The Mandela Effect (2019)

A psych-101 Reddit thread drives the plot of David Guy Levy’s The Mandela Effect, referring to the phenomenon of “remembering” something that has never been true, whether it’s Curious George having a tail or the Monopoly man wearing a monocle. However insignificant these false pop-culture memories are in real life, they’re bestowed with literal life-or-death stakes in this screen telling.

Video game designer Brendan (Charlie Hofheimer, an alum of Levy’s Would You Rather) learns of the theory from his brother-in-law (Robin Lord Taylor, John Wick: Chapter 3 — Parabellum). Perhaps because Brendan is grieving the drowning death of his daughter (Madeleine McGraw, Ant-Man and the Wasp), he latches onto the theory with an unhealthy fervor. Before long, he’s stalking a college professor (Outland’s Clarke Peters, obviously a Morgan Freeman stand-in) who believes Brendan is witnessing the result of alternate realities colliding, and whose quantum computer can allow them to alter the world’s “code” so they can bring the girl back to life. Or something like that.

Providing no shortage of Big Ideas, Levy and his Would You Rather collaborator Steffen Schlachtenhaufen have the makings of a Matrix-style head-tripper, but the pertinent information to transition into that all-important third act is delivered with such immediacy (as opposed to urgency) that the climax feels rushed — which truly may be the case, as the film clocks in at a brief 80 minutes, credits included. Had Brendan and the professor looked before they leapt, so to speak, The Mandela Effect might have resonated with its intended power. Lost in that sprint is a late subplot about the mental state of Brendan’s wife (Aleksa Palladino, The Irishman), although she does pop back up just long enough to contract what looks to be a medical condition known in the field as Jenga Face.

The fun of the film is all upfront, if viewers know to look for hidden-in-plain-sight examples of the Mandela effect before the narration alerts you to them; it’s like playing Life magazine’s Picture Puzzle feature, in which readers are challenged to spot the differences between two photos. With paranoia brewing stronger as the story progresses, one wonders what a director with demonstrated skill in this arena before — say, Pi’s Darren Aronofsky or Primer’s Shane Carruth — could do with it. —Rod Lott

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Commando Zorras (2006)

With an English title that basically translates to Slut Commando — my favorite kind of commando, natch — this shot-on-video movie from Mexico stars Jenny Lore as conservative teacher Brenda. When one of her pupils is kidnapped by a devil-worshipping drug lord — a narcosatanico! — she must go undercover to track this little girl down.

And where does her investigation lead her? To a strip club in some dude’s living room where no one ever actually gets nude, but there is an owner who snorts copious amounts of nose candy and forgives easily. Brenda, after singing a song of romance instead of getting naked, eventually tells the other dancers about her life before she was a teacher.

Seems that, as a child, Brenda and her brother were taken in by a highly secretive arm of the Texas Rangers that teaches things to children like martial-arts skills, computer hacking and I think medical training; even worse, while on a mission, her brother was killed by a narcosatanico — the very same one who has kidnapped said little girl!

After a montage of Brenda training the strippers to become expert ninjas and prime marksmen, they break into the drug lord’s barely guarded fortress — which resembles a theater-in-the-round, actually — and all hell breaks loose, literally. Thanks for nothing, Satan.

If you can get past the cheap-looking wipes and fades, there is a stupidly intriguing story here, one that is padded with so many watchable scenes of fully clothed sensuality and Luciferian spin kicks, it’s hard to hate it. Throw in the most miraculous ending ever — a cripple walks! — and Commando Zorras is guaranteed to bump and grind for a caustically throbbing 80 minutes. —Louis Fowler

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The McPherson Tape (1989)

One of the earliest found-footage movies, if not the earliest, Dean Alioto’s no-budget The McPherson Tape purports to document one family’s encounter with extraterrestrials on an evening in the fall of 1983. Despite the title, this clan’s surname isn’t McPherson, but Van Heese. The night that changes their life happens to coincide with their celebration of a girl’s fifth birthday, thereby accounting for the constant use of the video camera.

The Tape’s strongest suit is that the cast members interact like a real family would at a paper-plate supper — gentle ribbing, overlapping conversations and all. Other than the two brothers — our ostensible leads — we witness more normal human behavior than we do acting. But — and this is rhetorical — how exciting is watching normal human behavior?

After that interminable dinner, unusual lights through the windows prompt the brothers to wander through the woods to see what’s what. From a distance, they spot a couple of alien life forms stepping off a landed spacecraft, or, in the words of one of the Van Heese boys, “a Martian or shit or somethin’!” Rightly fearing for their lives, they hightail it back to the house … until they decide to go back outside again. Among a power failure and the siblings hauling a dead alien inside (without affording us a glimpse), the family plays Go Fish and the matriarch voices her desire to watch Johnny Carson.

And so it goes (and goes and goes and …) until the literal last shot, when something interesting finally happens, giving us our first good look at the space invaders. It’s a letdown, however, because it’s nothing you can’t see answering the door every Oct. 31. An anal probe would elicit more emotion. In 1998, for Dick Clark Productions and the late, not-so-great UPN network, Alioto remade The McPherson Tape as Alien Abduction: Incident in Lake County with less believability, but more tension and action, not to mention actual characters named McPherson. —Rod Lott

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The Great Escape (1963)

There once was a time when Hollywood made moving pictures for our two-fisted fathers and four-fisted grandfathers, solid men who slugged it out with Nazi beasts overseas like they were on the cover of a damn paperback novel. And perhaps the best movie to come from this lost era is the nail-spittin’ POW flick The Great Escape.

Based on the rousing true story, a daring team of Allied soldiers — mainly British — are stuck behind the walls of a Nazi prisoner of war camp, Stalag Luft III. Built especially for those captured servicemen who had been wasting Germany’s precious time and valuable resources with their constant escape attempts, it was supposed to be inescapable.

But with a camp full of hardened men who have only one thing on their minds — freedom — this crew comes up with an ingenious plan to get out at least 250 soldiers by digging three tunnels, right under the noses of the Germans. But you can make sure those kraut bastards are going to make them work for it every step of the way.

With Steve McQueen in a star-making role as Hilts, a captain with a bad attitude and good motorcycle skills, The Great Escape is well over three hours, but doesn’t feel like it, thanks to director John Sturges’ ability to make James Clavell and W.R. Burnett’s script constantly filled with chest hair-riddled action from start to finish.

Co-starring James Garner, Richard Attenborough, Charles Bronson, James Coburn and Donald Pleasence — to name a few — this is, for me at least, one of the best films ever made, the kind that couldn’t be made today … but thank God they made it yesterday. —Louis Fowler

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The Killer Is One of Thirteen (1973)

Two years after her spouse’s suspicious death, Lisa Mandel (Patty Shepard, My Dear Killer) invites a dozen friends and family members to spend the weekend at her spacious country estate. As only happens in the movies, no one’s calendar holds a conflict, so everybody shows up. Why has she gathered them? To find out which one of them murdered her husband! What’s on the menu? Exposition!

In classic Agatha Christie fashion, every guest has a motive; Lisa simply needs time on her dime to suss out the culprit among the parlor of suspects. Also in classic Agatha Christie fashion, that task becomes markedly easier as they begin dying — but not until after the one-hour mark, oddly enough. You could call this Spanish-language film And Then There Were Ninguna. Croquet is played; “elegant gigolos” are discussed; affairs are consummated; allegations are hurled. Eventually, one of them sticks.

Featuring Paul Naschy in a small role as part of Mrs. Mandel’s help, The Killer Is One of Thirteen comes from Javier Aguirre in the same productive year he and Naschy collaborated on Count Dracula’s Great Love and Hunchback of the Morgue. Although by no means a bust, this project is the least of the three, with Aguirre unable to crack the code of how to handle such an expansive cast; we get to know only a few characters — and barely at that, with the possible exception of Shepard’s widow — while others don’t even register from scene to scene. The film is no great mystery, but we’ll call it good enough. —Rod Lott

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