The Erotic Misadventures of the Invisible Man (2003)

Based on the adult comic book Butterscotch by Italian writer/artist Milo Manara, The Erotic Misadventures of the Invisible Man is exactly the Skinemax entry you think it is, but with opening credits appearing in the dreaded Comic Sans typeface.

Having just been dumped by aspiring actress Rachal (Elina Madison, Creepshow 3), aspiring actor Norman (Scott Coppola, not part of Francis Ford’s filmmaking dynasty) nurses a broken heart as he waits tables. At one such gig, his luck changes when he attracts the attention of aspiring actress Kelly (Gabriella Hall, The Exotic Time Machine), but also is rendered invisible after a jug of what looks like buffalo sauce spills on him. Although no one can see Norman, everyone can smell him; several characters detect the scent of butterscotch — sniff out the connection?

To illustrate Norman’s outta-sight shenanigans, writer/director Rolfe Kanefsky (showing none of the promise of his debut film, There’s Nothing Out There) cheaply makes a lot of objects move on their own — telephone, champagne flute, hotel bell, vacuum hose, anal beads — and tears off the occasional outfit from his movie’s interchangeable female bodies. (Exclaims an Italian woman witnessing an instance of the latter, “She’s being uh-raped-uh by a ghost-uh!”)

Much elongated softcore sex ensues, including between Kelly and an invisible Norman, challenging Hall to act petting, tugging and humping something that isn’t there. Master Thespian would be proud.

Misadventures exerts no effort beyond the simulated thrusts and gyrations of its performers. Kanefsky’s cornball dialogue seems to draw inspiration from childrens’ joke books (“Can’t wait to see the look on Kelly’s face when she doesn’t see me!”), and situations that I’m sure had them in stitches on set start flat and fall from there, such as a man in a full duck costume walking into a bar and asking for grapes.

In interest of transparency, I almost laughed once, when a partygoer (Michelle Bauer, Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama) hears Kelly’s last name and inquires, “Parkinson? Like the disease?” Yes. —Ed Donovan

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Hansel & Gretel: Warriors of Witchcraft (2013)

If the Jeremy Renner vehicle Hansel & Gretel Witch Hunters deserves scorn for anything, it’s for inadvertently encouraging the mockbuster Hansel & Gretel: Warriors of Witchcraft into existence. It’s so bad, you’ll want to shove yourself into an oven.

In this flaccid effort at a contemporized fairy tale, orphaned siblings Hansel and Gretel Jonah and Ella (real-life siblings Booboo and Fivel Stewart, respectively) are sent to an elite private school that turns out to be — bleached shades of Suspiria! — founded by witches. Although on the surface overseen by Mr. Sebastian (Eric Roberts, DOA: Dead or Alive), the institution is ruled by a secret society called The Circle, constituted of magic-makers and spell-casters who have gone on to be presidents, CEOs and other captains of industry. Hansel and Gretel Jonah and Ella are destined to join so they can help fight a character who is revealed to be an evil witch, but whose identity you would guess far before the reveal. (I say “would,” because I implore you to avoid watching.)

Bearing the production values of porn, the obviously rushed Hansel & Gretel: Warriors of Witchcraft aims for that teen-dream Twilight feel (a franchise being Booboo’s claim to fame) and succeeds, in that it is boring to the point of depression. The young Stewarts seem to be vying to out-not-act one another, and their bid is threatened by every young member among the compact, cost-efficient cast. Although leagues above in talent and screen appeal, Roberts, Vanessa Angel (Kingpin) and former Runaways vocalist Cherie Currie (Charles Band’s Parasite) can’t help but be tainted simply by association.

Not even on his best day would Daniel Day-Lewis be able to salvage such a stupid script by first-timer Larson Tretter (“Ella! I read in the paper you like pizza, right?”) or the lazy direction of the legendarily prolific David DeCoteau, whose bottom-drawer/bottom-dollar filmography includes Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama, 1313: Giant Killer Bees! (exclamation his), and the cult curiosity A Talking Cat!?! (exclamations and question mark his). I know his budget for H&G:WOW had to be tight, but couldn’t he have grabbed three establishing shots of the campus instead of re-using the same one?!? —Rod Lott

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Fantomas (1964)

While based upon the French anti-hero created in 1911, the 1964 incarnation of Fantomas seems more influenced by 007. As portrayed by Jean Marais (Jean Cocteau’s Beauty and the Beast), the master criminal trades the top hat for a proto-Blue Man Group visage as a man-of-a-thousand-faces supervillain set to rival Dr. No and Auric Goldfinger in all things deadly and dastardly.

Arriving with a pair of OSS 117 secret-agent flicks already under his belt, director André Hunebelle gets the hardly gauche Gaumont picture going with a prologue ripped straight from the pulps, as a disguised Fantomas makes off several million francs of jewelry by “paying” with a check written in disappearing ink.

Two people in particular are intrigued by this brazen crime. One is the hotheaded, bald-headed Commissioner Juve (the delightful Louis de Funès, The Mad Adventures of Rabbi Jacob), eager to bring the madman to justice. The other is Fandor (also played by Marais), a newspaper reporter eager for a good story — eager enough to make it up, complete with fake photoshoot, with the help of his decorative girlfriend (Mylène Demongeot, The Giant of Marathon).

Unamused at the front page that follows, Fantomas has the journalist kidnapped and brought to his underground lair, laden with high-tech spy-fi gadgetry (where do these evil masterminds find their contractors?), and explains a few things to his captive:
• He wants to control what the press writes about him. (How prescient!)
• He can re-create human skin, from face to fingerprints, which he dons to perpetrate felonies under the guise of upstanding citizens — like, say, Fandor.
• He “may kill people, but always with a smile.”

For fans of crime thrillers coated in camp, that smile may prove contagious throughout, as Fantomas-as-Fandor pulls a daring diamond heist during a rooftop beauty contest in broad daylight. As Fantomas-as-Juve terrorizes Paris with acts of random violence. As Fantomas gives Tom Cruise a run for his face-switching, Mission: Impossible money. As James Bond-ian submarines and helicopters come into play. As a silly slapstick car chase grows increasingly inventive until it’s nearly worthy of Buster Keaton.

Full of action, light of heart and swift of feet, Fantomas begins and ends as a good caper should: fun. One could argue it doesn’t end at all; rather, it presses pause on its own cat-and-mouse tale, as if awaiting the projectionist to switch reels and start the sequel (Fantomas Unleashed, unleashed the next year by the same team), but assuming you’re already “in,” you’ll hardly mind the inconvenience. —Rod Lott

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Mega Time Squad (2018)

My recent throat surgeon was from New Zealand, and even though he was completely no-nonsense, I kept waiting for him to crack a simplistic joke, mostly because the night before my pre-op, I watched the guffaw-getting Mega Time Squad, the new temporal-twisting flick from Tim van Dammen, the director of the trailer-park musical Romeo and Juliet: A Love Song.

Low-level neighborhood criminal John (Anton Tennet) wreaks polite havoc in the small town of Thames, New Zealand, famous for its tourist-trap outdoor toilet. When he’s politely betrayed by his best friend over a few dollars worth of stolen Chinese money, he uses an ancient Asian amulet, politely stolen in the same robbery, to go back in time, a few minutes at a time.

Much like the far more serious Timecrimes, various incarnations of John run into each other, eventually teaming up to become the titular Mega Time Squad, despite that fact it could resurrect an infernal demon hellbent on destroying the time-space continuum unless all the replicas themselves are killed in outlandishly gory ways.

With help from his polite, suicide bomb vest-making girlfriend, Kelly (Hetty Gaskell-Hahn), John has to not only defeat the area crime team made up of locals working their way through night school, but also the so-called Triads and an army of increasingly irritated Johns, as piss-poor shots from .22s injures eyes, well-aimed slingshots cause major welts and explosions galore, all done in very dry, very clever and very polite ways, all with absolutely no meaning.

Come to think of it, my throat surgeon — a qualified man of medicine — was also very polite. —Louis Fowler

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Family (2019)

Take one middle-aged misanthrope with a block of ice where a heart should be. Mix in one child with unconventional social skills. Shake lightly. Let simmer for 90 minutes, give or take.

That’s hardly a new recipe for the movies (see: The Bad News Bears, Bad Santa, St. Vincent, et al.), yet one good reason exists for its refusal to fade away: When made correctly, the end result can be most satisfying.

Laura Steinel’s Family is most satisfying. Its initially loathsome, crusty center is Kate (Taylor Schilling, The Prodigy), so career-driven she apparently has never met — nor knows the name of — her only niece, Maddie (Bryn Vale, TV’s Red Band Society). While that’s hard to believe in real life, it’s the stuff of cringe comedy, which kicks into high gear when heretofore-absent Aunt Kate is forced to babysit the tween Maddie for a few long days and longer nights. Naturally, the two have little have in common; Kate likes her 401(k) and perceived superiority, while Maddie is more into, oh, chicken parmesan and magic swords.

Wise beyond her years and awkward as a three-dollar cryptocurrency, Maddie desperately seeks a familial connection that neither her parents nor Kate can provide. Mom and Dad (Krampus’ Allison Tolman and Jurassic World’s Eric Edelstein), while loving and well-meaning, don’t understand her; Kate simply doesn’t give a fuck. Well, at least not at first. She starts to turn around once Maddie entertains becoming a disciple of the hip-hop act Insane Clown Posse — you know, a Juggalo.

Having only seen Schilling in dramas, I found her to be revelatory. She is not afraid to go deep on portraying the hateful Kate, and that devotion is key to making her character’s arc work. She’s even funnier than the film’s real Kate, as in McKinnon (Office Christmas Party), who plays the nosy next-door neighbor. However, both ladies have Family stolen right out from under them by 20-year-old Fabrizio Zacharee Guido (World War Z) as Dennis, the convenience store worker who introduces Maddie to Insane Clown Posse and, accordingly, calls himself Baby Joker. Family is never more hilarious — and it is often that — than when he’s onscreen.

You’ll be glad this Family isn’t yours, but grateful of the time spent together. —Rod Lott

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