Omen IV: The Awakening (1991)

omenivForget that whole Armageddon thing from the close of The Omen series’ third chapter, 1981’s not-final Final Conflict. Ten years later, 20th Century Fox dropped an enjoyable bundle of trash named Omen IV: The Awakening at America’s collective front porch, rang the doorbell and bolted to hide behind the neighbor’s bushes and snicker.

Antichrist politician (redundant) Damien Thorn is long dead, but the British telly reporter he had mad, bruising sex with in The Final Conflict was impregnated with his demon seed. The result is a baby girl whom Catholic nuns are more than eager to push into the arms of doting adoptive parents (doting optional), what with “666” embossed on the hater tot’s palm. As the York family, Faye Grant (Internal Affairs) and some guy with feathered hair (Michael Woods, TV’s NightMan) essay those roles, and … well, they’re not particularly giving it their all. If the word “shrill” didn’t exist, it would have to be invented for Grant’s performance.

omeniv1Delia, the second-generation Antichrist, is played in grade-school form by Asia Vieira (TV’s FlashForward). See if you can spot her mustache.

This Delia girl is one mean little bitch, tormenting a fat kid in her class before moving on to meatier targets, like her psychic-obsessed nanny, whom she forces out of a second-story window and onto a merry-go-round below. Delia also uses her satanic powers to cause a nosy P.I. (Michael Lerner, Barton Fink) to meet an untimely fate in the form of a swinging wrecking ball. There’s another decapitation, too, but it pales next to David Warner’s from the original Omen, probably because this so-called Awakening was made IV the Fox network (but released theatrically overseas). It was directed by two guys, Turbulence 3’s Jorge Montesi and Halloween 5’s Dominique Othenin-Girard, which should explain everything. —Rod Lott

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L.A. Slasher (2015)

laslasherFilm critic Roger Ebert had a theory that any film featuring character actor M. Emmet Walsh can’t be all that bad. I posit a similar hypothesis in that any movie opening with the daughter of Hulk Hogan bandaged, bruised and bloodied can’t be all that bad. And yet L.A. Slasher is that bad and then increasingly worse.

Brooke Hogan is but one of the D-list “personalities” and/or tabloid fixtures cast in director/co-writer Martin Owen’s first feature and the targets of the titular, social media-savvy murderer. That he is played by NewsRadio alum Andy Dick, no stranger to the TMZ feed, is, one supposes, intended as chocolate-rich irony. The numbed narration he babbles throughout sounds like remedial Travis Bickle: “Reality TV: birthplace of the moron.”

laslasher1Clad in a white suit and a mask reminiscent of the pigment-washed Michael Jackson, this L.A. Slasher is a mover and a shaker; he has places to be, self-absorbed people to kill. On his radar for victimization are a vapid actress (Mischa Barton, TV’s The O.C.), a pop star (Drake Bell, Superhero Movie), a snotty heiress (co-writer Elizabeth Morris) and so on. Their labels double as their characters’ “names” — a creative choice that subs for true edginess, no matter how Tarantinoian the dialogue has been jerry-rigged to sound.

Owen can spruce up any given frame with enough neon to make L.A. Slasher gleam with a spiffy distraction, but no amount can cover the awful whiff of a flick trying way too hard to hang with the cool kids. Too enamored with itself to achieve dark humor, the movie may think it’s pushing the envelope, but doesn’t even get close enough to lick it. Utterly boring in its empty shell of execution, it has all the satiric bite of a retirement home resident so feeble, she has to gum her supper of creamed corn. —Rod Lott

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Hollywood Vice Squad (1986)

hollywoodvicePenelope Spheeris’ Hollywood Vice Squad is not a sequel to Gary Sherman’s Vice Squad of four years prior. Guess no one bothered to tell Spheeris or Hollywood Vice Squad, because the movie sure plays like one, if lighter, fluffier and with 100 percent more Travolta! Sure, it’s Joey Travolta, yet the stat still stands.

After a title card promises we are about to see stories “based on actual cases” undertaken by “one of the most unusual police organizations in the country,” the film introduces its cop characters at a quick clip, almost as an afterthought. Its semblant spine is built upon a concerned Midwestern mom (Trish Van Devere, Messenger of Death) coming to Tinseltown to plea for the help of LAPD Capt. Jensen (Ronny Cox, Deliverance) in locating her daughter (The Princess Bride herself, Robin Wright, pre-Penn and in her mo-pic debut). Unbeknownst to Mom, the girl’s become a smack-addicted hooker under the employ of the town’s most fearsome pimp, logically portrayed by Frank Gorshin, aka The Riddler to TV’s Batman.

hollywoodvice1Meanwhile, the token black cop (Leon Isaac Kennedy, Penitentiary) goes undercover as a rival pimp; the token female cop (Carrie Fisher, Star Wars: The Force Awakens) is hungry for action and itching to bust her friendly neighborhood pornographer, whom she believes is using underage studs in his homemade productions; and the token Asian cop (Evan Kim, The Dead Pool) and the token Italian cop (the aforementioned Travolta, To the Limit) partner up and have all sorts of crazy adventures. There are many others, but these head the most prominent of seemingly a dozen subplots between which Spheeris’ film leaps.

Scenes of action — usually involving vehicular pursuit and inconsequential to story — hold Hollywood Vice Squad together like transparent tape. The seams of the episodic approach show, yet Spheeris (Wayne’s World) seems not to care. And nor do I, when the results are this entertaining. (Watch for the cameraman in the back of a car during an alleyway scuffle — you won’t have to watch very hard!) The quite-a-cast movie is as rough around the edges as her acclaimed Decline of Western Civilization trilogy of punk/metal documentaries and certainly as fascinated with colorful characters — some may call them “freaks” — for whom phrases like “only in Hollywood” were coined.

Set on the streets, so authentic you can smell them (starting with the Church of Scientology’s neon sign), the movie works as crime exploitation and as a time capsule of mid-1980s El Lay. Serving as markers are the Sunset Strip’s various theater marquees, luring patrons to see Rocky IV, Invasion U.S.A., Clue, Spies Like Us and Bodacious Ta-Tas. Only in Hollywood. —Rod Lott

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Reading Material: Short Ends 2/7/16

wecanbewhoweareJust a Hair shy of 800 pages, We Can Be Who We Are: Movie Musicals from the 1970s is a brick. Available in hardback and paperback, the BearManor Media release by Lee Gambin is nothing if not a giant love letter to the cinema’s arguably most experimental decade of that once-sacrosanct genre. Going year by year, Gambin dives deep into each and (one assumes) every film that either is a full-fledged musical or dependent upon music; from those rated G to those rated X, he examines them with one eye toward history, one eye toward criticism and both ears toward their tunes. All the obvious titles are here, but what makes the book special is the inclusion of the lesser-knowns and obscurities, such as Son of Dracula (with Harry Nilsson and Ringo Starr), The First Nudie Musical, White Pop Jesus and assorted nuggets from the world of prime-time TV (e.g. The Paul Lynde Halloween Special). With the occasional doozy à la “Racquel Welch,” spelling is the author’s second greatest enemy, bested only by a tendency to let his interviews read as transcripts in need of a good trimming. Then again, when someone pours as much passion onto the pages as Gambin has here, I can understand his desire to impart as much here’s-what-happened knowledge as the spine glue allows.

movienighttriviaAs bright and colorful as its cartoon-concessions cover, Movie Night Trivia would work as a gift to a film-loving friend, but why not you, too? Across half a dozen categories, Robb Pearlman (with true-or-false assistance from Shane Carley) has written 400 questions to test your knowledge of yesteryear’s classics, today’s blockbusters and a bunch in between. These “brain-benders” range from easy (“Name Chuck Noland’s quiet, yet faithful, friend from 2000’s Cast Away”; it’s even multiple-choice) to hard (“Name the two races that join together when The Dark Crystal is restored”) to arguably misleading/not entirely factual (“Hitting theaters between 1998’s Star Trek: Insurrection and Star Trek: Nemesis [2002], _____ is often called the best Star Trek movie ever made” — the answer is Galaxy Quest; “never made” would be playing fair). Skill level be damned, the Cider Mill Press paperback is a visual treat, with many items getting their own well-designed, full-bleed page featuring photography from the flick in question. It’d make a killer app.

draculafaqClearly, Bruce Scivally has done his homework for Dracula FAQ: All That’s Left to Know About the Count from Transylvania. While the trade paperback touches upon the vampire’s literary roots and subsequent stage adaptations, it’s the prince of darkness’ numerous incarnations in the movies — reverent and irreverent, Universal and Hammer — that form the book’s focus. The most satisfying aspect of this is how these sections read like miniature making-of articles on the films, whether John Badham’s Dracula, Francis Ford Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula or the comedy Love at First Bite. Television runs a distant second focus, with looks at various comic books, Drac-influenced music and merchandise bringing up the rear, all illustrated with a wealth of photos and poster art. Being of the opinion that vampires don’t sparkle, I could do without the entire chapter devoted to The Twilight Saga; still, in the end, Dracula FAQ proves one of the very best entries from Backbeat Books’ ongoing FAQ line of pop-culture crash courses. Other recent titles tackle The Twilight Zone and TV finales; coming up are Rocky Horror and M*A*S*H.

horrorsubgenreHorror Films by Subgenre: A Viewer’s Guide is a rather drab title that doesn’t exactly get the saliva flowin’. Hiding behind it, however, is a fun work of reference presented uniquely. Spouses Chris Vander Kaay and Kathleen Fernandez-Vander Kaay have chopped and divided the world of fright flicks into 75 distinct categories of That Which Scares You, whether animal attacks, environmental disasters, invisible beings, serial killers, old folks, puppets, carnivals, tools, twins — you get the idea. And if you don’t, well, therein lay the book’s purpose: introducing the reader to a very specific type of terror. Each chapter begins with a brief essay about that subgenre, followed by the meat: reviews of three or four movies that Team Vander Kaay believes are among the best representations of that subject vs. the best quality. Part of the fun of reaching each is predicting which movies they might cover; while you’re apt to guess at least one correctly, they throw in their fair share of left-field choices, too. While you could flip only to those subgenres that interest you, the McFarland & Company trade paperback is also perfectly readable as a front-to-back experience. If horror isn’t your thing, perhaps one of McFarland’s several other serious-minded film texts of the season may be: Tim Burton: Essays on the Films, A Galaxy Here and Now: Historical and Cultural Readings of Star Wars and Wizards vs. Muggles: Essays on Identity and the Harry Potter Universe, to name just three. —Rod Lott

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Schoolgirls in Chains (1973)

schoolgirlschainsNot much occurs in the pedestrian and paltry Schoolgirls in Chains beyond what the title promises, and even that is a misnomer. I get it, though: Sexploitation is sexploitation, which requires salable sizzle, and “schoolgirl” tickles a particular — and particularly popular — fetish. Like Troma’s infamous Mother’s Day seven years later, this feature from The Love Butcher director Don Jones centers on two adult brothers who live a screwed-up existence with their screwy mother in a home just middle-of-nowhere enough to be ideal for their peculiar method of entertaining members of the opposite sex.

Frank (Gary Kent, Jones’ The Forest) is the brains of the Barrows boys; the mentally challenged John (John Parker, The Mighty Gorga), the brawn. Through automotive mishaps and what have you, the brothers nab the nubile, take them home and chain ’em up in the cellar with the others. On occasion, John likes to play doctor with them, whereas Frank has little patience for games — he just out-and-out rapes. Jones’ choice to score this grimy scene with romantic sax music is all the more troubling.

schoolgirlschains1Equally as troubling is the film’s highlight: a flashback in which Mother (Greta Gaylord) ruins Frank’s chances at marriage by telling his fiancée that while he used to wet the bed, he now just gets her wet in bed. Translation: incest. We can’t place all the blame on Mrs. Barrows, however, because in the same scene, when she asks her son for a massage to relieve the pain she’s having, he complies; the “pain” is in her breasts. I know women like to see how their husband-to-be treats his mama, but this? It’s a red flag that sews, raises and waves itself.

Yep, kids, SiC (!) is one of “those” kinds of movies: not pornography, but misguided eroticism. Hey, it takes all kinds to make the world go ’round. It takes a village! —Ed Donovan

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