Perdita Durango (1997)

From a dark and dirty novel by Barry Gifford, Perdita was originally a minor character in David Lynch’s Wild at Heart played by Isabella Rossellini. In Alex de la Iglesia’s dark and dirty film Perdita Durango, however — originally released in the States as the heavily edited Dance with the Devil — it transforms her sweltering story in a diabolical masterpiece that, like many of his films, deserves a rabid cult surrounding it.

Rosie Perez stars as the double-dealing Perdita, a damned soul who wanders south of the border looking good in her Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! outfit while searching for — and always finding — sex, drugs and murder. She meets her infernal match when she comes upon — and on — drug dealer and cult leader Romeo (Javier Bardem). After a rather bloody Santeria service, looking for hardcore kicks before their next score — a semi full of aborted fetuses to be used for cosmetics testing — they kidnap two white-bread teens from America.

Going further than Lynch probably ever could or would — and fans know how far he’ll go — de la Iglesia’s wicked hand fleshes out, in more ways than one, the black soul of the title character, never excusing her inner darkness like any filmmakers probably would have done, giving her a heart of gold. The casting of Perez is perfect for the film and, probably, for de la Iglesia himself, maiming and killing for laughs and looking good while doing it.

Bardem as Romeo, of course, is absolutely loathsome as you’d expect, a terrific foil with an evil glimmer in his eye for an equally filthy — and wholly diverse — supporting cast that includes James Gandolfini, Demian Bichir, Alex Cox and Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. It’s a collection of actors as dark and wild as the world of Durango herself. —Louis Fowler

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Strike Commando (1986)

Strike One to SAT Eagle! Strike One to SAT Eagle! As Sgt. Michael Ransom, Strike Commando star Reb Brown establishes a four-step schtick for not only his wronged-soldier character, but for the apex of his filmography. It goes a little something like this:
1. Walk a few steps before halting with purpose.
2. Recite the first name of thy enemy with anger.
3. Emit a scream as prolonged as possible …
4. … as you unload a machine gun in a back-and-forth motion to an excessive degree — ideally in equal time to item No. 3.

It works every time. He executes this bit several times throughout Strike Commando because it’s what Sly Stallone’s John Rambo would do, and Strike Commando could not exist without that big bowl of First Blood Part II. As staged by Italy’s primo cinema imitator, Bruno Mattei (Cruel Jaws), Ransom vows revenge on his traitorous superior, Radok (Christopher Connelly, 1990: The Bronx Warriors), for sabotaging a midnight mission in Vietnam that left all Ransom’s buddies dead.

“They all demand justice!” Ransom cries, clearly in a presumption on his part.

Radok thinks Ransom is no longer alive, either, but our hero somehow survives and somehowier slowly floats his way under miles of dirty water to the safety of a village whose populace greets him in mass whiteface. There, Ransom befriends a “Frenchman” (Luciano Pigozzi, the Italian Jack Elam, reuniting with Brown after Yor: The Hunter from the Future) and gains a li’l buddy in the boy Lao (Edison Navarro, Mattei’s Double Target). Lao quizzes Ransom on all things Disneyland; the American tells his young charge that at the park, popcorn and ice cream grow on trees. The fuck they do!

As with everyone Ransom so much as glances at, these poor saps soon are drained of their lifeblood as well, with Lao’s expiration an absolute classic of ’80s he-man cinema. With these deaths at the doing of Russian meat slab Jakota (Alex Vitale, Beyond the Door III), Ransom gains two opponents, and our one movie is all the better for it, affording us a thrifty montage of Ransom undergoing various acts torture; as viewers of the DVD-multipack-bin “favorite” The Firing Line know, these are the type of scenes in which Brown gives it his all.

While he lacks acting skills, Brown gives the movie something — something I failed to notice until watching Mattei’s 1988 follow-up, Strike Commando 2, in which Ransom is played instead by human blank Gwendoline’s Brent Huff. With this switcheroo, the sequel is such a snore, it needs a CPAP machine. Venture no further than original-recipe Strike Commando and all of its Rebness. As Joni Mitchell warned — and we ignored, so Counting Crows and Cinderella had to remind us — you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone. Also, there’s cockfighting. —Rod Lott

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Just a Gigolo (1978)

Not to be confused with the utterly terrible take on the torch tune by David Lee Roth, Just a Gigolo is a highly satirical starring role for a surprisingly gaunt David Bowie, coming fresh off the science-fiction head-scratcher The Man Who Fell to Earth.

Bowie is Paul von Przygodski, a young man who, like a lesser-known Candide, seems to fall in and out of life’s foibles, such as surviving a bombing in World War I, being mistaken for a French soldier in a hospital and so on and so forth. He seems to be the king of dumb luck.

He returns home with a porcine pal in tow, only to find Berlin in a truly crumbling state of its former self, filled with beggars and other miscreants. Still, Paul makes due with a job as a walking beer bottle, befriending an American actress (Sydne Rome) and his former commanding officer, Capt. Kraft (David Hemmings).

Eventually, she abandons him for possible stardom in America and Kraft pushes forward with his plans to rule Germany with a very Nazi-like movement. Heartbroken, Paul meets the Baroness (Marlene Dietrich) in a club and sets him on the path to becoming the world’s most unsatisfying gigolo, performing the title song on a darkened set.

As he works his way through a surprising Kim Novak and other ladies of the German upper crust — almost never finishing the job, mind you — things finally stop going Paul’s way, in the highly apropos finale, where, in death, he is held up as an unknowing scion to Germany’s growing fandom of Nazism.

Of course, the coke-addled Bowie is transcendent as Paul, even if the singer described the film as Elvis Presley’s 32 films “rolled into one” when it spectacularly failed at the box office. I truly don’t see it; I would have loved to have seen Elvis as a paid prostitute pleasing the women of pre-WWII Germany. Sadly, it was never meant to be.

What tends to hold the film back seems to be Hemmings’ velvet-glove direction. He seems unsure about the tone of the film, one second making it a dark comedy with serious underpinnings and the next, a bedroom farce with sexual overtones. It makes for a far more raucous experience than expected, but, then again, maybe that’s the point, mirroring Paul’s own wasted life. —Louis Fowler

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1408 (2007)

In 2007, it was nice to see a Stephen King adaptation at an actual movie theater again, where they belong, instead of the watered-down, overlong miniseries that played several nights on network TV and basic cable. It was also nice to see it contain actual scares, surviving the transition from its source material intact.

1408 comes from King’s 1992 short-story collection, Everything’s Eventual: 14 Dark Tales. As King notes in his introduction, it was never meant to be an actual story, but an example of how writing progresses from draft to draft. For whatever reason, he finished it, and it’s one of Eventual’s many highlights. It’s easy to see why it was handpicked for big-screen treatment, and its modest success — combined with Frank Darabont’s The Mist later that year — helped usher in another wave of quality King films still going semi-strong more than a decade later.

John Cusack stars as Mike Enslin, a writer of several midlist books on haunted places. He’s working on one for hotels, rating each on a scare scale of one to 10 skulls. In his research, he’s found that supposed ghost-infested bed-and-breakfasts are just a way to drum up business. That will all change with his stay in room 1408 at New York’s Dolphin Hotel — a room perennially kept unoccupied for a reason: 56 occupants have died in it, none lasting for more than an hour.

Or, as the Dolphin manager (Samuel L. Jackson) puts it, the room is “fucking evil.”

Once inside, Mike’s stay starts off innocently enough: unexplained mints on the pillow, blared Karen Carpenter from the clock radio. But soon, actual bodily harm comes to him, and the clock starts providing a handy 60-minute countdown toward his apparent doom. With a barrage of spirits and phenomena and other things that go bump in the dark, it’s like The Shining compressed into one compact suite.

While King’s original story of the same name is structured roughly into thirds — before, during and after Mike’s stay — most all of the film is concerned with the during. Granting the tale an ominous touch, King relates the goings-on in the room not as they happen, but only afterward, via whatever details Mike left on his voice recorder.

What he doesn’t say makes our imagination run wild. But movies being visual, 1408 shows all, and some of it is very creepy. With the film more or less being confined to one space, Mikael Håfström does a great job of concocting more and more things to make Mike’s night a living hell. Although it includes all of the shocks of the story, it has to expand upon it in order to hit feature-length, adding a subplot about Mike’s ex-wife (Deep Impact’s Mary McCormack) and dead daughter to help fulfill that.

Hope you like Cusack, because the entire movie is on his shoulders. If he weren’t such a talented actor, we’d want to check out of 1408 early. But he makes the skeptic Mike likable, believable and sympathetic. As much as the moviegoer in us likes to see him go through the ringer, we feel bad for him all the same. In fact, parts of the film are real downers, but that just means it works.

The movie’s not perfect, mostly because of maybe two too many false endings. But it’s a smart and stylish chiller/thriller — everything that Håfström’s previous film, Derailed, was not. —Rod Lott

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The Final Countdown (1980)

Released many years before the absolutely terrible song by Swedish metal-lite band Europe, The Final Countdown is mostly famous for being one of the few science-fiction movies that jaded old men — particularly World War II vets — who typically only watch Westerns seemed to somewhat enjoy, as my father did whenever this came on television.

Still steel-jawed in 1980, Kirk Douglas is the tough-ish Navy captain of an aircraft carrier that, during regular maneuvers in the Hawaiian seas, appears to get sucked into an unexplained time vortex that takes the ship back to a few hours before the events of Pearl Harbor.

Between reasonably dealing with Department of Defense liaison Martin Sheen and needlessly arguing with chubby senator Charles Durning, Cap’n Douglas has to decide if he’s going to do something about Pearl Harbor or not while he’s got that burning number on the upcoming events.

What he does — or doesn’t do — leads to one of the most unsatisfying endings I’ve ever seen on film, subdued with a coda I’m sure we all saw coming.

As I watched this flick, directed by Don Taylor and surprisingly associate-produced by Troma head Lloyd Kaufman, I started to wish my dad was still alive — momentarily — so I could have asked him what exactly it was that he liked about this film, especially when he called Douglas an “ass” and Sheen a “communist” whenever they were brought up in everyday conversation.

Now that I think about it, he never said anything about James Farentino … maybe that’s the reason? —Louis Fowler

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