Mystify: Michael Hutchence (2019)

Growing up in the late ’80s, it was impossible to turn on the radio without hearing the voice of Michael Hutchence cooing an unseen paramour in tunes like “Need You Tonight” and “Devil Inside.”

It was a power that I, even as a 10-year-old, wanted desperately to possess, so much so that I even dressed up as Hutchence when my rural Texas school had a “come as your favorite celebrity” day. It was almost as good as the previous year’s George Michael costume.

A longtime INXS fan, I’ll admit that I have always had trouble reckoning the final years of Hutchence’s life, when he seemingly transformed from a likable cipher to a pretentious buffoon, more interesting for his problematic personal life than the music that had made him a vaunted superstar the world over.

It’s something that director Richard Lowenstein explores in-depth in the seductive documentary Mystify: Michael Hutchence; while the hits with his Australian band are casually mentioned, the film primarily seeks to explore the life of Hutchence outside of music, to great effect. Although it skips output like Dogs in Space for a bit too much about side project Max Q, for example, it’s a film of marked choices, most of which adds a surprising layer of humanity to the long-locked frontman.

What truly shocked me, however, was learning about Hutchence’s head injury in the early ’90s that apparently severed nerves and left him a different person, wildly erratic and often depressed. It’s this injury that is believed to have led to his 1997 suicide.

As mortifying as it all sounds, it’s really not all doom and gloom, as ultimately, Mystify is more a celebration of Hutchence as his family and friends remember him and want him to be remembered. It’s the way I want to remember him, too. —Louis Fowler

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Pray for Death (1985)

When Franco Nero declined to return for an Enter the Ninja sequel, Sho Kosugi raised his hand and rode that shuriken-throwing train as far as it would take him: more or less to 1989, as the Bruce Lee of the two-night-rental era. However, Kosugi did more than just play ninjas in the Cannon Group’s Ninja trilogy; he also played ninjas outside of it, including Pray for Death, a stand-alone from unlikely helmer Gordon Hessler of KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park.

In Japan, Akira Saito (Kosugi) is a loving family man and hardworking salaryman, but his wife (Donna Kei Benz, Looker) longs to move to Los Angeles. So they do, with the intent to open a restaurant, but without the intent to be in an area so seedy, it could be a Chia Pet. Unbeknownst to the Saitos, an abandoned annex of their rundown place is where some crooks have hidden a valuable necklace. When those jewels disappear, the local mob boss known as — brace yourself for a name that screams “rejected Dick Tracy villain” — Limehouse Willy (Airport ’77’s James Booth, who also wrote the screenplay) wrongly assumes Akira and his family have something to do with it and will kill to get the necklace back.

Seeing as how Pray for Death is a revenge picture, take a good guess where things go from there. This is the kind of movie in which a low-speed fender bender causes a vehicle to explode as soon as bumpers touch. In which Akira always knows where to find his enemies. In which a woman is knocked unconscious before being fatally stabbed, with a quick round of sexual assault in between. In which the ultimate showdown takes place in a warehouse full of mannequins.

It’s in that last 20 minutes when Pray for Death comes, um, alive, as Kosugi drops the pacifism, applies the black eyeliner, puts on enough armor to resemble a Mortal Kombat character and ninjas up the place. Before that, thanks to the genial but cardboard acting of Kosugi, the movie is desperate for action. It could use a lot more of Akira leaping and flipping over a moving pickup truck, which Hessler shows in slow motion — as it should be, being the pic’s coup de grâce as far as visuals goes. Heck, I’d settle for just a little more of Akira’s kid’s tricked-out bicycle with jets of red smoke, a dashboard slingshot, hidden blow darts and more, all to make buffoons of mob goons and help Ninja Dad extract vengeance, sweet vengeance. —Rod Lott

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Jay and Silent Bob Reboot (2019)

A couple of years ago, director Kevin Smith had a heart attack that nearly killed him. Around that same time, I had a hemorrhagic stroke that nearly killed me. Since then, we both have attempted to get healthier to varying degrees, both physically and creatively.

Even though we don’t know each other and probably never will, I’ve felt a tenuous connection, creatively at least, to the man for over 20 years now. But while my creative wins and losses were kept mostly close to the chest, Smith’s highs and lows have been judiciously celebrated and gratuitously mocked by the same fair-weather fans who grew up with him.

But, as his latest flick, Jay and Silent Bob Reboot, and the subsequent roadshow tour proves, many longtime patrons still support his comedic arts and other ventures — especially the over-40 crowd, of which I am dutifully a part of — and still appreciate a thoroughly entertaining Kevin Smith film. They do exist.

As funny and fresh as the spiritual prequel, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, was back in 2001, Smith ably mocks the current trends of Hollywood while defiantly taking part in them; having grown much older and forced to face life, Reboot finds a much older Jay (Jason Mewes) and Silent Bob (Smith) still hanging out in front of the Quick Stop and, even among them, it’s obvious the man-child bit is getting a bit tiresome.

While retracing the steps of Strike Back by having the duo shut down a reboot of the Bluntman and Chronic franchise, Smith throws a spanner in the works by introducing Jay’s daughter, Milly (Harley Quinn Smith, Holidays). As foul-mouthed as her dad, she and a few troubled friends tag along to California to Chronic-Con, with various pitfalls along the way, such as vengeful Uber drivers, the Ku Klux Klan and the American legal system.

Mewes carries most of the film on his back, delivering a performance that delicately teeters from pornographically hilarious to philosophically heartfelt. And I know that people like to give Smith shit for casting his own daughter, but as a proud father, it’s the same thing that any of us do if we had the capabilities and, to be honest, she not that bad as Jay’s child.

Of course, the fan-friendly film ties into a world of meta-criticism as Smith also stars as himself, jorts and all, poking fun at his persona, as well as the View Askewniverse he created and, thankfully, never forgotten about. It allows him — and me, too, honestly — a chance to look back in absolute appreciation while acknowledging the fact that sometimes we all have to grow up or die trying.  —Louis Fowler

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Night of Open Sex (1983)

The Jess Franco film Night of Open Sex is purported to be an adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Gold-Bug.” While I’ve always found that short story to be quite boring, the nonstop parade of black rugs in this movie does enliven the tale, even if it’s a bit much after the third or fourth erotic dance scene.

As you could probably imagine, performing said nude numbers is Franco’s longtime gal pal, Lina Romay (Cries of Pleasure), as stripper Moira; she and her sleazy boyfriend manage to get mixed up with a criminal syndicate looking for some badly foil-wrapped Nazi gold, presumably from a fake mustached general who uses nudie pics as generalized maps to said fortune.

To get this information, by the way, she shockingly uses a curling iron as a red-hot tool of vaginal extraction. And as psychotically titillating as that is, let’s be honest, cult fans: You’re really here for the continual sex and skin, the only thing the film’s really got going for it.

With many explicit scenes of depraved fornication out the hairy hoo-ha, the sex truly is open on this night, from fetish-based frenching to fruit-based rape; softcore fans will have to watch the film in five-minute increments, skipping through very little plot to get to elongated scenes of Romay rolling around on the floor, licking a porno mag and masturbating.

Still, director Franco manages to cameo as a rich dude offering up some social commentary, far more than I honestly expected from a film where I just watched a man straight up punch a woman in the gut. —Louis Fowler

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The Pit (1981)

In the Canadian horror film The Pit, Jamie is one of those rare kids who does know his ass from a hole in the ground. That’s because the insufferable 12-year-old boy (Sammy Snyders, The Last Chase) has discovered the titular site in the woods, in which carnivorous troglodytes dwell and hangrily await food to fall in for the gnawing.

Having zero friends and being sexually frustrated makes for a lethal combo, as Jamie uses the wide cavity to his own advantage, leveraging it for acts of cruel revenge. Whether someone has picked on him, insulted him or romanced his live-in babysitter/therapist (Jeannie Elias, Deadline), it’s into the hole! His means of luring each victim to their gravity-assisted doom — and their inability to see the double-wide abyss directly in front of their feet — stretch the concept of suspension of disbelief to its breaking point, which makes the movie even more fun. (Also pushing us in that direction? The oompah-style score comedically punctuating such sacrifices as Jamie dumping a blind old lady out of her wheelchair.)

The lone fiction feature for director Lew Lehman (who wrote John Huston’s feeble Phobia the year before) and screenwriter Ian A. Stuart, The Pit is filled with situations that challenge common sense and ideas that come half-baked — for example, did I mention Jamie’s teddy bear is apparently sentient? Therefore, this one’s best viewed as a wildly whacked-out-of-its-gourd metaphor for puberty. A major player in Bad Seed cinema, Jamie is not only overly petulant and thoroughly unpleasant to be around, but sends pornographic images to the hot librarian (one-and-doner Laura Hollingsworth) and later tricks her into posing for some of his own via Polaroid. The kid is irredeemably abhorrent.

If you don’t want to cheer at the Canuxploitation chestnut’s final shot, we shouldn’t be pals anyway. —Rod Lott

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