Machete (2006)

From the opening scenes featuring a middle-aged man with a machete cutting the throats of a few vatos playing a crooked game of dice, this Machete looks very much like a homegrown copy of that Machete, even if this was strangely filmed a few years earlier.

However, as soon as this Machete finds an adorable, Walter Keane-styled lad in need of a family getting beaten up by locals, it’s here where the film veers off into a somewhat violent tale of spiritual love as the possibly Heavenly Kid and a group of irreligious area thugs battle for the soul of Machete.

With a healthy appetite for tequila — Antigua Cruz, straight from the obtuse bottle — Machete, also known as Lukas, an ex-bodyguard for the president, wanders the desert, stopping by the small town of Purgatory — to hell with subtlety, I suppose — for reasons that are unclear and remain unclear. Either way, he causes trouble with the same three locals throughout the movie, swinging a flimsy machete around like a 5-year-old who’s just seen Conan the Barbarian.

Meanwhile, as a young girl and her “gypsy” mother are harassed by those same three locals, a gringo from Machete’s past — back in Vietnam, apparently — is looking for him, ready to take him back to Arizona, “dead or alive.” While they all impatiently come together for the climax, as the film tries to tie all the loose ends together at once, complete with Machete being shot to death.

Only he’s not. I think.

With guardian angels, familial intrigue and a white dude machete training montage in the desert, writer and star Pablo Esparza — who I do hope that I’m related to on my maternal side — does what he can on this zero-budget actioner, even if very little of it makes any sense which, of course, makes it incredibly entertaining.

At the very least, I hope they got a few bucks from the Antigua Cruz sponsorship. It’s in this flick so much, I’m surprised that bottle didn’t get a producer’s credit. —Louis Fowler

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Luz (2018)

A cabbie walks into a police station, and what happens next is not a joke. The tomboyish driver is Luz (featuring-debuting Luana Velis), and she has flung herself out of her car in the dead of night because she is being pursued by a demon. It happens.

How do authorities handle such a situation? In the case of Luz, the first feature from writer/director Tilman Singer, hypnosis. Under the subconscious-tapping care of Dr. Rossini (Jan Bluthardt, also feature-debuting, in a go-for-broke performance that elicits chills and chuckles), Luz recreates the events that brought her to the station. They are not without merit.

Luz is being sold as a horror movie in the mold of Dario Argento, Lucio Fulci and David Cronenberg. While their influence on Singer can be glimpsed, the pitch may be doing a disservice to the German film in setting audience expectations it cannot possibly meet. Those primed for a possession thriller filtered through those masters’ lenses will be ill-prepped for a near-somniferous pace that makes the slow-burn style of today’s reigning arthouse-horror hits (e.g., Hereditary, It Follows, The Witch) look positively hasty. On top of that, Singer’s cold visuals, sacrilegious agenda, timeline-tinkering and refusal to fill in all the blanks he’s drawn have the potential to frustrate viewers even further.

However, those viewers are not the kind Singer seeks, as his quasi-experimental, oft-transgressive film capitulates to no one. In scenes drawn out longer than they should play — and even in shots that run for several minutes at a time, resisting any urge to cut away — the nonetheless 80-minute Luz initially appears to bear a thick coat of neophyte pretension. Although hardly ostentation-free, its method comes to reveal a WTF-inducing madness for those still around. Recalibrate expectations and you, too, can be among them. —Rod Lott

Double Impact (1991)

If you’re anything like me — and I’m guessing you probably aren’t — you probably thought that The Parent Trap would have been a might better with Bolo Yeung as a Triad hitman who mercilessly shotgunned Hayley Mills’ parents to death in the film’s opening.

Double Impact gets you halfway there, albeit with double the Jean-Claude Van Dammes. Let’s get together, yeah yeah yeah!

Here, JCVD takes on the dual roles of Chad and Alex, somewhat different twins separated at birth and driven together by their love of smoking-hot blondes and, I guess, solving the murder of their parents while collecting the apparent royalties from the Hong Kong-mainland tunnel their dad completed before his death. But mostly smoking-hot blondes.

Between selling smuggled Mercedes on the high seas to busting up a clandestine Hong Kong drug operation, the brothers seem to be getting along until one of them gets way too drunk and imagines in his mind — and dramatized onscreen, thankfully — the other brother sexually satisfying a smoking-hot blonde, leading to some classic Van Damme-on-Van Damme action.

Still, after seeing a few Triads storm the beach the next morning, they decide to put their mutual dislike of each other aside and take on the nameless Chinese sentries, all to get to the snooty British businessman that, as snooty British businessmen are wont to do, put the hit on his parents for reason I still haven’t grasped.

With many instances of Bolo Yeung’s burly stockiness lurking about — and even a little bit of Cory Everson’s muscular thigh-crunching for equal opportunity — the screenplay, written by Van Damme and director Sheldon Lettich (Lionheart), is a highly nonsensical but ultimately fun kick to both of the gonads, preferably while in the patented Van Damme splits position.

For years, Van Damme has teased a sequel pitting Chad and Alex against the “South Central mob,” if such a thing exists, but those plans have yet to see the light of day. I guess those Tostitos commercials are the closest we’re ever going to come, which I’m okay with. —Louis Fowler

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Reading Material: Short Ends 7/8/19

In a summer that has seen several sequels tank, at least one doesn’t disappoint: Make My Day: Movie Culture in the Age of Reagan, preeminent film critic J. Hoberman’s trilogy-capper. As An Army of Phantoms and The Dream Life considered American cinema in the Cold War and the 1960s, respectively, Make My Day looks to the late 1970s and the whole of the 1980s; as in those works, also from The New Press, American cinema is also considered through the lens of the era’s politics, and how one informed or reflected the other. With Ronald Reagan as movie star-cum-POTUS, Hoberman certainly has a wealth of material to parse, most notably in the “warnography” of Rambo: First Blood Part II, Top Gun, Iron Eagle and, to a lesser degree, WarGames. It’s not all jets and jocks, either, with everything from the narrative quilt of Nashville to the science-fried comedy of Ghostbusters and basically everything Steven Spielberg Midas-touched. The tour is fascinating, politically charged (yet fact-based) and even thrilling. An overuse of the prefix “crypto-” and a couple of names getting botched (as Jon Voigt, Gary Marshall and Christian Glover) do nothing to diminish its excellence.

Serious question: Does Roberto Curti ever sleep? The Italian film historian has been averaging two research-heavy books a year, with his latest being Italian Gothic Horror Films, 1980-1989. Those already familiar with Curti will know this is the third in the IGHF series, which began in 2015 (1957-1969) and continued in 2017 (1970-1979), all published by McFarland & Company. The VHS-weaned generation may have been waiting on this one all along, given that the video-store era coincided with the gore-heavy auteurist period of Dario Argento, Lucio Fulci, Lamberto Bava and others, who made some of their best work in this fertile period. Again going chronologically, Curti examines each notable title, with critical and historical appreciations that can run for multiple pages, if merited (the above men among those). If there’s a fly in this soup, it’s that Curti refers to films primarily by their Italian titles, which can get tricky if you’re not paying attention, assuming you’re also not bilingual. Molto bene!

Portable Press’ Strange Hollywood is not unlike an entry in the assumedly immortal Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader series: a chunky little book to absorb a page or two at a time, most likely during dumps, with contents only slightly less temporary. Thus, lists make up much of the 400-plus pages, from movie stars’ final roles and original titles of hit pictures to fun facts about The Muppets and memorable quips from TV’s Hollywood Squares. Occasionally, there’s even an anecdote worth your time, such as why Tommy Lee Jones couldn’t stand working with Jim Carrey on Batman Forever, resulting in the former telling the latter, “I cannot sanction your buffoonery.” All in all, the book is a novelty that might work as a stocking stuffer. —Rod Lott

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Heroes Shed No Tears (1986)

In this life, there are many things that heroes shed but, apparently, tears are not one of them. At least that is the thesis statement behind John Woo’s 1986 testes-dropper, Heroes Shed No Tears, starring Eddy Ko (PTU) as the non-crying hero.

Actually, I feel like I should walk that back a few steps: Ko, as Chinese mercenary Chan, does cry a time or two but, to be fair, it is because for a few moments he believes the evil Thai colonel has set his small child on fire. I think that, if you were not to cry at something like that, you’re probably more of a sociopath than an actual hero, but I guess that’s just me.

Anyway, Chan is the leader of a group of Chinese commandos out to capture Gen. Samton, who’s running the drug trade in the Golden Triangle. Even though the capture is primarily a success, crossing the mountain range and getting to their contact into Vietnam is quite the bitch, especially with Chan’s kid and his aunt, a French reporter and a couple of soldiers with a hilarious gambling problem in tow.

With one violently cool set piece after another — how the evil Thai colonel loses his eye is worth the price of admission unless, you know, you’re an evil Thai colonel — this flick isn’t a predictor of future Woo flicks like The Killer or Hard Boiled, but instead absolute bloody proof that his ballistic ballets had been a staple of Hong Kong cinema for a while; it just took the rest of us world-cinema jerks to catch up to him.

Arguably one of the best action films in a decade that had nothing but, Heroes Shed No Tears is the overseas grindhouse version of the Rambo movies, with plenty of fighting for the guys, romance for the gals, and hardcore scenes of gambling addiction for the drunk uncles in the audience. —Louis Fowler

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