How can you tell Lipstick was made in the ’70s? Two out of the three credited experts are male. Back then, you could make a movie about rape and still barely consider the female point of view. This probably explains why it’s best remembered today as a lurid melodrama, and not the call to social action some of those involved clearly wanted it to be.

In the film, Margaux Hemingway plays a model whose life is torn apart when she is raped by a psychotic music teacher (Chris Sarandon). When the jury buys his lawyer’s argument that she was asking for it by having a vagina, she is suddenly unemployable and ready to leave town after her last photo shoot.

Tragically, however, Sarandon is in the same building as the shoot and decides to attack Margaux’s adolescent sister (her real-life sibling, Mariel). Knowing the law isn’t on her side, Margaux decides to grab a shotgun and ensure Sarandon never hurts anyone else ever again (by shooting him in the balls).

Lipstick ends with the jury exonerating Margaux via an obviously last-minute voiceover. Apparently, the irony that she might go to prison after her attacker was freed was too much for audiences to take, and the producers decided to go with a happier ending. This irony might have gone a long way toward justifying the film’s long middle stretch of interminable courtroom scenes, but we’ll never know. Instead, the end result is a mostly terrible movie with a handful of effectively gripping scenes that can only be recommended to die-hard fans of the rape-revenge genre. —Allan Mott

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The 1970s were ripe for great crime movies. Telefon may not be the pinnacle of the genre, but it’s good. It’s an unlikely vehicle for star Charles Bronson, as a KGB agent (but with no accent) trying to stop World War III by defeating rogue Russian Donald Pleasence, who’s using the telephone to dial up various Yankees who unknowingly have subliminal missions buried in their brains.

When Donald calls and recites a Robert Frost poem, it triggers them to enter a trance and embark on a suicide mission, whether that be taking out a military installation, an oil refinery or a phone company. It’s awfully repetitive, especially for a Don Siegel film, but its ‘70s tough-as-nails attitude cannot be denied.

Lee Remick, however beautiful, is clearly miscast as Bronson’s American agent who goes undercover with him (but thankfully, not under covers). If anything, Telefon serves as proof that Tyne Daly (here a CIA analyst) was ugly long before she got portly. —Rod Lott

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Britain’s Jekyll may be the best movie never made of Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, because it was actually a made-for-television miniseries. The BBC six-parter is a true reinvention of both concept and character, making for a most unpredictable ride.

Front and center is James Nesbitt (Match Point) as Jekyll, a doctor who’s keeping quite the secret from his lovely wife (Gina Bellman, TV’s Leverage) and their two sons. He’s spending time with another lovely, younger woman (Michelle Ryan, TV’s Bionic Woman). Oh, they’re not having an affair — he’s hired her to keep him and everyone else safe from his other, not-better half, the lecherous, fanged gadabout who calls himself Hyde.

But this is not the Jekyll/Hyde tale you’ve seen dozens of times before, unless there’s one I don’t know about where Hyde kills a lion, tosses the supposed king of the jungle onto the van of his would-be captors, and then sings a spirited round of the “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” while standing atop the zoo’s caged den. Not a one of its six hours is a repeat of any before it.

In fact, what begins as a suburban horror story flips its switch into sci-fi mode as the high-tech conspiracy against Jekyll grows deeper and his origins are told in time-tripping fashion. Nesbitt plays both sides of the coin to excellence; his Hyde is a saucy, sexually charged ball of confidence and venom, giving the show a darkly comic veneer. The epic comes from the diabolically creative mind of Steven Moffat, who more recently took the same purists-be-damned, start-from-scratch approach to the world’s greatest detective with the BBC’s brilliant Sherlock. No shit! —Rod Lott

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Having second thought about getting a vasectomy? Watch Orphan and you’ll be reaching for the kitchen scissors and a hand mirror before the third act. It’s not like there’s a dearth of evil-kid suspensers, but the girl at the center of this one could turn you into a misogynist.

Her name’s Esther (Isabelle Fuhrman), a 9-year-old girl from Russia adopted by a lesbian couple — oh, that’s Peter Sarsgaard, you say? My bad! — a married couple grieving over the sudden death of their third baby. Kate (Vera Farmiga) is a recovering alcoholic; she and hubby John (Sarsgaard) have a deaf daughter and an asshole son, so adding a cold-blooded killer to the mix seems like a natural move.

Esther’s warming-up period includes watching John bend Kate over the kitchen counter. Kate tries to explain: “They want to show that love, they want to express it.” Replies Esther, “I know — they fuck.” (Art Linkletter, you were so correct!) Before long, the girl is breaking legs, killing nuns, destroying marriages, setting fires, playing the piano even though she said she couldn’t — is there no end to her reign of terror?

By-the-numbers it may be, Orphan is at least well-made mediocrity by House of Wax director Jaume Collet-Serra, and Farmiga seems not to realize this is a Dark Castle release — she acts the hell out of the thing as if AMPAS voters might be sniffing around on accident. Its biggest mystery isn’t what made Esther the pigtailed bitch that she is, but: 1) who thought that twist would work, and 2) why is this thing over two hours long? Why, God, why? —Rod Lott

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In a premise so sleazy you’d expect it to be rated X, Stealing Candy has three ex-cons plot to kidnap glamorous but prudish movie star Candy Tyler, and force the busty blonde to have sex on the Internet in a one-time-only event so they can net millions.

The bad guys are played by Daniel Baldwin, Coolio and Alex McArthur (aka the fat one, the black one and the one who’s aging so poorly he looks like Jan Michael-Vincent). McArthur is the mastermind, recruiting prison buddy Coolio to help with the forced entry (of Candy’s house, mind you) and Baldwin to handle the technical end of things, which entails lots of really fast typing and making lines of code scroll onscreen.

Candy (luscious Jenya Lano), who has a no-nudity clause in her contract, agrees to, um, perform, but only to save her life. When it comes time for the big bang, the movie actually delivers the goods. And when the netcast is over and $13 million sitting in an offshore account, alliances are tested, secrets are revealed, tables are turned and Lano’s breasts go back in her bustier.

Lano’s no great shakes as an actress, but in the shaking department, she’s tops! In other words, she’s teasingly voluptuous enough to make the movie work. At one point, Coolio tells Lano she has the nicest “tits and ass I seen in a long time,” and it’s hard to argue. Without her, the movie would just be another turd on one of the lesser Baldwin brothers’ résumé.

I’m not sure Baldwin is playing a simpleton or if he simply is a simpleton; it’s too close to call. But I’m pretty sure Coolio is playing himself, and doing so terribly; every line is delivered in that macho rap-video posturing solely to convince us he’s a hardcore thug. You’re not — your name is Coolio, for crying out loud.

It’s effectively directed by Mark L. Lester (whose big-budget days of Commando and Firestarter are long gone), making for a no-brainer nugget of death and D-cups worth your meager four-dollar investment. —Rod Lott

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