s mental state is too great a pull, and director Elio Petri (The 10th Victim) parcels out explanatory bits during many flashbacks.

Technically, the movie is imperfect — the camera shakes in the pivotal moments right after the crime, and later, the crew clearly is reflected in our antihero’s sunglasses — but all that can be overlooked with ease because its plot is so unique, even several decades after the fact. Sporting the bounce of a plucked rubber band, Ennio Morricone’s equally first-rate theme strongly hints at Petri’s playful intent, dark though it may be, dark it should be. —Rod Lott

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Adapted from one of his own short stories — this particular one featuring his comic-book creation of Ms. Tree, who does not appear in the film — Real Time: Siege at Lucas Street Market finds prolific author Max Allan Collins (Road to Perdition) transferring his criminal mind to feature films for the third time, moving from killer-Mommy thrillers to the corner store. Viewers will end up with more than a pack of cigs and a Dr Pepper Icee.

The same year that Fox’s 24 series made split-screen vogue again, writer/director Collins took the concept further by filling his frame with as many as four screens at once, each displaying a different angle of the same scene. Presented as an unbroken story, Real Time depicts a January robbery of an Iowa convenience store by two drug-hungry lowlifes, and Collins tells his tale almost entirely through the shop’s security-camera footage, with snippets of amateur video as supplemental material. Such a structure allows the story to thrive on the lowest of budgets; so does a running time as tight the knots of a veteran yachtsman. This is a case of turning a project’s challenges into attributes.

With pop radio piped through the store’s P.A. system providing stark contrast to the deadly situation, our felonious duo takes everyone inside hostage. This includes a cop plagued by Montezuma’s revenge, a jailbait shoplifter, a mother and her ballerina child, a douche of a businessman and a very pregnant woman; the latter is played by ’80s scream queen Brinke Stevens (Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity), and it’s nice to see her in a down-to-earth role where she isn’t present strictly to disrobe.

At the time of this Siege, sales of DVD players had yet to hit their peak, and Collins makes creative use of the technology by allowing viewers to go nuts with the multiangle feature. Jumping around is hardly required to enjoy the movie, however; as I did, you may as well forget about the remote and just let the hostage drama unfold as the filmmakers intended. At once realistic and yet just pulpy enough to let you know Real is fiction, the movie boasts a uniqueness that makes up for deficiencies in the overbaked performances of the robbers (Tom Keane and Chad Hoch), who seem seconds away from screaming, “Attica! Attica! Attica!” —Rod Lott

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Hammer Films’ The Snorkel opens with a long, silent sequence in which black widower Paul Decker (Peter van Eyck, The Thousand Eyes of Dr. Mabuse) methodically sets up an elaborate death trap for his wife, apparently drugged into unconsciousness on the couch. After sealing the room shut, he rigs it to flood with natural gas while he lie safely in the crawlspace, accessible via secret door underneath the carpet. He’s in no danger of asphyxiation, thanks to the scuba gear he wears, from which this psychological thriller takes its utterly silly-sounding name. (Even sillier? The credit that reads, “John Holmes’ dog ‘Flush’ as ‘Toto.'”)

The deliberate precision Decker takes suggests these steps have become a routine. He has done this before; he knows exactly what he’s doing. And so does director Guy Green (The Magus), for The Snorkel is a superb Hitchcock imitation.

The dead woman’s gangly teenage daughter, Candy (Mandy Miller, The Man in the White Suit), immediately accuses Paul as the killer, beyond a Shadow of a Doubt. She still suspects him of killing her father, too, in a boating “accident” several years prior. Thus, at the core, we have a locked-room mystery in which, privy to the solution from frame one, we’re just waiting for the other characters to catch up.

How Green manages to wring suspense from that, I’ll never know, especially since we know those characters will, given the times. In ever-noble black and white, The Snorkel presents one of the more perverse methods of murder the screen has seen to date, and that uniqueness — the posters classify it as a “gimmick,” which sounds too William Castle-esque — goes a long way in appeal. It also grants instant menace to van Eyck, who looks so evil and creepy sitting quietly in that apparatus, no acting is necessary. —Rod Lott

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Had I known Dead Man Down were a WWE Studios production, I would not have put off seeing it. The fake-wrassling empire’s movies can be loads of fun — that is, when they don’t take themselves too seriously. This one takes itself too seriously.

Set in the chunk-strewn melting pot of New York City, the glossy thriller unspools as a twisted romance of sorts between Hungarian engineer Victor (Colin Farrell, Seven Psychopaths) and French beautician Beatrice (Noomi Rapace, Prometheus). They’re cross-the-way apartment neighbors, each of whom thirsts for personal revenge. He’s been working undercover in the criminal enterprise (led by Prisoners‘ Terrence Howard) that killed his wife and daughter two years prior, and it’s only a matter of time before his co-workers figure out his true identity.

Meanwhile, Beatrice isn’t above blackmailing Victor to kill the drunk driver who served only three weeks’ time for an collision that left her face a map of scars. As befitting a Hollywood film with $30 million behind it, Rapace still looks beautiful with her character’s “disfigurement,” one that makes her a target of neighborhood kids who throw rocks at her and scream, “Monster!” Frankenstein, she is not. Also in true Tinseltown fashion, the opening set piece is one of those slow-motion shoot-outs in which gunfire is exchanged amid a downpour of Benjamins.

Overlong by half an hour and burdened with a script (by The Mexican‘s J.H. Wyman) that doesn’t connect all its dots, Dead Man Down imperceptibly but surely wears down the viewer with its averageness. Reunited with Rapace after 2009’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Danish director Niels Arden Oplev makes a bid for American success, only to be suffocated by the system’s needless excess. At least he did his job by making it look slick. —Rod Lott

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Seemingly made with whatever loose change was found on the streets where it was shot, Ray Dennis Steckler’s The Hollywood Strangler Meets the Skid Row Slasher is a real trial by ire. Remember, you can’t spell “Ray Dennis” without “ADR,” because the entire movie is dubbed — the least of its troubles — and as if embarrassed of its inherent shoddiness, he directed under the nom de plume of Wolfgang Schmidt. Rhymes with what he made.

The title serves as a near-encapsulation of what little happens within its 72 interminable minutes. The Hollywood Strangler (Pierre Agostino, Steckler’s Las Vegas Serial Killer) spends his days answering sex ads in sex newspapers so he can photograph weather-beaten women in shorts so short, one practically can see the STDs. After clicking off a few shots, he strangles them to death.

Meanwhile, the Skid Row Slasher (Carolyn Brandt, Steckler’s Rat Pfink a Boo Boo) works in a pitiful used bookstore where the occasional — which is to say “daily” — wino stumbles in clutching a bottle of hooch and bothers her scant few customers. After following the drunks outside, she slashes them to death.

Eventually, after a little stalking, the two killers face off in a fatal duel. Who wins? Not the viewer, that’s for damn sure. —Rod Lott

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