Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015)

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avengersultronAvengers, assemble! For the inevitable, super-sized sequel, of course: Avengers: Age of Ultron. The 2012 original, Marvel’s The Avengers, burst into the world box office’s rarified billion-dollar club, so what one critic in Bumfuck, Flyover State, thinks about this follow-up matters not at all.

That said, in case you’re curious, I found Age of Ultron to be more satisfying than its big brother. Much more.

Like Iron Man 3, however, footing is found only after the shakiest of starts. Here, it’s a real show-off sequence of all six of Earth’s mightiest heroes fending off enemy soldiers. Although made to look like an unbroken tracking shot, it’s so obviously and overly computer-generated that it appears like a cartoon. Downshifting to slow motion to draw even more attention to itself, one angle in particular all but reaches from the screen to give fanboys a quick, collective wank (à la See You Next Wednesday’s “Feel-Around” experience).

avengersultron1Subsequent skirmishes — and Age of Ultron has many — are staged better. The screenplay, by returning director Joss Whedon, threatens our Avengers team from within after Iron Man alter ego Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr. in his sixth go-round with the character) covertly completes Ultron, an artificial-intelligence project intended for global defense. However, the AI (voiced by James Spader of TV’s The Blacklist at his most Spadery, which is to say terrific) decides, as it boots to life, that it doesn’t like what it’s been programmed to do, so it zigs instead of zags, thereby aiming to annihilate mankind. Even in a movie predicated upon our suspended disbelief in green giants and thunder gods and unfrozen American army men, Ultron’s insufficiently explained 180 is a completely stupid plot-starter. To call it otherwise is to deny the elephant in the room, even after the stench of pachyderm poo has grown overwhelming.

Forgive — but do not forget, because it’s poor and lazy writing, period — and let the sci-fi spectacle act its Age, because Whedon was able to right some of the predecessor’s wrongs. This sophomore outing sports a livelier, more interesting villain and better utilizes each major player without having the superhero soufflé feel overstuffed. That in itself is a Hulk-sized accomplishment, given that rather than trim the roster, Whedon expanded it to include many more. He’s roped in do-gooders from connected Marvel movies and added a few newcomers, notably Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver, evil twins played by 2014’s Godzilla couple Elizabeth Olsen and Aaron Taylor-Johnson. Of the original teammates, Black Widow (Scarlett Johansson) and Hawkeye (Jeremy Renner) benefit most from the widened scope.

This Avengers adventure still has troubles — too many quips, too many in-joke nudges, too much Cobie Smulders — yet achieves what the first film could not for me: engagement and excitement. —Rod Lott

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Horror

Crypt of Dark Secrets (1976)

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cryptdarkIt takes a bit for Jack Weis’ Crypt of Dark Secrets to achieve any sort of lucidity, as the NOLA-lensed, swamp-set “whore-or” indie begins wordlessly, with a witchy woman writhing in nature for a good two minutes before finally levitating up — and up against — a tree trunk. She is Damballa (Maureen Ridley), the rumored mystical “woman who lives in the lake and turns into a snake.” (Local legend ignores or fails to make clear whether she’s immune to splinters in the rear.)

What’s this have to do with anything? Well, cut to Sheriff Harrigan (Wayne Mack, The Savage Bees) discussing Damballa with Charlie the librarian (Donn Davison, Blood Beast of Monster Mountain), who found some of them there facts about her in one of those book thingies: “It’s very interesting. There’s pictures,” says Charlie, who had to go through “damn near every one” of nearly 6,000 volumes to find it, because apparently the Dewey Decimal system had yet to make it to their neck of the woods.

cryptdark1What’s this have to do with anything? Well, Harrigan boats over to Haunted Island, Damballa’s stomping grounds, to meet Ted (Ronald Tanet of Weis’ better-known Mardi Gras Massacre), a Vietnam vet who loudly tells everyone that he keeps his cash literally in a breadbox.

What’s this have to do with anything? Well, three ne’er-do-well rednecks take advantage of this financial tip, despite Damballa’s supposed presence there; says one, “I ain’t afraid of no ghost and no voodoo and no snake lady!” When the gents rob Ted — oh, and kill him in the process — that “snake lady” appears, fully naked and partially oily, to revive our fallen solider. Upon resurrection, he notes, “You’re the girl that lives in the lake. The one who turns into a snake,” as if the first sentence wasn’t specific enough and required a second to narrow the field.

What’s this have to do with anything? Yeah, damn good question, because it’s ol’ Damballa who does so much of the revengin’. And it’s a hoot to see her do that, because when she does, her eyes crudely go all-white, as if Weis cut them out frame by frame with an X-Acto knife — which he probably did, assuming the budget could afford one. The man is no director — nor writer nor producer — yet against all odds, Crypt is exceedingly well-photographed (if you can ignore that everyone appears in a shade of Oompa-Loompa orange). How it can look so good when the movie falls short in every other area — especially acting, since the leads speak … as if they … memorized their … lines only a … few words at a … time — is its only true Dark Secret. —Rod Lott

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Action

Everly (2014)

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everlyWhat, if anything, does the title Everly convey to you? By that, I mean, shouldn’t an action film carry a name that suggests — if not promises — y’know, action? In that aspect, Everly arrives holding an enticement level of zero; at most, it sounds like a music biopic of those brothers who kindly told Little Susie she needed to wake the eff up.

I don’t want to see that. I do, however, want to see a balls-out ammo-fest starring Salma Hayek as a prostitute with remarkably good aim. That’s what Everly is — or at least strives to be — but with a moniker like that, it is all but counting on audiences to ignore its existence. To paraphrase the film’s running gag, A Lot of Dead Whores would look better splashed across a one-sheet, not to mention weed out a sizable chunk of viewers who would find the flick tasteless. While Everly’s crassness is debatable, it’s not exactly defendable, either.

everly1Returning to those Desperado days that helped make her famous, Hayek gives it her all and gets physical — really physical — as Everly, a high-class sex slave who finds herself in a do-or-die situation, so she chooses “do.” She’s trapped in an apartment building infested with members of the Japanese yakuza crime syndicate. With animal-print heels on her feet and weapons in her hands, she fires away with abandon in an attempt to escape. Don’t expect a floor-by-floor takedown like The Raid: Redemption — she rarely and barely leaves the room.

That’s about all there is to it. Director/co-writer Joe Lynch (Knights of Badassdom) tries to wedge some family drama in there, but that peg doesn’t fit the slot. Hard-wringing and heart-tugging have no legitimate claim to a battlefield strung with jacked-up sadomasochists, costumed warriors and bounty-seeking strumpets. And yet by sidestepping the one issue that would give Everly more purpose (her rape, unseen but used as a starting line), Lynch denies her deeper character motivation. We’re left with much go boom about nothing.

Although funny in quick bursts, Everly is never as fun as it believes itself to be. For example, it is set at Christmastime for no other reason than to allow for multiple ironic uses of holiday tunes to score scenes of splatter. Once is cute; beyond that pushes it. For a project that seems to have been engineered as the Most Awesomest Movie Ever, Dude, some ingredient is lacking to hold the thing together, so it feels utterly pointless. Violence for violence’s sake can work — see 2007’s self-parodying Shoot ’Em Up for proof — but Lynch wants to play up the gore at times purely for laughs and at others purely for disgust; the problem in doing so is that both instances share a trough on the tonal wavelength. After a while of so much assault, you may wonder which reaction he wants, so you choose neither. —Rod Lott

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Mystery

The Alphabet Murders (1965)

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alphabetmurdersBlake Edwards’ Pink Panther comedies were just two years old and as many episodes deep when their bumbling-inspector bit was borrowed and slathered onto an Agatha Christie adaptation, of all things: The Alphabet Murders. The comedic approach well suits director Frank Tashlin (The Girl Can’t Help It), although it loses some intended panache by not playing out in color.

After addressing the audience as himself, a miscast but really trying Tony Randall (The Odd Couple) morphs into Clouseauian character as Hercule Poirot, Christie’s iconic detective: bald, Belgian, mustachioed fey — a tut-tut Renaissance man who carries a cane, bowls perfect frames and makes his own “ripping” cigarettes. The famed, finicky sleuth is called upon by the British Secret Service to solve a string of killings where an ABC book was left at the scene. The murderer seems to be working through the alphabet, too, first killing someone with the initials of “AA,” then “BB,” “CC” and so on.

alphabetmurders1Much to Poirot’s annoyance, the service has assigned one by-the-book Hastings (Robert Morley, Theatre of Blood) to tag along. Poirot spends nearly as much time trying to shake him as he does investigating. Somehow, La Dolce Vita vixen Anita Ekberg figures into the puzzle as Miss Cross, cooing such come-ons as, “Do you want my balloons?” Gulp! (Mind you, she’s holding actual balloons at the time, but still; Tashlin is, after all, the guy who had Jayne Mansfield bounce down a street with a milk jug in each hand, held at breast-level.)

A former cartoon director, Tashlin is in playful form as always, here taking to the camera as if it were a new toy, the limits of which he itched to test. He turns it upside down, aims it at mirrors, mounts it to a roulette dealer’s stick, places it within a bowling alley scoring table. In essence, he’s not afraid of having too much fun or letting the movie call attention to itself. Witness, too, the self-mocking cameo of Margaret Rutherford as Christie’s other classic clue-sniffer, the matronly Miss Marple, whom she played in four films.

As Poirot himself, The Alphabet Murders exercises a well-mannered, dry wit. It hums along to its own score, light on its feet. It’s just too bad it’s not all that funny — more of a passing amusement than anything else. —Rod Lott

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Reading Material

Italian Gothic Horror Films, 1957-1969

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italiangothicHaving written the so-far-definitive book on Eurocrime with 2013’s Italian Crime Filmography, film critic Roberto Curti sticks within Italy’s borders — and the McFarland publishing family — to deliver Italian Gothic Horror Films, 1957-1969. And damned if it isn’t the best book I’ve read on that subgenre, too, despite being much smaller in physical size and page count.

As with that book, Curti tackles the titles individually, year by year, from ’57’s I Vampiri, arguably the boot-shaped country’s first horror film, to the takeover of the giallo. Before doing so, however, his preface serves to break down Italian Gothic’s 10 key elements. The man clearly knows his stuff — and not just because he’s one of the few writers who actually spells Edgar Allan Poe’s middle name correctly, although that certainly goes a long way in credibility.

When you hear the word “filmography,” you might (as I often do) fear the pages will be plagued by heavy, detailed (if not outright droning) plot synopses. Not Curti. He knows cinephiles either are familiar enough with the movies to need only the barest of reminders or haven’t seen them and don’t wish to have them spoiled, so summaries are just that: summaries, and blessedly brief. They’re also contained to a single italicized paragraph for easy skipping, so readers can get right to the meat of each entry: his critical analysis.

labambolaNaturally, the more iconic and influential the film, the more Curti has to say about it; for example, I think nothing eclipses Mario Bava’s Black Sunday in terms of weight here, and the author’s essay reflects that. (Although I also often do, Black Sunday is not to be confused with Bava’s Black Sabbath, which coincidentally adorns this volume’s front cover.) Curti singles out another Bava effort, 1963’s The Whip and the Body, as “the quintessential Gothic film — or rather, it looks like it.”

From legitimate terrors (Nightmare Castle) to goofy pulp (Bloody Pit of Horror) and juvenile tease (The Playgirls and the Vampire), Curti covers all with an essay that dives deeper than even the filmmakers would expect. So in depth does he get, he practically plays P.I. to relate the muddled making of Antonio Margheriti’s Castle of Blood.

A wealth of poster art and production stills exists to liven up the layout, as well as set mood. It’s one thing to read about the Gothic, but an entirely different experience — meaning enhanced — to read about it as you see illustrative examples, and these films arrived in theaters with some of the most eye-catching, artistically rendered one-sheets in the biz — all heaving bosoms and headless torsos. Barbara Steele fans in particular will have much to rejoice.

And as a whole, lovers of Italian Gothic horror film will find much to praise about Italian Gothic Horror Films, an enjoyably precise, lovingly penned examination of a stylistic wave of cinema that didn’t live long, but endures in an afterlife thanks to digital media, fervid fans and, yes, texts like Curti’s. —Rod Lott

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