Mystery

The Strange Vice of Mrs. Wardh (1971)

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None other than Sigmund Freud kicks off The Strange Vice of Mrs. Wardh via a quote that seems to chastise the audience for its bloodlust — a potentially hypocrtical move for a giallo, if shame were the intended response. Regardless, no record exists of Freud’s thoughts on Edwige Fenech (The Case of the Bloody Iris), but I’d like to think he would have altered his famous line about the cigar.

In the title role, Fenech’s Julie and her tapioca husband (Alberto de Mendoza, A Lizard in Woman’s Skin) return home to Austria from time abroad. No sooner do they step foot in Vienna than the bra-neglecting Julie has an unpleasant encounter with a shit-grinning ex (Ivan Rassimov, The Eerie Midnight Horror Show), followed by a pleasant meet-cute with her pal’s handsome cousin (George Hilton, My Dear Killer). A full-blown affair ensues.

All the while, this being a giallo, beautiful women are killed all over the city by a man whose black-gloved hands clutch — what else? — a sharp, shiny straight razor. Julie becomes his next intended victim, so suspicion falls on each of these three men in her mixed-up, sexed-up life.

And it is just that, whether Julie dreams of having intercourse atop broken glass (if only in dreams) or attending parties in which the female guests rip one another’s paper dresses off. Such swinging shenanigans and their settings contribute to the overall hallucinatory effect of the visuals, as intoxicating as Fenech’s beauty is flawless. This being the first giallo for Sergio Martino (Torso), it’s rather remarkable how right he got it, right out of the gate. Suspense is high, notably in a near-silent sequence of searching by candlelight, and audiences are left guessing and second-guessing, right up to the denouement. By then, The Strange Vice of Mrs. Wardh has done more than enough work to earn its reputation. —Rod Lott

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Horror

Relic (2020)

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Grandma’s gone missing. She lives alone, and the neighbors report not having seen her in days. So her granddaughter (Bella Heathcote, The Neon Demon) and daughter (Emily Mortimer, Shutter Island) make the drive to her home, find it empty and wait. Because all they can do is wait.

When the elderly woman (Robyn Nevin of the Matrix sequels) finally does return, she’s safe, but definitely not sound. In fact, she’s not like herself at all. She’s … different.

One wishes Relic were as well, especially since all three actresses are superb. In her first feature as director, Natalie Erika James demonstrates an assured eye for composition, but I’m afraid the slow-burn story, which she co-wrote with Christian White, is a little too fatigued for suspense to build.

As much as I like the metaphorical use of the matriarch’s moldy and decaying house to parallel her dementia-ravaged brain, the obvious isn’t left alone, so viewers are hammered over the head with it to ensure we get it. We do. —Rod Lott

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Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Dead Dicks (2019)

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Dead Dicks does itself no favor with that title, suggesting a farce the dark-humored film never quite becomes, or a piece of juvenilia the speculative sci-fi picture is clearly too mature to be. It may attract the wrong kind of audience. It may set the curious up to be profoundly disappointed. It deserves better.

Said title refers to Richie (Heston Horwin, Rock Steady Row) and the three carbon-copy corpses of himself littered about his pigsty apartment. A starving artist with debilitating mental health issues, he has successfully killed himself thrice, even if each demise immediately results in a reborn Richie emerging buck-naked (and explicitly uncircumcised) through the giant vagina that is his bedroom wall.

Wait, what?

His ever-supportive, long-suffering sister, Becca (Jillian Harris), shares your reaction when she arrives Richie’s place to check on him. Processing the unprocessable, she is torn between helping him and getting him help, which don’t always overlap.

Every mention I’ve seen of Dead Dicks thus far name-checks Groundhog Day, but with several versions of Richie sharing the cramped quarters, I would argue the Canadian indie shares more thematically with another Harold Ramis film: Multiplicity starring Michael Keaton, Michael Keaton and Michael Keaton. But again, I stress that despite parts that may be funny, Dead Dicks is no comedy … unless comedies have started carrying suicide-prevention PSAs before minute one.

In their feature directorial debut, scribes Chris Bavota and Lee Paula Springer make a loud splash with a high-concept mindfuck operating on little more than two brave, believable performances and the hard-charging assault of Tusk & Bruiser’s melodic post-rock to chart their arc. Although the second half can’t match the energy of the first, ingenuity reigns throughout. —Rod Lott

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Thriller

Concorde Affaire ’79 (1979)

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“Ruggero, old friend! Listen, the Americans are all so crazy over these Airport pictures. First there was one, then there was two, and now they do four! It is called The Concorde, then ‘dot dot dot,’ then Airport ’79. Dramatic, no?

“Well, listen, we want to do what the Americans do right away, so you, my friend, Ruggero, will direct. We like the sound of this Concorde, so we will call ours Concorde Affaire ’79! Sexy, no?

“Here is what I think, Ruggero: We start with the Concorde crashing into the Atlantic Ocean. Then we introduce our hero. So the audience knows he is the hero, we will give him a hero’s name. Something biblical, perhaps, like Moses. This Moses character will be a journalist covering the crash. He will work for Ladies Day magaz– no, I don’t know why a women’s magazine would print such an article, but we can figure that out later.

“Anyway, where was I, Ruggero? Ah, yes: the crash. The plane will sink to the floor of the ocean so we can do some underwater things with the scubas. The Americans seemed to like that in the Airport ’77 with the Jack Lemmon. We need someone stronger, a man’s man, someone the women watching would want to kiss with the passion of a thousand suns, like Charlton Heston in Airport 1975. A-ha! He would be playing Moses again, yes?

“Well, too bad, Ruggero. I cannot afford his American salary. But this I will tell you: I believe James Franciscus would work for our picture. After all, he was good enough for starring in the talking-monkey movie after Charlton, so he is good enough for our film! To go back to the Airport 1975, though, I think I would like to have a real sexy American pin-up like the Lee Grant or Brenda Vacarro. Perhaps you get me Mimsy Farmer? Also, my friend, we need an old movie star who used to be big, big, big, but now will work for cheap, like the Joseph Cotten– oh, you say you can get Joseph Cotten? Grande!

“Now, Ruggero, last thing, my friend is we need to make Concorde Affair very, very boring. I trust you can do that, no?” —Rod Lott

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Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Attack of the Super Monsters (1982)

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Whoever is ultimately responsible for Attack of the Super Monsters has to have been that kid at the convenience store or fast-food restaurant who fills his soda cup with a little bit of Pepsi, then a little bit of Mountain Dew, then Dr Pepper, then orange and on down, leaving no spigot unspat. How else to explain the Japanese import’s incessant roulette-wheel use of live-action footage, cel animation, stop-motion animation and miniatures, sometimes all in the same scene? It’s a combustible, schizophrenic mix that will wring the brain of anyone who no longer expects applause for a bowel movement.

When our 21st-century world needs defense from reawakened prehistoric foes, our collective fate rests in the hands of the four-person Gemini Command, 50% of whom are ineffectual. Siblings Jim and Gem Starbuck are kinda cool, what with bionic chips that allow for temporary body-merging (!) and shape-shifting and all. But Jerry is pudgy and, therefore, clumsy, while Wally is a scaredy-cat nerd with a mullet and a literal sloth for a best friend. These two are the Far East’s response to Zan and Jayna.

Thrill to the Battle of the Planets-style exploits of Gemini Command as the team embarks on four separate, seam-showing episodes adventures, scripted Mad Libs-style:
• a Tyrannosaurus rex uses a laser to command cartoon dogs to “DESTROY! DESTROY!”
• a pterodactyl telepathically commands rubber bats to “KILL ALL HUMANS!”
• a stegosaurus telepathically commands cartoon rats to “ATTACK! ATTACK! USE YOUR TEETH!”
• a triceratops doing things for himself wreaks havoc and barks, “DIEEEEE!”

Please note that in all the above, our heroes are animated, while their opponents are men in kaiju suits. Also please note that from a management standpoint, the stegosaurus gives the most clear and actionable direction to those under his employ.

Attack of the Super Monsters is not wanting for action, that’s for certain, and the amalgamation offers images you’ve never seen before, such as a T. rex laughing maniacally. But some things aren’t meant to be viewed — I’m putting this up there with, say, the sun — and any initial sugar rush quickly slows to a diabetic coma, leaving one longing for the heady wit and deep pathos of Turbo: A Power Rangers Movie. —Rod Lott

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