Mean Man: The Story of Chris Holmes (2021)

When you ask the many fans of The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years what their favorite scene is, they’ll probably say those involving an absolutely drunk Chris Holmes, the guitarist for W.A.S.P., nearly drowning in a pool as his mother sits on the edge leering. It is for me.

While I thought he died shortly after that glimpse of living the high life, but turns out he’s alive and kicking around in Europe, where he’s something of a draw with his new band. So that’s a relief, I guess.

In the documentary Mean Man: The Story of Chris Holmes, we learn that W.A.S.P. lead singer Blackie Lawless was an idiotic showman who had no real respect for Holmes; to be fair, almost every night Holmes would get blackout-drunk, culminating in losing his house and sleeping on the couch of his fellow rock buddies, as you’d expect.

Still, even after a couple of new bands and a W.A.S.P. reunion, he needed to express himself “artistically,” culminating in this new tour. From traveling to gigs, playing onstage and recording a new album I’ll never listen to, there are so many moments of inspired comedy, this almost becomes a true-life Spinal Tap.

While there seems to be a lot that doesn’t work for Holmes musically, I’m surprised how much actually does in his own life, at least what the camera shows us. He has a loving and understanding wife; he’s genuinely nice to his fans; and he seems, at least in his head, poised for something of a comeback.

If you can take the corrupt past of Holmes and genuinely separate it into this recent life, Mean Man becomes something of a rock ’n’ roll survivor story. That being said, I’m still not listening to any of his music, but I’m glad he’s still here and still pushing the envelope. —Louis Fowler

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Lucky Bastard (2014)

At the very least, Lucky Bastard approaches the found-footage trend from an angle I haven’t seen tried: inside the porno industry. Its “document everything” conceit allows us fly-on-the-fly access in HD as porn producer Mike (Don McManus, Paranormal Activity: The Ghost Dimension) persuades his supposedly hottest star, Ashley Saint (Betsy Rue) to, ahem, “do” her first episode of his Lucky Bastard series.

As one may surmise from the title, each installment recruits a fan to co-star, as it were, with the female talent — STD test results permitting, of course. After Mike wears down Ashley’s misgivings and protests, she agrees to have sex with the selected regular Joe — in this case, Dave (Jay Paulson, Black Rock). Well-meaning but socially awkward, Dave looks like the kind of guy whose Velcro wallet dutifully contains a punch card for Great Clips at the ready, perhaps adjacent to a condom he may never use.

In the run-up to rolling camera, their special guest does and says things that creep Ashley out — so many that she refuses to do the scene. He snaps, in what must be the world’s biggest case of blue balls. With LAPD footage of the grisly aftermath at a Van Nuys home, Lucky Bastard’s prologue tells us right away what the poster’s tagline only echoes: “This will not end well.” We just don’t know exactly how or when (although if you pay attention to the movie’s running time, you can make an educated guess as to when the sparks will hit wick’s end).

When the group stops for a quick lunch en route to set, Dave is so antsy to get depantsy, he complains to Mike that no one watches this portion of his Lucky Bastard series; they want to fast-forward straight to the sex. The movie Lucky Bastard, however, faces a contradictory problem: I wanted them to skip the sex for the storm.

Neither portion satisfies. Moving from the venerable (as an Emmy-nominated writer and producer of TV’s Law & Order) to the venereal for his directorial debut, Robert Nathan asks some interesting questions, like “What if a mentally ill man were chosen for an amateur porn shoot?” yet answers them with less curiosity. More attention seems placed on simulating (?) explicit acts — some pixelated despite an NC-17 rating — than sharing a fleshed-out story. To that end, one can claim Nathan’s picture is perhaps most porn-realistic in the one way a legitimate feature shouldn’t strive to be: dismissive of plot.

The three leads acquit themselves. Paulson is particularly convincing as the outcast powder keg; McManus, appropriately greasy and sleazy; and Rue looks every bit the damaged, button-cute part. Best known for her not-a-stitch performance in 3D in 2009’s My Bloody Valentine, she again demonstrates remarkable bravery in her immodesty, but this time for a project that neither deserves nor rewards her investment. —Rod Lott

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Rampage (2018)

For moviegoers who have longed to see Dwayne Johnson literally arguing with an albino gorilla via sign language, including one flip o’ the bird, Rampage answers your prayers. It also reunites Johnson with his San Andreas and Journey 2 director, Brad Peyton, officially making it a hat trick. Maybe you were praying for that, too?

Based on the semi-classic arcade game of giant monsters destroying buildings, Rampage indirectly acquires its big bads from the heavens when an Energyne corporation space station explodes, raining a trio of canisters across America. Since the jars contain a genetically edited pathogen that causes rapid growth and mutation, each is consumed by and/or exposed to a different animal — conveniently, those of the game: a wolf, a crocodile and that aforementioned ape.

The latter lives at the San Diego Wildlife Sanctuary, where Davis Oyoke (Johnson) works as some kind of souped-up zookeeper. Because he has huge muscles that might also be the product of rapid growth and mutation, Oyoke is a shoo-in at saving the world — or at least the Windy City — when all three creatures converge on Chicago’s Energyne HQ, lured there by radio signals sent by the tech firm’s greedy CEO (Malin Akerman, 2009’s Watchmen) and her ineffectual brother (Obvious Child’s Jake Lacy, either overplaying dopiness or being the only one cognizant of the source material’s campiness).

Oyoke is assisted by Energyne’s former engineer/current whistleblower (Naomie Harris, Spectre), who explains just enough science behind her CRISPR research to make the exceedingly stupid premise plausible. What I didn’t know until after the film: “CRISPR” is actual DNA terminology and not some off-brand air fryer.

Porting his Jumanji-sm appeal straight to another family-friendly piece of IP, Johnson does what he does well, which is rely on his massive charm, even if he recognizes it only goes so far: to when the soullessness of CGI takes hold to render a triple-bout monster mash in that last third. Johnson can stare wide-eyed all he wants, but it doesn’t make the sequence fun. (A one-line exception: “Of course the wolf flies.”) An empty-calorie blockbuster that should play better, Rampage gives you no quarter. —Rod Lott

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Smooth Talk (1985)

I remember the salacious VHS box for Smooth Talk that sat in the drama section of just about every video store I worked in sometime in the late ’90s, with perennial crush Laura Dern barely clothed as a lascivious Treat Williams stood behind her like the leering bastard he is, at least in this flick.

Even though I never rented it, I stared at that cover every time I passed it. Now having seen it, I’ll admit I felt a little guilt and a lot of perversion for lusting after it, especially upon learning that Dern is a sophomore in high school — even I have my boundaries, people!

Based on a short story by Joyce Carol Oates and directed by documentarian Joyce Chopra, Smooth Talk stars Dern as Connie, a precociously sexual young woman who happens to be the black sheep of her family. While Dad dotes and Mom nags, Connie spends most of her time flirting with boys at the mall and, soon enough, at the local redneck bar.

A sleazy older man by the name of Friend (Williams, at his scummiest) takes a fully erect liking to her, at one point coming to her house and literally wearing her down so she’ll go to an empty field and have sex with him, which does a good job of making the formerly loving act into an ambiguous one I’d be happy to forget about.

I guess there are many things I’m missing about this girl’s budding sexuality, but they’re hard to see every time Williams is onscreen, his diseased sexuality dripping off every frame. I guess it’s mostly surprising this was broadcast on the PBS anthology series American Playhouse, but I’ve been surprised before. —Louis Fowler

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Ingagi (1930)

WTFOne has to admire the guts and gusto of the gang behind Ingagi — or would admire if director William Campbell’s very idea and execution weren’t so, well, racist. It’s a historical curio nonetheless.

A color-tinted stew of ethnography and chicanery, the film purports to be a documentary of a 1926 African expedition by one Sir Hubert Winstead. In actuality, Ingagi not only was faked, but much of its safari footage stolen from another movie, which explains why those scenes are of much lesser resolution.

As the opening crawl of exposition informs audiences, Winstead has heard wild stories of a remote village in Africa whose tribesmen adhere to a most unusual yearly ritual: sacrificing a woman to a sex-mad gorilla, simply because they believe the gods demand it. The gods must be crazy! So Winstead and his fellow British explorers head to Africa to take some time to do the things they never had.

Upon arrival, they watch a beggar perform cigarette tricks and play three-card monte with eggs — all a mere prelude to the zoo-as-menu shenanigans on which the bulk of Ingagi is built, from warthogs to wildebeest. Animals encountered and/or hunted include crocodiles, zebras, elephants, leopards, deer, giraffes, ostriches, vultures, rhinos, armadillos, hyenas and fairly tame impala. Many, if not most, of these creatures are killed, with retrieval of the bodies left to Winstead’s native “boys.” Maybe it’s my chronic back pain, but dragging a dead hippo looks like quite the chore.

We also witness a python denied a lunch of lemur, as well as Winstead’s crew setting traps for little monkeys; when one is caught, narrator Louis Nizor chuckles with a tinge of cruelty, “What a duffer!” (Nizor, who fulfilled similar duties a year later for Campbell’s follow-up, Nu-Ma-Pu – Cannibalism, is highly opinionated throughout, remarking on “grotesque baboons” and outright declaring, “Rhinos are stupid beasts.”) For good measure, they “discover” a new animal they dub the “tortadillo,” which is a tortoise affixed with phony wings and tail, looking not unlike a Pokémon precursor.

Infamously, Ingagi’s climax depicts Winstead’s cameramen catching footage of that fabled gorilla nabbing a topless native woman for some interspecies hanky-panky. The big ape is played by none other than Charles Gemora, who donned such a suit in more than 50 movies, including The Gorilla and Island of Lost Souls. After more than an hour of buildup, the sequence is deflating to expectations — fitting for what amounts to a no-taste National Geographic special and forebearer of the mondo mockumentary. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

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