Criminal mastermind Dr. Mabuse isn’t the only one who returns in, well, The Return of Dr. Mabuse. So does Gert Fröbe, Goldfinger himself, as Inspector Lohmann. Having to cancel a fishing trip he was looking forward to so much that he patted his wife’s prodigious rear, Lohmann investigates the murder of a man to keep incriminating evidence from coming to light.
It should surprise no one that Mabuse (Wolfgang Preiss, Mill of the Stone Women) is behind it all. The pro villain is also behind a new narcotic that, when injected, turns prisoners into hypno-slaves — all the better to overtake the local atomic power plant. If only Lohmann can stop him! It should surprise no one that Lohmann can, albeit with the assistance of an FBI agent (Lex Barker, after five swings as Tarzan) and a comely photographer (Daliah Lavi, 1965’s Ten Little Indians).
More fun than the previous film, Fritz Lang’s The Thousand Eyes of Dr. Mabuse, Harald Reinl’s mean franchise debut with Return boasts a bevy of exploitable elements, from rudimentary car chases to a runaway train. You might think the highlight of this lean and kinda Eurocrime pic is the blind man meeting his end between a brick wall and a truck grill, but you’d be wrong. That honor goes to the floozy who gets flambéd by a flamethrower — in front of the Bimbo Bar, no less! —Rod Lott
Aliens in a cornfield? Obviously. Murderous children in a cornfield? But of course. Mia Goth violating a scarecrow in a cornfield? Uh, sure. But a Clown in a Cornfield? Maybe we’re jumping the shark. Wait, that’s been in a cornfield, too?!
While Eli Craig isn’t the first to put horror on the cob, 2010’s Tucker & Dale vs. Evil showed a playful understanding of the genre — not originality — is the director’s strong suit. An adaptation of Adam Cesare’s 2020 novel, Clown in a Cornfield sees Craig drop an original story credit, too. This change in his routine doesn’t quite hit the highs of his first standout film. But in a world where Terrifier’s Art reigns supreme, the Midwestern clown holds its ground.
Looking for a fresh start, Quinn (Katie Douglas, Lazareth) and her doctor dad, Glenn (Aaron Abrams, Code 8), move to a seemingly quiet, rural town. As Glenn discovers the residents’ firm commitment to tradition, Quinn meets a classmate named Cole (Carson MacCormac, Shazam!) and quickly falls in with his group of friends looking to buck the old-fashioned values of Kettle Springs. However, the teens quickly discover the town’s mascot, Frendo, isn’t playing around when it comes to community’s way of life. As Frendo starts to prey on Quinn and her friends, they start to unravel the mystery behind the town’s killer clown.
Unfortunate spoiler alert: Frendo isn’t from outer space. In fact, Clown in a Cornfield is significantly more grounded than you’d probably expect from Craig. While it doesn’t avoid humor outright, it doesn’t really try to channel it either. If it weren’t for casting Will Sasso (2012’s The Three Stooges) as the town sheriff, one could almost argue that Craig decided to take this flick a bit too seriously. Those who expect a return to Tucker & Dale’s uproarious gags — or, hell, even Little Evil’s — might find this clown running out of steam fast.
Granted, what makes Clown in a Cornfield at least somewhat interesting isn’t dependent on humor. It’s his straightest horror film yet, with a bit of classic slasher allusions thrown into the mix. It also dips its big, red shoes into an examination of generational tension. Unfortunately, it doesn’t dig particularly deep into this idea. It just kind of dances around it with about as much strength as a rubber chicken with a broken squeaker.
Which isn’t an entire miss, either. In the era of A24’s elevated horror, Clown in a Cornfield is admittedly very accessible. Similar to Cesare’s book, the movie is extremely easy to grasp. It’s not entirely inconsequential, either, as its romantic subplot is surprisingly deep and fresh. Still, it’s as if we’re trained at this point to expect something more from every horror film that isn’t franchised. And that’s probably unfair, given we need introductory films like this to get younger horror fans to dive deep.
Clown in a Cornfield has its moments, including a fair share of creative kills. Still, if you’re expecting some kind of in-depth dissection or even a few decent gags to wash down the mayhem, this cornfield probably isn’t for you. —Daniel Bokemper
What I remember most from John Wick: Chapter 2 is the sequence of somany assassins receiving and reacting to news of a fresh bounty on the hero’s well-coiffed head. Something tells me the screenwriters of Fight or Flight do, too — that “something” being the setup for their action pic. It’s one that never clears the creative tarmac, perhaps burdened by the weight of so many F-bombs as punchlines.
Continuing his comeback bid since fronting M. Night Shyamalan’s Trap last year, Josh Hartnett goes bleached-blond and boozy as Lucas Reyes, an ex-Secret Service agent living the low life in Bangkok. He’s unofficially reactivated by his former superior/lover (Katee Sackhoff, Oculus) to capture an enigmatic “black hat terrorist” named The Ghost, who’s tracked boarding a flight outta Bangkok and bound for San Francisco.
With word of The Ghost’s bounty spread like MAGAspiracies across the dark web, the double-decker jet is positively packed with killers eager for an easy payday. Plus — and isn’t this wacky — there’s a price on Lucas’ head, too! With that little wrinkle, Fight or Flight jams itself into your eyes and ears as a plane-set Bullet Train, but wit, thrills and invention apparently have been confiscated by TSA.
Hartnett does what he can, which is make the film at least watchable. His weary personality is the second-best thing the movie has going for it, just behind Marko Zaror (John Wick: Chapter 4), the martial-arts B-movie icon who delights in a too-brief bit as an opponent Hartnett tussles with in a too-large airplane bathroom. Zaror always gets to show his moves, but comedic chops? Fight or Flight could use more of his energy, rather than dispatching him quickly for prolonged retread nonsense. —Rod Lott
Sun Ra’s Space is the Place is a cautionary, evolutionary and revolutionary tale of interplanetary spiritualism, interstellar revitalization and mnemonic congruence.
If you know what any of that means, you are in store for the low-budget, mind-bending delights this long-lost Afrofuturist film offers. In other words, if Rudy Ray Moore became an avant-garde musician and wanted to preach the world of his gospel, you still don’t even know what you’re in for.
A cult jazz icon, Sun Ra and his Arkestra put his science-fiction testament on true celluloid, one that the public wasn’t ready to see. It sat on the shelf for two years and even then was barely released. I guess the money men tried to dismantle, disentangle and destroy the very word.
More of an irreligious fever dream at the end of the world, a chant begins as a dildo-onic starship sails though the cosmos. The ship’s denizens including Sun Ra in a thrifty but stylish futurist/neo-Egyptian garb. He has a monologue about the impending doom of the planet Earth, then teleports his body and soul through the interstellar plane on musical vibrations. At least that’s what we are told …
Unexpectedly, we are in Chicago 1943, where Sun Ra creates freeform avant-garde jazz with a bevy of beautiful strippers. As the world rattles and smoke emanates through his fingers, we meet the villain of this piece, the pimpish Overseer (Ray Johnson, The Human Tornado).
In the desert, the two play a game of cards to decide the fate of the world. Sun Ra’s wobbly starship comes to Earth. With the help of his Arkestra, he gives the world a musical message at a concert the next day.
Meanwhile, the Overseer snaps a guy out of a coma, then proceeds to inseminate the attending nurses. That’s okay, because Sun Ra had formed a cosmic employment office, complete with a revolving door of hopefuls who, sadly, do not like the pay.
With the youths debating whether Sun Ra is a sell-out, a couple of whiteys kidnap him and try to brainwash him with stereotypical big-band music. The doubting teens find him and get him off the stage to “30 million galaxies” on tap for his message.
It ends with the world burning in a globe-melting fire, for real.
To be fair, those are just some of the highlights from a film that has a million of them. While Sun Ra is a remarkable musician — and quite the character — he retains a god-like veneer that seems like its riding the line between celebrated messiah and apoplectic cult leader.
Good thing, because no matter what his ethereal bag is, it’s a truly complex, utterly bemudded and completely mesmerizing body of soulful work. And, as far as the movie goes, to see Sun Ra and his Egyptian birdmen driving around town in a stylish convertible as unsuspecting passersby look … well, that must been amazing to view and, years later, watch on television.
If anything, I want to get into Sun Ra’s selected discography. If anyone have strong recommendations, either for physical media or metaphysical waves of sound vibrations, let me know … —Louis Fowler
As The Beach Boys once sang, catch a wave and you’re sittin’ on top of the world. But what happens when you’re prevented from catching a wave, much less a break? That’s the dilemma facing Nicolas Cage’s title character in The Surfer, a single-location thriller shot on the Australian oceanside.
Playing a successful businessman in the throes of a divorce, he’s taken a mental health day to surf with his teen son (Finn Little, Those Who Wish Me Dead) at a special place: by the house he’s purchasing. It’s where the surfer grew up, mere steps from the sacred sand. Trouble is, the beach is overrun by a gang of bullies who operate by a simple code: “Don’t live ’ere, don’t surf ’ere!”
Led by a red-robed and crispy-tanned Julian McMahon (Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer), the hooligans deny the surfer entry and steal his board. Running recon from the parking lot atop the hill, the surfer attempts to reclaim what’s his, physically and spiritually, only to be outsmarted at every turn. Just when you think the surfer can’t sink any lower in his attempt to answer the mythic call of the waves, glug glug glug.
With shades of Frank Perry’s The Swimmer, but more akin to Sam Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs at high tide, The Surfer finds Irish director Lorcan Finnegan paying off the visual promise he displayed in Vivarium, a great concept rendered too obtuse — and boring — for its own good. Getting out of that 2019 film’s house and into nature does wonders for him, as well as working with someone else’s script, here by TV writer Thomas Martin, who finds the comedic in the tragic. Vibrant photography from The Babadook cinematographer Radek Ladczuk helps immerse us within Cage’s sun-soaked delirium, prompting questions of how much of what we’re seeing may just be imagined.
One hopes Cage’s much-publicized tax troubles are nearing rearview-mirror status so the supremely gifted actor can continue his comeback tour toward relevance with projects like this and other recents (e.g., Longlegs, Dream Scenario, Color Out of Space) and far, far away from every straight-to-VOD actioner shot in New Orleans. Ever since the 2018 phantasmagoria known as Mandy, I’ve noticed members of the younger generation clamoring for a Cage Freak-Out™ in each picture — and then losing their shit when it arrives. They’ll be pleased to know Finnegan sates their appetite with our hero’s shouted demand of one oppressor, “Eat the rat! Eat it!”
Hey, whatever gets their butts into seats. Especially for this winner with an ethereal final shot that hits like a missile of emotion. Hang 10. —Rod Lott
