Action

Police Story: Lockdown (2013)

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policestorylockdownEntry No. 7 in Hong Kong cinema’s unrelated Police Story franchise (if we count Michelle Yeoh’s Supercop 2 spin-off), Police Story: Lockdown again stars Jackie Chan, this time as Capt. Zhong, a middle-aged career cop and now a widower. He meets his emo-medical daughter, Miao (Jing Tian, Special ID), at a trendy, two-story nightclub complete with private rooms, go-go girls and frickin’ live piranha.

Resentful of her workaholic father’s years of absenteeism, Miao nonetheless makes an effort to reconnect, starting with introducing him to her new beau, Wu (Liu Ye, The Chef, the Actor and the Scoundrel), formerly a pugilist in an illegal boxing ring, currently owner of this very hot spot. Zhong immediately dislikes Wu and … well, father knows best, because Wu takes his whole bar hostage, plopping all patrons who weren’t able to flee during the melée into the dancing cages. (No word if such dual use was in mind when Wu designed the club, but the cages certainly came in handy, no?)

policestorylockdown1As villains go, Wu is pretty cardboard — or maybe candy glass is more apt here — and as heroes go, Chan is Jackie Chan, the ever-reliable, brand-name action star. From Little Big Soldier director Ding Sheng, Lockdown is middling fare at best — nowhere near Chan’s peak (which includes a handful of the Police Story stories), but equally distant from his more-recent nadir. It is what it is, which means that while the film is limited by its (mostly) single location, it’s worth tuning in just to watch the fight sequences (and usually the bloopers, although that’s not the case here). The 60-something Chan isn’t quite as fast on his feet these days, but like Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, he’s never going to lose all those moves. Aging suits him well, even when the scripts fall short. —Rod Lott

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Kitchen Sink

Extreme Jukebox (2013)

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extremejukeboxWTFLook at a jukebox — if you can find a pub or pizza parlor that still has one — and peruse its tunes. Among those 45s, you’re likely to find a mix of musical genres from which the automated arm can pluck: rock, pop, country. Fittingly but annoyingly, Extreme Jukebox is every bit as scattered in its DNA.

In the Italian film from first-time writer/director/producer/actor Alberto Bogo, the music industry of Nova Springs is terrorized as its pop stars, rock gods and metal heads are offed by a serial killer or two decked out in quasi- Juggalo disguises. Their gruesome slayings may have something to do with the disappearance of a psych-rocker 20 years ago. Or they may have something to do with a supernatural curse that locks souls within a slab of vinyl.

extremejukebox1Then again, they may not. It’s hard to say for certain, because Extreme Jukebox is an excruciating mess of self-pleasuring slop. Narratively, it just flies by the seat of its (soiled) pants, ending up as confused as any potential audience member — even those who make it all the way to the punchable final shot. It seems that Bogo wanted to salute slasher movies and send up slasher movies, and since neither tone works alone, the approaches are downright discordant sharing the same frames; scenes don’t flow as much as they trip over one another.

Does the movie think it is scary? Does it find itself funny? Are we supposed to laugh or cringe? Scream or smile? Was Bogo aiming for this level of amateurism? Or did he merely settle for it? And why am I not surprised to find the Troma brand affixed to its U.S. release? This shaggy Jukebox arrives at No. 1 with a bullet. Unfortunately, that bullet is right between its eyes, and viewer-inflicted. —Rod Lott

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Thriller

The November Man (2014)

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novembermanThe November Man is not a sequel to The January Man, for all three of you who remember that failed Kevin Kline vehicle of 1989. Casting aside source material for the moment, the reason The November Man is called The November Man isn’t even revealed until the film’s penultimate scene, yet the explanation is so passively delivered and decidedly inconsequential that viewers will think, “That’s it?” In the same exchange, Pierce Brosnan’s ex-CIA character is given another nickname — one that actually makes sense and has the virtue of being a better title, if the MPAA ever would allow it, which it would not: “one bleak motherfucker.”

Just close your eyes and hear the trailer’s announcer in your head: “This summer … Pierce Brosnan … is … One Bleak Motherfucker!” On the conservative end, the box-office take would have doubled.

THE NOVEMBER MANNot playing James Bond here but a suave secret agent all the same, Brosnan is Devereaux, temporarily lured out of retirement to extract a fellow operative (Bosnian actress Mediha Musliovic) from her undercover post in Moscow, where she’s surreptitiously gathered incriminating intel on the war-criminal past of Russia’s presidential hopeful Federov (Lazar Ristovski, 2006’s Casino Royale). The female agent also happens to be Devereaux’s former lover and the mother of their child, so if you think he’ll swoop in and succeed, let me welcome you to the world of espionage thrillers! You’re gonna have a blast!

But with The November Man, expect the equivalent of a Dr Pepper can shaken violently before being dropped on the kitchen tile. Impact is lessened by a convoluted plot (based on the late Bill Granger’s 1987 novel There Are No Spies, book seven of 13 in his Devereaux series) that directly pits our 60-something hero against his one-time protégé (a flat Luke Bracey, 2015’s Point Break) and has him enlist the aid of a smokin’-hot Chechen refugee (Olga Kurylenko, Quantum of Solace) seeking revenge on Federov herself. These are two of the story’s three driving forces, but that only becomes evident after the introduction of so many characters — and their various subplots — that ultimately emerge no further than the periphery; you’re left not knowing to whom you should or should not pay attention.

Old pro Roger Donaldson used to craft these stylish thrillers in his sleep: 1987’s No Way Out, 1992’s White Sands, 1995’s Species. All of those works are agile and highly competent, if not particularly lasting. The November Man is the same — just with a noticeable limp in its step.

Aging incredibly well, Brosnan is top-notch, with nary a nod nor a wink to the cheekiness of his 007 days. Gritting his teeth and tasting the blood, Devereaux is both phenomenal and fallible. I just wish this film — a faint attempt to launch a franchise — were less of the latter. —Rod Lott

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Mystery

Watch Me When I Kill (1977)

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watchmekillIn Watch Me When I Kill, his directorial debut, Antonio Bido pulls off a reasonable impression of Dario Argento in full-giallo mode, intentional or not. Seriously, when the murder sequences begin, so does the score, and your mind subconsciously anticipates the kick-in of a Goblin riff that never comes; I was tricked every time, and pleased to be.

When a dancer named Mara (Paola Tedesco, Battle of the Amazons) has the unfortunate timing of needing aspirin just after an elderly pharmacist has been brutally murdered, the killer assumes she may have seen too much and begins targeting her as well. Freaked out by the first attempt on her life, Mara flees her apartment and runs into the arms of old flame Lukas (Corrado Pani, Gambling City), who happens to be a private dick. Armed with curiosity and cheap cigars, he investigates.

watchmekill1Per the rules of the giallo, however, Lukas doesn’t investigate fast enough, meaning the body count rises as he pokes his nose around town. The list of likely suspects narrows so rapidly that the number of pawns Bido has to play with nears zero. When the identity of the culprit comes to light, the motive is weighed down by more serious notes than the subgenre usually calls for; your allegiance to certain characters may be upended by the revelations, but a wham-bam-slam cut to “THE END” could be designed to induce enough whiplash to keep you from overthinking such things. Or it could just be legendary B-movie producer Herman Cohen (Horrors of the Black Museum) cleaving away at the running time because he could.

Nevertheless, Watch Me When I Kill — a minor work, yet engrossing enough — finds Bido (The Bloodstained Shadow) not shying away from bloodletting … or face-ovening. (Get ready to welcome an aversion to meat-based stew!) Graphic as these scenes are, their most chilling aspect lasts for a literal fraction of a second: a subliminal close-up of an indeterminate animal’s eyes. —Rod Lott

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Horror

Horror Hotel (1960)

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horrorhotelWhen is not a good idea for a comely college co-ed (Nan Barlow, Day of the Outlaw) to take a road trip by herself to do research for her term paper?
• When her subject is witchcraft.
• When her all-too-eager professor who gives detailed directions to the town is played by Christopher Lee.
• When the inn where he suggests — if not demands — she stay is run by a hundreds-year-old witch.

In a twist similar to the same year’s Psycho, the girl gets killed — in an elaborate satanic sacrifice — halfway through, leaving her feminine brother and knucklehead boyfriend to come looking for her, only to discover the mysteries of the coven. And all this could have been avoided if the girl would have simply kept that ominous trapdoor in her hotel room floor shut! I don’t believe any college girl is this dedicated to academics, anyway — at least not any girl who wears that kind of lingerie.

horrorhotel1Unfortunately, Horror Hotel (aka City of the Dead) has no scene that even approaches the shocks or the scares of Psycho, although director John Llewellyn Moxey (Genesis II) does do a credible job of establishing a spooky atmosphere upfront. Maybe it’s me, but the flick might be more effective had it not revealed the plot’s “secrets” in the prologue. —Rod Lott

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