Turbulence II: Fear of Flying (1999)

A sequel in name only, Turbulence II: Fear of Flying fills a Trans-Con Airlines jet cabin with enrollees of a self-help course to conquer their phobia of the friendly skies. Their “final,” so to speak, is to take an actual flight instead of participating in a mere simulation. That the real voyage includes mass poisoning (via ice cubes) and a hijacking is entirely unplanned.

Because one of the students (Craig Sheffer, Nightbreed) survived a fiery plane crash years before, leading him to his current chosen profession of milquetoast aeronautical engineer, he’s de facto designated to become our unlikely hero. And because he’s a single dad, of course the cute passenger one row ahead (Jennifer Beals, Four Rooms) is destined to practically be engaged to him by the time the aircraft kisses the runway, even if she boarded with someone else at her side (Jeffrey Nordling, Tron: Legacy) — someone for whom she shuts down the Mile-High Club initiation process mid-coitus.

By definition, direct-to-video actioners are pretty derivative, and Turbulence II is no exception. In this case, however, clearly influenced by my beloved Airport franchise, that’s a good thing. Having worked for Roger Corman more than a dozen times, Rob Kerchner (Carnosaur III: Primal Species) delivers a story stripped clean of subplots for maximum efficiency, which director David Mackay (Black Point) welcomes while seemingly convincing himself this sweet new gig is Die Hard 2.

Third-billed Tom Berenger (Sniper) gets the somnambulant role of the air traffic controller who never leaves the tower, much less moves. An exception to the latter is the moment when a hostage comes crashing through the tower’s skylight after being thrown from the plane overhead. You’ve gotta give it up for the villain exhibiting such incredible aim and timing, in a sequence that does not do the same; in fact, when the falling man approaches the bottom of the frame for moment of impact, you can see him slow down! Turbulence II, you are cleared for landing in what remains of my heart. —Rod Lott

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Kiss My Grits (1982)

With its title based on the popular ’70s catchphrase, you’d think a flick called Kiss My Grits would be a cornpone comedy about a hash-slinging waitress who goes on the sexy run from a corrupt Texas County ranger, with plenty of car chases, car wrecks and car-fornication in a scant 80-minute runtime.

In reality, however, it’s a wholly unlikable drama — it claims comedy, but I don’t believe it — about redneck parolee Dolin (Bruce Davison … what?), a love-’em-and-leave-’em sheep wrangler about to be sent back to Huntsville Penitentiary for three years, presumably for the film’s opening watermelon heist; it’s all a bit unclear.

When he meets gangster moll Baby (Susan George with an over-the-top Texas drawl), they plan to rob her good ol’ boy mafia lover Karkas (Anthony Franciosa, taking a paycheck), whose repulsive, Elvis-coiffed chauffeur calls dogs “faggots.” They drug Karkas, steal his dough and Dolin’s brother, Flash (Bruno Kirby … what?), takes down the sheriff.

Dolin also has a precocious son named Boots (Andre Gower, The Monster Squad) who has a robot best friend named Iron Man, but trust me, he’s not Iron Man. It’s some toy from a bootleg Toys ’R Us that cost $82.50. The price is said numerous times.

Barely directed by Jack Starrett, to be fair, as I said before, this film is labeled as a comedy, but instead of leaving me laughing, I’m left reasonably depressed. I kind of expected more rural action from the director of Race with the Devil and Final Chapter: Walking Tall, but instead got this.

Oh, well, I guess it’s a good way to kill an hour and 41 minutes if you’ve got the time. I really don’t. —Louis Fowler

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The Treasure of Jamaica Reef (1974)

Underwater photography is the true star of The Treasure of Jamaica Reef, a pleasingly tame action-adventure about San Diego professionals who quit their day jobs to go hunting for rumored sunken gold in the Caribbean. The guys are played by The Oscar’s Stephen Boyd, future MGM exec David Ladd and a Wolfman Jack-bearded Chuck Woolery, right before achieving fame on the tube as the host of a new game show called Wheel of Fortune. Rounding out the quartet is a feisty blonde named Zappy (Cheryl Ladd, then Stoppelmoor and three years from joining Charlie’s Angels).

First-time director Virginia L. Stone (Run If You Can) takes an A-to-Z, near-documentary approach on getting our heroes to the ocean — for example, showing them negotiating to buy an old truck shaped like a wine barrel. Along the way they meet surfer-dude teen Darby (Darby Hinton, Malibu Express), who aids them in a chase in which Zappy hangs onto the luggage rack of a thief’s speeding car, and teddy-bear boat captain Rosey Grier (Skyjacked), who does not.

By the time the team is piloting small-prop planes and surveying the ocean floor from the comfort of a glass-bottomed raft, it hit me: The Treasure of Jamaica Reef plays as if based on the Fisher-Price Adventure People toy line, perhaps from a 9-year-old’s thunked-up outline. It’s certainly that sexless, with Mrs. Ladd in not only an overly modest bikini, but the same bikini day to day to day. As her character’s name hints, Zappy is presented as more kid sister than sex object, with Stone’s camera more interested in what lies beneath sea level. Unlike most B movies, Reef’s underwater footage is neither muddy, stock nor faked, so at the very least, viewers can appreciate local flavor galore.

When Jaws busted blocks the next year, the producers presumably kicked themselves for not having sharks in their film. Wrangling Boyd back, they shot bookends that graft a new plot of a cursed treasure map, and added some gore, some sex and, most importantly, some sharks. The resulting waterlogged mess was rechristened Evil in the Deep. No word if, per the poster, anyone’s nerves were ripped to shreds, but the 2.0 ending is an absolute hoot. —Rod Lott

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Porky’s II: The Next Day (1983)

In 1971, Indigenous people cheered as the half-Native superhero Billy Jack womped whitey across the face with his bare foot. But, sadly, it was over a decade until we were given another group of cinematic heroes, this time in the form of the horny teens of Porky’s II: The Next Day.

That’s right: Porky’s II: The Next Day.

Whereas the original is a veritable cum-storm of sex jokes, sex pranks and sex gags, writer and director Bob Clark decided that, the next day, these turned-on teens should get educated on the non-erect real world by introducing religious hypocrisy, political lies and racial discrimination to their lustful lives. And, like morning wood, it actually works.

After a long night of destruction and demolition to Porky’s swamp-water roadhouse, the lovable louts return to Angel Beach High School to — what else? — join the drama club’s production of various Shakespearian works. This garners the attention of a fire-and-brimstone preacher who considers the Bard a sinful sonuvabitch.

Soon enough, the Ku Klux Klan gets their pointy hats involved when they find out that, in a recreation of Romeo and Juliet’s famed balcony scene, the movement’s Montague will be played by John Henry (Joseph Runningfox), a full-blooded Seminole. One night, these white supremacists beat him bad, as well as fire up a cross to add insult to injury.

While they’re dealing with the religious zealots — oh, yeah, and a scheming politico who attempts to make it with a 16-year-old girl — the lascivious lot manage to capture the Klan and, with the help of the entire Seminole tribe, strip the xenophobes and shave their heads before parading them nude in front of the preacher’s anti-Shakespeare rally in front of the school.

What’s so remarkable about all this is how respectful the Seminole people are depicted onscreen in a lesser-known sequel to a notorious sex comedy, more realistically than possibly any social-justice film of the era. While the strip-and-shave scenario is, of course, thought up by the young masturbators, the way the Indigenous community stands behind Henry is remarkable, as well as the fact Clark cast real Natives for the numerous background roles.

But if you’re a racist and like dated wanking material, don’t worry; this sex-filled sequel is still packed with pervy pranks like a hot-to-trot graveyard girl, a snake directed straight toward Ms. Balbricker’s vagina and a randy sexpot who inexplicably vomits from her bouncy boobs in a fancy nightclub. —Louis Fowler

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The Death of Ocean View Park (1979)

Whenever the golden age of disaster movies is discussed, 1977’s Rollercoaster often gets mentioned, which is weird, because it’s not a disaster movie. Perhaps people are confusing it with The Death of Ocean View Park? Although both were shot at Virginia’s real-life Ocean View Amusement Park, only the film sharing that name counts, beginning with a hurricane and ending with explosions aplenty.

Made for ABC prime time, The Death of Ocean View Park casts Mike Connors (Too Scared to Scream) as Sam Jackson (!), second-gen manager and one-time owner of the titular theme park now belonging to money-hungry developer Tom Flood. Played by Meteor man Martin Landau in full Murray Hamilton mode, Flood’s not about to let a little tropical hurricane and all its after-effects put the kibosh on Ocean View’s big Fourth of July event — for God’s sake, he’s already booked the Bee Gees!

But Jackson’s just Got a Feeling, which telepic director extraordinaire E.W. Swackhamer (Terror at London Bridge) accentuates more than once with a pan or cut to a “GAS LINE” sign posted at ground level of The Rocket. That’s the park’s coaster: 50 years old, wooden, rickety, shaky AF and, come Act 3, containing his new girlfriend (Caroline McWilliams, TV’s Benson) as a reluctant rider — what could possibly go wrong?

Meanwhile, the cotton candy counter’s ugly-duckling attendant (Geostorm’s Mare Winningham) is wooed by a socially super-awkward Navy sailor on shore leave (Alligator’s Perry Lang) just so the movie can strand them toward the Ferris wheel’s tippy-top for the climax. Elsewhere, one employee’s pregnant wife (Diana Canova, TV’s Soap) starts having terrifying nightmares and daytime visions of full-blown panic at the park, which her hub (James Stephens, Mysterious Two) coldly dismisses as the result of “sausage and onion pizza,” just so the movie can call him in on his day off — and, therefore, in mortal danger — to fix what is apparently the park’s only popcorn machine!

The precog subplot sticks out for having nowhere to go beyond the obvious foreshadowing and inspiring the plot of Final Destination 3. It also wrongly puts the viewer in the frame of mind to accept supernatural forces at play. A subsequent scene admits as much by suggesting the park has a mind of its own, as a few boys sneak in one night for an after-hours joy ride that goes wildly berserk — yet that angle is abandoned right then and there.

No worries, folks, all the movie’s machinations are the work of Mother Nature and her Physics 101 syllabus, and Swackhamer saves the biggest for last as the park is destroyed — hardly a spoiler since the name of the film promises just that. In real life, the aforementioned wooden coaster was set to be demolished, so Playboy Productions had a movie written around that. (Yes, that Playboy, although you wouldn’t know it; the only concession to Hef’s Playboy Philosophy is a beauty contest of swimsuited ladies Jackson is tasked with judging.)

To witness the Rocket basically take its own name to heart is impressive — the kind of production value any cost-conscious project would skirt union rules to get. And not only that, but unlike amusement parks nowadays, it’s a lot of fun. —Rod Lott

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