The Pride of Jesse Hallam (1981)

WTFMany people today remember Johnny Cash mostly for his angsty Man in Black persona, but I’ll always remember him for his dumb Chicken in Black character. People tend to forget that Cash wasn’t always the dark and dreary troubadour that he’s portrayed as on licensed Hot Topic tees these days; instead, he lived most of the ’80s high on novelty tunes, chronic relapses and made-for-television movies like the wonderfully saccharine The Pride of Jesse Hallam.

Cash headlines as the titular Jesse, a good ol’ boy from Muhlenberg, Kentucky, who recently had to sell his farm and move to the big city because his daughter has a back disease, see, and needs an operation at the Children’s Hospital. Between enrolling his son in school, being hassled by an stereotypical cop and trying to find a job before the cash runs out, it slowly comes to light that Jesse has a big problem: Everyone in Cincinnati hates Kentucky trash.

Oh, and he can’t read.

For most of his life in Kentucky, he’s gotten along pretty good, always commanding a good attitude toward work, with plenty of down-home witticisms and a genuine “aw, shucks” demeanor that endears him; too bad that doesn’t really fly in the big city, as he’s forced to load fruit trucks in the middle of the night, at a business run by an old Italian stereotype (Eli Wallach, Baby Doll).

Jesse eventually confronts his illiteracy with the help of a toned-down Brenda Vaccaro (Airport ’77), eventually reading to his daughter (kinda) as she lay in a hospital bed; it’s an act that inspires both him and his somewhat illiterate son to take a GED class. As Cincinnati punks play rock music and create general chaos in the night class, Johnny sets them straight, letting them know he’s there to graduate, darn it, and nothing’s going to stop him.

Broadcast on CBS in the spring of 1981, Cash, though no actor, still has a commandeering screen presence that works for a by-the-numbers drama like this as both Wallach and Vaccaro happily take their paychecks; the soundtrack also contains plenty of high-quality Cash tunes, but, alas, no soundtrack album was made available.

Directed with a flat flair by Gary Nelson, who may remember as the guy behind the Gary Coleman theatrical vehicle Jimmy the Kid, which was, surprisingly, based on a novel by Donald Westlake — a book that I hope Jesse Hallam wasn’t too proud to read. —Louis Fowler

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Turbo: A Power Rangers Movie (1997)

The intergalactic pirate Divatox — whose name kinda sounds like a feminine hygiene product of some sort — is chasing a little person dressed in an ill-fitting troll costume through the woods on a swirling green planet; back here on Earth, however, a young kid named Justin is feeling a little blue because his mom is dead. It doesn’t help when a random Power Ranger, right in the middle of a training sesh, spin-kicks himself right out of the ring and into a broken back. Ouch!

Meanwhile, the typical mutants-on-ice monsters are cutting off their hands and such as the caustically attractive Divatox explains the film’s main plot points for those who walked in too late to catch the opening Star Wars-esque crawl as Lerigot, the mini-wizard who reminds me of Gwildor from Masters of the Universe, sadly, shoots himself to Earth and lands in a wildlife preserve in, presumably, Africa; he immediately meets a lion and shoots pleasant-enough fireballs from his hand. Also, monkeys throw feces at him, which I can fully understand.

As area losers Skull and Bulk are kidnapped by Divatox’s fish-shaped pirate ship, Power Rangers leader Tommy wrestles somewhat convincingly with a rubber anaconda in the jungle. Once they find Lerigot and take him back to PR HQ, that spazzy robot Alpha gives the Rangers new powers which, if you can believe it, turns out to be some new cars … turbo cars, but still.

Now, it’s up to the Power Rangers to not only stop Divatox before she marries an incarnation of Satan, but also rescue retired Rangers Kimberly and Jason before they are sacrificed to said demonic being. Mind you, this is just the first 30 minutes of the movie; sure, it sounds like a lot going on, but keep in mind that the next hour is just wholly repetitive fight scenes, with the mostly basic cars offering very little turbo-charged power for these anonymous Rangers.

While the budget has definitely been given quite a bit of high-octane Nos, this new cadre of superheroes is, sorry to say, an unlikable crew that might have worked well on the small screen, but in a movie theater, lacked the personality that made the original team so much fun. But, then again, I am a 40-year-old man that just watched Turbo: A Power Rangers Movie, so what the hell do I know? —Louis Fowler

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Intrepidos Punks (1980)

With a title that translates to Fearless Punks, the Mex Pistols of Intrepidos Punks are a down and dirty wrecking crew that roams the near future — possibly a day or two from now — of a small, south-of-the-border town, dedicated to causing mass anarquía wherever they go. ¡Ay, dios mío!

After the oft-repeated three-chord tune plays over the vandalized credits, led by the chain mail-masked monster Tarzan (El Fantasma), these satanic punks rob and rape any and everyone they come in the slightest contact with, to the point where a pair of powerfully mustached plainclothes cops decide suficiente es suficiente, especially when it disrupts their undercover mota operation, I think; to be fair, there were no subtitles to this Mexican flick and my Spanish is intermedio at best.

But, you know, the language barrier shouldn’t really make a difference because these choque rockeros de la ciudad speak that one language that truly matters in the future: pura violencia. With very little plot, the movie relies heavily on the punks cruising around on their impressively innovative motorcycles, killing men, women and possibly children wherever they go, always in new and inventive ways, no stuntmen required.

With a forward-thinking flamboyant costume design that probably scared the mierda out of many a punk-fearing abuela, Tarzan and his high-haired old lady, Fiera (La Princesa Lea), mercilessly fling throwing stars, chuck battle axes and wield other decidedly non-punk paraphernalia with appropriate ferocity; it all leads, of course, to their own deathly downfalls, along with most of their gang, by the two undercover cops who afterward have an on-screen steak dinner to celebrate their win.

Sadly, their job isn’t done yet: The punks somehow returned seven years later in the follow-up, La Venganza de los Punks. It’s a flick I own, purchasing it in an area flea market’s parking lot. When I went to play it, however, in a final middle finger to society, my machine wouldn’t read the disc. ¡Malditos gamberros! —Louis Fowler

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Pet Sematary (2019)

Love, like or loathe 2017’s It, at least the Stephen King adaptation felt different than the 1990 TV miniseries. The same cannot be said for the Pet Sematary remake, so close to being a beat-for-beat Xerox of the 1989 original that audiences are left wanting a good shake of the toner cartridge. Too bad, because as fondly remembered as that King-penned ’89 film is, room for improvement exists; one flip of the gender doesn’t count.

Casting, however, is a coup. Jason Clarke (Winchester) and Amy Seimetz (Alien: Covenant) make for a personable, believable couple as Dr. Louis and Rachel Creed. Soon after moving to rural Maine with their two kids and a cat named Church, they learn their wooded land leads to a cemetery for childrens’ pets, many of whom become residents after being pancaked on the highway. Just past its gravestones — over that unscalable wall of bramble — lies ancient burial ground imbued with supernatural powers of rejuvenation. Those powers are flawed, which becomes apparent when Louis — presumably inattentive the day in school they read “The Monkey’s Paw” — plants the freshly departed Church there … and Church returns to life as an insufferable, feral asshole in matted fur. When tragedy strikes further, lessons are not learned.

John Lithgow (Obsession) would seem born to inherit and inhabit the role of kindly neighbor Jud Crandall, the kindly neighbor who warns Louis about all of the above, yet aides and abets anyway. Although one of our finest and most versatile actors, Lithgow is not nearly as effective as Fred Gwynne was three decades prior. Perhaps the comparison is unfair, but Lithgow apes Gwynne’s distinctive drawl; before delivering the iconic line of “Sometimes, dead is better,” he dramatically pauses as co-directors Kevin Kölsch and Dennis Widmyer (Holidays) push their camera in, as if signaling to a nostalgic audience, “Get those clappin’ paws ready!”

For all the craft and care Team Kölsch/Widmyer has put into giving the new Pet Sematary a shiny coat, it should be more engaging — even mildly frightening (especially since co-scripter Matt Greenberg wrote one of the scariest King adaptations in 1408). The first film’s surefire scare, Rachel’s physically twisted sister, suffers here from sheer overuse and needless extension. This isn’t a bad movie — just unnecessary. Sometimes, less is better. —Rod Lott

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The Quake (2018)

Three years after Norway showed Hollywood what a contemporary disaster movie can and should be with The Wave, it does it again with the unlikely sequel, The Quake.

The first film’s tragedy has left geologist-cum-hero Kristian Eikjord (Kristoffer Joner, Mission: Impossible — Fallout) an addled mess, unable to shake (forgive me) the memory of the hundreds of people he wasn’t able to rescue. As a result, he remains in Geiranger alone, estranged from three people among the hundreds he did save: his wife (Ane Dahl Torp, Dead Snow) and two children. Meanwhile, in Oslo, when a colleague dies from falling debris in a tunnel, Kristian gets the feeling The Big One is about to rock that highly populated capital city, where his family now resides.

Given Kristian’s PTSD, no one believes his ranting and raving until, of course, the earthquake arrives, splitting the ground like a wet paper towel and toppling building like a toddler to Jenga blocks, in truly special effects. With his colleague’s daughter (newcomer Kathrine Thorborg Johansen) on hand for assistance, Kristian must save the Eikjords once more, heading to a hotel skyscraper whose flaccid top dangles precariously over downtown.

Taking over from Wave director Roar Uthaug (2018’s Tomb Raider) is Headhunters cinematographer John Andreas Andersen, and the transition is seamless. He proves quite adept in staging action and suspense, as well as working within Ulthaug’s established look, mood and skillful balance of spectacle and drama so Wave viewers will feel right at home, so to speak, ensuring continuity of genuine care about the characters.

Now, to address the plausibility of this scenario, it helps that the disaster this time around is frackin’ manmade. As with The Wave, the core incident is based on an incident in Norwegian history. Real science is rooted in the story, as is real pain; The Quake goes into territory the big-and-dumb blockbuster likes of San Andreas wouldn’t dare. That’s not an outright dismissal of American disaster movies, but the pairing of these pictures is all the justification needed that the genre does not require curdling. —Rod Lott

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