Thriller

All-American Murder (1991)

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After getting kicked out of college — again! — for his dorm mates burning his snake (not a frat ritual), judge’s son Artie Logan (Police Academy: Mission to Moscow’s Charlie Schlatter, the welfare Matthew Broderick) is sent to a university named Fairfield. Sporting a beret, jean jacket and cigarette, Artie gets all JD Brando on his old man: “Don’t lay this on me!”

Seemingly seconds after arriving on the Fairfield campus, however, Artie’s tune changes because he’s fucking the dean’s wife (Joanna Cassidy, Blade Runner). Even more promising (and age-appropriate) is the Prettiest Girl in School, Tally (Josie Bissett, Hitcher in the Dark), takes a liking to Artie’s lecherous stalker moves.

Young love — ain’t it grand? As long as one doesn’t burn to a crisp in a mysterious sorority-house fire? And as long as the other one isn’t wrongly pegged by the police as the prime suspect? This is where Artie should have saved his “Don’t lay this on me!” line.

Not only is hotshot detective P.J. Decker (Christopher Walken) assigned to the case, but incredulously agrees to give Artie 24 hours to prove his innocence! That’s not so easy to do, what with extra corpses running parallel to his every move — and in such gruesome, slasher-plucked exits: a drilled forehead o’er here, a grenade down the gym pants o’er there.

Until recently discovered by the viral corners of the internet, All-American Murder was known primarily for being the first (and only) not-made-for-TV feature film directed by Anson Williams, aka Potsie from the long-running sitcom Happy Days. Now it’s known for its rightful place in history: giving us one of the most memorable, calling-all-kooks performances by Walken. The Oscar winner walks into the flick like a stone-cold stud, taking charge of a megaphone to diffuse a hostage situation by taunting the gunman about boning his wife: “I love that little mole on her butt, don’t you? And how about that sensitive left nipple?”

This character intro is so great, you’ll not only long for Walken to take the story’s focus away from Schlatter, but for his own police procedural series on CBS. (At least that would give me and Mom something to discuss.) Later scenes double-down on Walken’s oddness, with a running joke (?) of Decker sharing an anecdote about “popping the cherry” of a hooker’s badge-fetishizing, 18-year-old sister.

More on the subject of jokes: Schlatter delivers his share as if he’s still stuck in George Burns’ withered turtle body from 18 Again!; Artie’s told, “I’d like to chop your balls off with a pick ax!” and he replies, “I respect your honesty” in such a way that you’re half-looking for the cigar. For some reason, many of Artie’s quips are food-based, e.g., “Thanks … for the whole salami,” “(He’s) one sick peanut!” and “Of course it’s my knife, you sausage!”

Schlatter tries to be funny, yet isn’t; Walken doesn’t try to be funny, yet is. The jury’s still out whether the tonally confused All-American Murder is the movie Williams intended to make, but because it’s progressively off-kilter, it’s never dull.

And hey, how about that sensitive left nipple? —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Comedy

Twister’s Revenge! (1988)

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Q: What do you get when you combine $200,000 of computer gear with a $20 budget?
A: Bill Rebane’s Twister’s Revenge!

That’s a terrible “joke.” Yet it’s better and more logical than those offered by the movie. I can prove it.

Kelly: “They can’t nail us for this. It’s not even our tank! Besides, I think it’s got something to do with habeas electi.”
Bear: “Does that mean we can’t have children?”

The defense rests.

Ostensibly a lighthearted caper in look and feel, Twister’s Revenge! — exclamation point entirely Rebane’s — gives us a setup seemingly straight from an improv’s show participatory “give me a word” portion: Dave (Dean West, Rebane’s Blood Harvest) seeks to rescue his brand-new wife, Sherry (Meredith Orr), from the clutches of kidnappers — and destroy their property while he’s at it — with the help of a talking monster truck (Mr. Twister). Said kidnappers — the greasy, bumbling Kelly, Dutch and Bear (respectively overplayed by David Alan Smith, Jay Gjernes and R. Richardson Luka) — have Sherry tied up with a serial-style load of TNT.

Meanwhile, Dave has his all-American guns and Mr. Twister, which his spouse has secretly outfitted with Knight Rider-style voice technology. Instead of William Daniels, however, Mr. Twister sounds like someone speaking into a desk fan. The intellitruck can calculate probability on the fly, even to the right of the decimal point. While Dave is clearly dressed to imply Indiana Jones, the viewer may infer Harry Anderson.

Watch in amazement as Dave steers Mr. Twister to level an outhouse — chalk-labeled with disturbing aggression as “SHIT HOUSE!” — in which the moronic Bear, a cork-on-fork version of Goonies’ John Matuszak, ducks to evade death by tire. Bear survives, but crawls out covered in feces — an apt metaphor for your experience as a viewer, potentially topped only by him going cross-eyed when kicked in the nuts.

This is, after all, a movie with:
• a morbidly obese bar singer (Liz Gray, Drop Dead Fred’s Namby Pamby) in blue spandex belting inane lyrics, e.g., “I stroke your feathers / While you do-do-do”
• men in that bar wearing gas masks and a bat’s head
• a running gag of Bear’s girlfriend (Tena Murray) fleeing Mr. Twister in fast-motion like a veritable Keystone Kop, struggling to keep her breasts contained with her dress and, at one point, sprinting through a Hardee’s for a sandwich on the go
• an opening-credits misspelling of its DP’s title as “photograpy”

And, hey, did I mention a monster truck that talks? Not unlike Al Adamson’s Carnival Magic, Twister’s Revenge! is Rebane’s amateurishly executed attempt at a comedy for families — specifically, the one sharing the surname Manson. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Comedy

Werewolves Within (2021)

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With Werewolves Within, the big takeaway isn’t that it’s funny, but that it’s based on a video game. By that standard, it shouldn’t be good at all. And yet it is. Heck, even by regular movie standards, it’s great.

In quaint, quiet Beaverfield, there’s a new federal forest ranger in town: Finn Wheeler (Sam Richardson, TV’s Veep). His arrival coincides with the discovery of a torn-up corpse that has residents on edge. It’s hardly the last body that’ll turn up — and specifically, at a local inn, where Finn and about a dozen others find themselves trapped due to a spell of bad weather — or, as bumblefuck Marcus (George Basil, Desperados) puts it, “streets is all storm-fucked.” Oh, and some of the guests believe a lycanthrope is to blame.

From Keystone-shaded pipeline drama to sabotaged generators, director Josh Ruben (Scare Me) and first-time screenwriter Mishna Wolff (ha!) give their cast a heckuva lot of obstacles to play against. In look and feel, Werewolves Within suggests an old-fashioned drawing-room mystery, but did Miss Marple ever have to face geysers of goo? Luckily, unlike too many of its horror brethren from the same litter, this film doesn’t forget to wrap a story around the gore or neglect to imbue its characters with personalities — not even the most hapless of victims.

Who survives or doesn’t is negligible when the cast is this well-stacked, making for a thoroughly winning ensemble with crack comic timing. Supporting Richardson are such reliable talents as Saturday Night Live vet Michaela Watkins, I Love You, Man’s Sarah Burns and, as Beaverfield’s mail carrier and Finn’s romantic interest, internet troll magnet Milana Vayntrub (aka Lily, “the girl from the AT&T commercials”). There are many more, each having a hand in making the movie to be the light, enjoyable and bloody romp it is — complete with The Free Design joyously buoying the conclusion. Oh, and maybe a lycanthrope. —Rod Lott

Documentary

The Witches of the Orient (2021)

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Unless you’re a pinko commie, hearing the phrase “Olympics upset” should conjure memories of 1980’s “Miracle on Ice” — or at least the 2004 Kurt Russell movie about it — when the U.S. men’s hockey team out-pucked the Russians to surprise gold. Less known (for now) is a similar story of victory over the USSR, this time by the 1964 women’s volleyball team from Japan. The players’ global accomplishment capped an extraordinary streak of 258 consecutive wins — a feat so mighty and magical, it earned them a moniker adopted by a new documentary about the team: The Witches of the Orient.

As the septuagenarian surviving members relate to French director Julien Faraut (John McEnroe: In the Realm of Perfection), being part of the Nichibo Kaizuka volleyball team was less fun and games, and more conscription: After a full day of factory work, the young ladies hit the gym until midnight, then did the same all over again, often operating on a mere three to four hours of sleep.

After this context, Faraut delineates the team members’ individual personalities behind the often-demeaning nicknames (Fugu, Horse, et al.) given to them by mercurial coach Hirofumi Daimatsu. In present day, as the women relay stories from their grueling path to the 12th Olympic Games, the film incorporates relevant clips of a Witches-inspired anime series, as well as historical footage set to an atmospheric but uptempo electronic score by K-Raw and Grandaddy’s Jason Lytle. Although lengthy, these marvelously edited musical sequences work to the doc’s enormous benefit, pushing it beyond 30 for 30 territory into modern art. (I need this soundtrack album, although it doesn’t exist.)

Taking up Witches’ final third is, of course, a condensed version of the Land of the Rising Sun’s on-court attack against the Iron Curtain at the Olympics. Quite simply, this is one of the most captivating half-hours in sports-doc history. Hosted in Tokyo, those Games represented the loftiest of stakes for Japan as a crucial step in post-WWII rebuilding. That burden is evident by the sheer aggression and swiftness of the Witches’ strike-and-spike strategy to conquer their Soviet Union counterparts, revealing our heroines as an even more formidable threat than Faraut has shown us thus far.

When they win, the pride, humility and exhaustion shining from their faces is COVID-level infectious. That their gold-medal moment comes free of ego makes the scene — and the film — all the more moving. —Rod Lott

Horror

Day of the Animals (1977)

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Ah, the 1970s. It was a time when leisure suits were appropriate camping wear, Leslie Nielsen was a dirty racist and any future environmental problems could be a rousing source of bloody entertainment, most notably in William Girdler’s Day of the Animals.

As a nameless town’s rural cops sit around playing cards, gaining weight and bitching about the ozone layer, Christopher George and his steel jaw lead a handful of city folk into the California mountains for a camping excursion. As the collection of white stereotypes — and one Native American played by Middle Eastern actor Michael Ansara, natch — walk the mountain range, a large bird follows them, watching their every move.

Apparently that’s all it takes, because after the opening night’s wolf attack, the animals go crazy, especially the birds, the cougars, the dogs and a rather docile bear. They attack in rather subdued ways that seem more like everyday maulings as opposed to CFC-inspired murders which, we are supposed to believe is the cause of their temporary insanity.

To be honest, the real wild animal here is a shirtless Nielsen, leading a pack of campers in the wrong direction while swinging a large stick around, slapping small children, calling old women “bitches” and plunging a spear into the chest a young Andrew Stevens, unaware that, many years later, his hands will be gently cupping the bare breasts of a willing Shannon Tweed in straight-to-cable flicks.

Nielsen, thankfully, meets his end when, in the rain, a bear attacks him in the middle of trying to rape a woman. (Now that I think about it, maybe these animals aren’t all that bad after all …)

While many people consider Grizzly to be Girdler’s magnum opus of animal-on-man killings, I highly suggest checking out Day of the Animals, much like my own dog did, watching the screen with one eye on the screen and one eye on me, licking his slobbering chops and mesmerized by every minute of it. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

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