The Social Ones (2019)

If you consider yourself any of the below, chances are I hate you:
• influencer
• thought leader
• public figure
• storyteller

All are narcissistic labels for that most 21st-century of phenomena: the “internet celebrity,” famous for being famous. Fewer targets mark themselves more ripe for skewering, which is why something like the mockumentary The Social Ones holds delicious appeal. I say “something like” because for all its potential, the movie is toothless where it should be ruthless.

The Social Ones is written, directed and produced by tyro Laura Kosann. She and her sister, Danielle Kosann, also star as the sane ones in this ensemble comedy. Working at the thankfully fictional magazine The National Influencer, they feverishly prep for — and stress-puke over — the following month’s fifth-anniversary cover shoot, which will showcase such superstars of social media as a teen-dream Snapchat king (Colton Ryan), a demanding Instagram fashion model (Amanda Giobbi), a high-strung YouTube chef (Desi Domo, The Conjuring), an insecure vlogger (Nicole Kang, TV’s Batwoman) and “meme god” Kap Phat Jawacki (Setareki Wainiqolo). For the sake of story, the stakes could not be any lower.

Although the film is clearly modeled from the Christopher Guest template, it is difficult to tell whether the jokes are driven by the script or improv. Either way, with few exceptions, they’re simply not funny, no matter how hard the actors try; unfortunately, most of them do so by cranking their exaggeration dials three or four notches further than the illusory nature of the mockumentary subgenre recommends, if not demands.

If Kosann had trimmed her scenes to align with the short attention span of the digital generation, the film could settle into a more natural comedic rhythm. As is, the bits drag on and on, with the most glaring offender being Kap Phat creating a meme in real time from disparate elements on a huge bulletin board — the kind you see on every obsessive-detective crime show, full of clippings and pushpins and string connecting them. The sequence is painful.

The movie is not a complete #fail, even if each occasional plus gets canceled out. Domo’s Holly Hunter lilt is endearing, as opposed to Giobbi’s annoying Judy Garland. Peter Scolari delivers an amusing-enough cameo, whereas Richard Kind grates. I enjoyed the magazine intern (Nicky Maindiratta) harboring a stalker-like same-sex crush on Ryan’s Snapchat kid, but we’re ghosted by a payoff. Kosann nails several aspects of the characters, from the minor (the mangling of “important” as “impor’ant”) to the major (vacuous self-importance), so she obviously knows her subjects well. I simply wish she had followed through on the setup by satirizing them instead of celebrating them. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Cries of Pleasure (1983)

Filmed in a year when Spanish cult director Jess Franco made 12 (!) films, Cries of Pleasure tends to get lost in the pubic bushes, until now never released outside of his native country and, honestly, with good reason.

While Franco does have his strong points — usually in his far more outré sexual outings — when you’re making a dozen low-budget features, most of them can’t be winners. Pleasure floats somewhere in the crusty bottom; even though it’s another dip into de Sade’s bloody pool, it’s not strange enough to be all that interesting.

That being said, if you’re looking for plenty of simulated sex, included exaggerated acts of oral and very exaggerated squeals of arousal, this might elicit your own cries of pleasure as Franco favorite Lina Romay (Night of Open Sex) goes on a clitoral rampage with sensually mustachioed dynamo Robert Foster and his bevy of whip-smart beauties in a gorgeous villa overlooking someplace in Europe.

With loads of extended tongue-kissing and recoiled morality, there’s also a mentally handicapped Spanish guitar player who muses over what he sees as cinematic bookends; it’s easy, because as this unshaven team of deviants goes at it, he’s usually forced to sit there and strum his instrument — and I do mean his guitar, sadly.

For Franco completists and chronic masturbators — and those of you who tend to combine the two — Cries of Pleasure is a pleasurable outing that doesn’t really say anything, but shows a whole lot and, when it comes to most of Franco’s considerable output, I guess that’ll do, pig-boy. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

Hitch Hike to Hell (1977)

As a child of the ’70s, I remember our family station wagon driving swiftly past the first hitchhikers I ever saw — “dirty hippies,” my dad called them. They looked nothing like the comely, clean-cut cuties of Hitch Hike to Hell. And for the record, my father is nothing like the disturbed driver of this exploitation crime thriller.

As the delivery driver for a local dry cleaners, slow-minded and slap-happy, Howard (Robert Gribbin, Trip with the Teacher) runs across an inordinate amount of female thumb-extenders on his route, and gladly gives each a ride in his boss’ cherry-red van. Lord forbid one of the girls self-IDs as a runaway or talks smack on her mother, because then the lift — and her life — comes to an end. Otherwise, they’re delivered safely to their destination! So don’t accuse him of lacking a moral code.

Why all the fuss? It has to do with Howard being triggered over his missing sister, who up and vanished one day, leaving their mother (one-timer Dorothy Bennett) heartbroken. That’s all the backstory director Irv Berwick and his Malibu High screenwriter John Buckley offer — and maybe even more than we need. After all, from scene one — when, between cries of “You tramp!” Howard backhands a passengers out of her bell-bottoms before raping and murdering her — we just assume Howie has mommy issues and still lives at home … and we are correct.

With its commingling of sex and violence, Hitch Hike to Hell wastes no time proving itself worthy of oozing alongside producer Harry Novak’s more notorious Boxoffice International Pictures offerings like The Sinful Dwarf and The Toy Box. Although nowhere near explicit, the scenes of Howard’s attacks remain sleazy enough to make them unpleasant to watch. Outside of these sequences, Gribbin possesses an odd magnetism, although given his character, it’s impossible to tell whether he’s terrific in the role or just a bad actor. Not up for debate: Russell Johnson (the Professor of TV’s Gilligan’s Island) plays a police captain eager to solve the mystery of his town’s new serial killer, but rarely does anything besides smoke at his desk. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Werewolf in a Girls’ Dormitory (1961)

The surprisingly Italian flick Werewolf in a Girls’ Dormitory — originally titled Lycanthropus — is nowhere near as exploitative as the American moniker sounds, but still has some solid scares and solid stares, mostly thanks to ingenue Barbara Lass as Priscilla.

As a handsome new science teacher arrives at a girls’ reform school somewhere in the hills of what I’m guessing is Italy, students are being slaughtered by the apparent wolves that roam the area after dark. As we soon learn, however, it’s a slightly hirsute werewolf that knows a sprightly form of proto-parkour, leaping tree-trunks in the wilderness.

But when Priscilla’s equally comely pal is murdered, she decides to get to the bottom of this mystery with the new teacher; the school’s caretaker, with his gimp arm, is nearly beaten up by drunken townspeople in a tavern for their troubles. Red herrings abound!

Typing all that out, it ultimately saddens me that this entire madcap premise wasn’t the basis for a novelty hit by a Bobby “Boris” Pickett rip-off — possibly Italian as well — that bubbled under the Hot 100 in the early ’60s. I think it would have gone something like this …

Priscilla was walking back to the dorm after class,
When she heard a howl that made her heart beat fast,
She investigated with the new science teacher,
And wondered aloud “Who is this groovy creature?”

It was a werewolf … ah-hooooo!
It was a werewolf … where can he be?
It was a werewolf … ah-hoooo!
It was a werewolf … in a girls’ dormitory!

Every few weeks when the moon would turn,
Pitchforks will rise and torches would burn,
The townsfolk would circle the old reformatory,
Just to capture the werewolf in the girls’ dormitory!

It was a werewolf … ah-hooooo!
It was a werewolf … where can he be?
It was a werewolf … ah-hoooo!
It was a werewolf … in a girls’ dormitory!

Could it be the caretaker who is nobody’s fool? (Wha-wah-oooh!)
Could it be the girl causing trouble in school? (Wha-wah-oooh!)
Could it be the old woman hiding in the woods? (Wha-wah-oooh!)
Or maybe the teacher, giving Priscilla the goods! (Whha-wha-ah-hoooo!)

It was a werewolf … ah-hooooo!
It was a werewolf … where can he be?
It was a werewolf … ah-hoooo!
It was a werewolf … in a girls’ dormitory!

Or maybe not. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

The Astrologer (1975)

Last weekend, while visiting my daughter at college, she asked if I had heard about the FBI study determining that the famous serial killers were all born under the zodiac signs of Sagittarius, Gemini or Virgo. I had to admit I had not … because, of course, it’s not true (God bless Snopes.com). Turns out, however, that’s more or less the concept at the core of The Astrologer, the ambitious, never ostentatious debut for filmmaker James Glickenhaus (The Exterminator).

Tuned to the frequency of The Final Conflict, the moody end-times piece operates on the idea that astrologer Alexei Abernal (Bob Byrd, meekness personified) has cracked the code of determining the “zodiacal potential” — better get comfy with hearing that phrase — of anyone in the world, simply by knowing one’s birthdate. This has enabled him to open the InterZod organization, secretly funded by the U.S. Department of Defense to keep tabs on burgeoning evil ’round the globe.

That task is extra-critical now that a mere 10 days remain before the second coming of Christ, and Sequel Jesus is in a real My Two Dads sitch, in that he could be fathered by one good dude or one bad mofo. Falling into the latter camp: Kajerste (Mark Buntzman, Posse), a mystic Indian with formidable beware-the-stare powers.

If you’re hoping all that starts to make sense at some point, stop. It doesn’t. And that’s A-OK because Glickenhaus, in adapting his father-in-law’s novel, has layered so much mindfuckery into the mix that the science — pseudo it may be (and, oh, do it be!) — need not hold up in court. Watchers of The Astrologer can make an educated guess as to the 23andMe paternal ID revealed in the final seconds, yet also have no clue of what’s coming in each scene before then. For what is essentially an airport paperback of a motion picture, that’s a laudable achievement.

Glickenhaus overcomes the limitations of a five-figure budget with the simplest of solutions; it’s amazing what a few computer blips and photo-negative transitions can do for bizarro ambience, not to mention a score by The Terminator composer Brad Fiedel and some truly unsettling edits by Victor Zimet (The Sex O’Clock News). Only Glickenhaus’ actors let him down; Byrd hatched no other credits, but as Alexei’s incelibate wife, Playboy centerfold Monica Tidwell (1979’s Nocturna) at least exudes a freckle-faced charm.

The Astrologer is not to be confused with another movie with the same name from the following year. The Astrologer is to be confused with Suicide Cult, an alternate, nonsensical title. The Astrologer also features a groovy fondue pot with real zodiacal potential. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Random Genre & Cult Movie Reviews