Despite loads of young-French-blonde nudity courtesy of then-newcomer nymph Ludivine Sagnier, François Ozon’s Swimming Pool is merely a decent movie. It’s a virtually thrill-less thriller (purposely methodical, one assumes) about a lonely mystery writer with writer’s block (Charlotte Rampling) who goes to her publisher’s summer home in France to get her creative juices flowing.

It works until his highly promiscuous daughter (Sagnier) shows up and keeps the woman up all night with her loud orgasms. Then the girl kills someone and the writer doesn’t seem to mind because it’s good plot fodder. Then, in an effort to keep the crime covered up for the sake of the book, she beds an old sweaty gardener just after he’s mowed the yard. Eeewww!

The film is nicely shot, and I didn’t dislike it, but the ending left me with a “that’s it?” feeling. If you rent the unrated version, you get to see the girl blowing a French guy while Rampling throws rocks at them.

WARNING: But if you rent the unrated version, you also get full-frontal scraggly Rampling. WARNING: No matter which version you rent, you have to see a sleazy, dumpy French guy hanging out of his black cotton underwear. —Rod Lott

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Las Vegas Lady begins, appropriately enough, in a theme park and wax museum. But it’s not as much fun as either. I’m going to dish out blame to a mood-setting (read: mood-destroying) country-rock theme song that’s worse than any turd ever dumped onto drive-in screens by Crown International Pictures.

Said song is about Lucky, played by government-certified MILF Stella Stevens. As the tune goes, “She’s a winner and a sinner,” and the plot is only slightly more complex. In the opening moments, a shadowy figure in a cowboy hat ropes her into a job of robbing a Vegas casino of — pinky toward mouth, Dr. Evil — half a million dollars! The place deserves to lose it, because the unsmiling owner (George DiCenzo, Helter Skelter) is a real douche.

It’s a not-so-ritzy joint where the entertainment isn’t Goth magicians, killer tigers or stick-up-the-ass Billboard divas, but a chintzy circus act starring three busty trapeze artists, one of whom is sick of all the flying around. Lucky corrals her (Linda Scruggs) and a token black woman (Lynne Moody, Scream Blacula Scream) to aid her in the gig, along with Lucky’s fuck buddy (Stuart Whitman), who works security there and won’t stop asking her hand in marriage, even though she’s hot and he’s … well, like a beer gut in unkempt human form.

Ocean’s Eleven this is not, as the heist is as low-tech as the casino, which may as well have wood paneling. It’s so bottom-barrel by today’s standards that you can smell the Pall Mall through the screen. The biggest element into pulling the job off are Stevens’ pendulous breasts, which distract WKRP‘s Frank Bonner, forever endanger the PG rating, and mitigate that the big twist is obvious from the first scene. —Rod Lott

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If Seven had more of a supernatural bent and was heavily steeped in Asian culture, it might look like Double Vision, a superb serial killer effort from Hong Kong and Taiwan. The killer first strikes when a CEO is discovered in his office dead from drowning, yet with no signs of water to be found. Later, a senator’s mistress is burned to death in her apartment, but with no indication of fire present.

Troubled cop Tony Leung (Red Cliff) is baffled, as is the rest of the force, so they call on the expertise of American FBI agent David Morse for help. What they discover in their investigation proves more complicated than anything they’ve encountered in their work before.

The reveal of the killer proves to be anticlimactic, but then the film makes up for it by throwing a huge, steel-plated monkey wrench into the plot that really shakes things up – something I would never expect. The last act isn’t as good as the setup since the focus shifts from suspenseful to spiritual, but Chen Kuo Fu’s film as a whole is extremely well-crafted and anchored by two solid leads. —Rod Lott

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If you’re anything like me, then the first page of Playboy you always turn to is the centerfold’s fact sheet. “Who is she as a person?” you ask yourself as you enjoy her witty insights regarding her likes, dislikes, ambitions and turns both on and off. It’s only then — with some reluctance — that you take a look at the photographs that represent the rest of her appearance in the magazine and appreciate them in your own special way for a few brief, energetic minutes.

Thankfully, for those of us movie buffs who truly care about who our masturbation fantasies are as people, there’s Posed for Murder, a somewhat-forgotten, late-’80s thriller dedicated to the travails of a glamour model trying to make her way in a world full of asshole publishers, sleazy agents, sleazier movie directors, sick moms, convict ex-boyfriends and psychotic, body-building stalkers-cum-serial killers.

Charlotte Helmkamp (Miss December 1982) is clearly cast against type as Laura, a hot brunette with a bangin’ body whose photos in the low-rent Thrill have paid the bills, but who longs for the kind of respect that’s synonymous with being a terrible actress in low-budget horror films. While she pursues her dream in-between workouts and photo shoots, she barely has the time to notice that all of the people around her are turning up kinda dead.

Posed for Murder is one of those movies that does nothing right, yet still manages to be a fun time. Just sleazy enough to leave you tumescent, but not so much to make you feel guilty afterward, it’s a so-bad-it’s-good fiasco that deserves to be much better known among aficionados of this sort of thing. —Allan Mott

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The Death Note manga has a story so extensive, so twisty-turvy, so dozen-volumey, I wondered how Japan ever could adapt it into a live-action feature film. Answer: It couldn’t. Instead, it had to do it in two: 2006’s Death Note and its immediate sequel, Death Note: The Last Name. Directed by Shusuke Kaneko (one-third of Necronomicon: Book of the Dead and several Gamera films of the ’90s), the first films adheres closely to its source material.

Tatsuya Fujiwara (Battle Royale) plays Light Yagami, a college student who comes across one helluva unique notebook in the rain and takes it home. Clad in black covers emblazoned with the name “Death Note,” its pages are blank. The inside-front-cover instructions explain why: Write someone’s name in the book, and they instantly die. The son of a police detective, Light at first uses this find for good, to rid Japan of its hardened criminals, especially those who’ve slipped through the fingers of Lady Justice. It’s only after he becomes a suspect in this string of serial “murders” that he uses it to save it his own hide.

After the police get nowhere — and lose a lot of their own men in the process — they lean on the candy-addicted, hermit/genius known only as L (Ken’ichi Matsuyama of Detroit Metal City). Thus begins a chess game of wits that also involves a clingy media pop tart, several skeptics and, of course, the so-named shinigami death gods, rendered here through CGI that ranges from fluid to clunky, depending upon the shot.

It’s a crisp, slick slice of crime and fantasy cinema, if a bit too long. The most amazing thing is how much Matsuyama inhabits the L character as originally portrayed on the page by artist Takeshi Obata: his quirks, his stance, his malnourished look, his everything. It’s uncanny. The film marks a killer concept, well-executed — if you’ll pardon the double pun. —Rod Lott

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