Horror

Nightmare on 34th Street (2023)

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As Christmas horror anthologies go, Nightmare on 34th Street bears a title so clever, it’s something of a Miracle it hadn’t been co-opted before filmmaker James Crow got to it. Now, the movie itself is less inspired, but it’s watchable. Because it’s British, prep to hear “Santa” pronounced as “Santer.”

As this movie’s jolly old St. Nick, Pierse Stevens (Crow’s House of Salem) tells a boy five bedtime stories, plus gets in a few choice words about the true reason for the season: “The poor fucker was on a cross, died, and all they want is fucking presents!”

The stories involve a home invasion by “three Christmas nutters” who drive a van marked “THE SLAY”; a down-on-his-luck ventriloquist and his homicidal Frosty the Snowman puppet; and your garden-variety store Santa who, after being fired, poisons cookies and causes other general mischief. In arguably the most successful segment, a single mom/MILF (former lad-mag vixen Lucy Pinder) gets a visit from Krampus; in easily the worst, an infirm priest (Spidarlings‘ Jeff Kristian) and his past are key to “The 12 Kills of Christmas.”

Individually and overall, 34th Street houses too many characters, too few fresh ideas, no real jolts and, most regrettably, more padding than the average pillow supporting the heads of nestled children as they dream of sugar plums. However, Crow is able to pack a streak of nastiness under his low-budget tree, as kids are not only put in danger, but participate in it. He also stuffs its stocking with dark laughs; in addition to Santa’s possibly sacrilegious spouting above, an earlier cut features a now-excised babysitter tale in which a girl dismisses a Virgin Mary figurine with “Whatta slag!” —Rod Lott

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Thriller

Inside (2023)

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Inside, directed by Vasilis Katsoupis and written by Katsoupis and Ben Hopkins, features two taglines: “This is not Willem Dafoe” and “A solitary exhibition.” And these two phrases tell you just about everything you need to know about the film. The first is undoubtedly a reference to surrealist René Magritte’s The Treachery of Images, which is a painting of a pipe with the phrase “Ceci n’est pas une pipe” (“This is not a pipe”) written below. This allusion indicates the film concerns itself with the art world and may itself be surreal in nature (it does and it is).

The second tagline, in conjunction with the first, sums up just what the proceeding hour and 45 minutes will be: Dafoe playing a character in total solitude. And aside from a few supporting players who pop up in this character’s world (and his dreams), that is exactly what Inside is.

It follows art thief Nemo (Dafoe, of course), who breaks into a high-tech New York City penthouse owned by an art collector and dealer away on a business trip for an indeterminate amount of time. Nemo’s there to steal works by Austrian Expressionist Egon Schiele, especially a $3 million self-portrait, which he cannot locate. When he attempts to leave with the other paintings, an alarm system sounds and traps Nemo within the home. His cohorts, circling the building in a helicopter, abandon him, leaving Nemo to find his own way out. This proves far more difficult than he could ever have anticipated, almost as if the penthouse were built to be a prison.

Days go by. The days become weeks, and the weeks become months. The solitude begins to drive Nemo mad, and in his madness he begins to create a grand work of art of his own, writing and drawing on the walls in black ink. He talks to himself and to a cleaning woman he sees on security monitors, whom he names Jasmine. He sings and dances to himself as well, all while working at the frosted glass of a skylight high above, which Nemo accesses via a makeshift scaffolding he constructed himself out of furniture and which resembles an avant-garde sculpture in its own right. It’s a combination of form and function, oddly interesting from an aesthetics standpoint while also serving as a potential means of escape, assuming Nemo can remove the glass and crawl outside.

The phrase “This is not Willem Dafoe” is especially on point here because the actor disappears into the role. We truly forget the fiction and become absorbed in this man’s quest to survive. This is achieved primarily through Dafoe giving the performance his all, but also through Katsoupis and Hopkins’ script, which constantly ratchets up the external and internal stakes, be it through the scarce amount of food available to Nemo, to the fact that the sinks in the home don’t work, forcing the character to get his water from a still operational sprinkler system, to Nemo’s crumbling sanity, which takes a toll on his ingenuity, his ability to think rationally. We’re repeatedly asking ourselves, “How will he get out of this one?”

Admittedly, the fundamental premise of Inside can at times feel flimsy — why, for instance, hasn’t the art dealer employed someone to look after his multimillion-dollar home while he’s away? But the strength of Dafoe’s performance, the taut script and the incredible cinematography of Steve Annis all combine to eclipse such questions, creating a rich, engaging and overall satisfying viewing experience. —Christopher Shultz

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Comedy

Cottonpickin’ Chickenpickers (1967)

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Country singers Del Reeves and Hugh X. Lewis don’t play themselves in Cottonpickin’ Chickenpickers, but considering their obscurity, who would know the difference? As the respective Darby (the one in a red cap) and Jerry (the one not in a red cap), Reeves and Lewis are the most well-dressed hobos ever to grace the picture show as they make their way to My-am-uh — “Miami” to you and me — but get stuck in the swampy Toover County, Florida.

It’s the kind of backwater boondocks populated with all sorts of crazy characters and trouble awaiting at every turn, as are a git-tar or banjo, each as near-omnipresent as a jug of moonshine. So starved that Quincy Jones and Bob Geldof could build competing all-star charity singles around them, Darby and Jerry raid a chicken farm — hence the title — which lands them in the clinker. But not for long!

Full of gators and groaners, this film produced by Dick Randall (Pieces) and David Putnam (not that one) earns itself the moniker of “prize dingaling of all time,” to borrow a line from Jerry. (Or was that Darby? It doesn’t matter.) The action (as it were) pauses often for a diegetic country song. Perhaps most notable is Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison novelty, “Dirty Old Egg-Sucking Dog,” performed here by future Burt Reynolds punchline Mel Tillis.

There’s something to the hicksploitation brand of cornpone comedy-musical that tickles me, even though its world is as alien to me as, say, Uganda. (Despite my red-state residency, I don’t own a truck, belt buckle or pair of boots, and can’t stomach one fucking second of Hee Haw.) Chickenpickers scratches the same itch as the Ferlin Husky Hillbillys duology, half of which incidentally features Reeves and a script by this pic’s director, Larry E. Jackson.

As Cousin Elmore, Robert V. Barron (Abe Lincoln of Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure) supplies most of the slapstick, while the spoken-aloud jokes resemble Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First?” routine, if it were kicked in the head by a horse:

“Sylvia’s my real name, but nobody knows that.”
“You can trust us. We won’t tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?”
“That your real name is Sylvia.”
“How did you know about that?”

Like its own dentistry gag about gum removal, Cottonpickin’ Chickenpickers possesses no teeth for humor, but has all it needs to smile. So shall you, in between rolling your eyes. —Rod Lott

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Action

The Black Demon (2023)

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If you ask me, the wrong sharksploitation movie hit theaters this summer, while the better one went straight to VOD: respectively, Meg 2: The Trench and The Black Demon. From Rambo: Last Blood director Adrian Grünberg, The Black Demon is, incidentally, also about the now-nonexistent Megalodon.

Poseidon’s Josh Lucas returns to ocean waters as Paul, a safety inspector for Nixon Oil (subtle!). With his wife (Fernanda Urrejola, Bring Me the Head of the Machine Gun Woman) and two kids in tow, he comes to Mexico to see about decommissioning an offshore rig (which should be the new “see a man about a horse”). To their surprise, the coastal town is nearly uninhabited. Might that have to do with the 70-ton giant shark? ¡Sí!

Bearing a “Based on the Mexican legend” credit, Grünberg’s likable Demon might play better to Those Who Believe, but it’s hardly a prerequisite. Compared to the Meg movies, it may be vastly smaller in scale, yet yields bigger entertainment returns for your time invested. Given its rig setting, its hot-wired execution and its Home Depot pitchman star’s resemblance to Thomas Jane, the film exudes more Deep Blue Sea vibes than the actual Deep Blue Sea sequels, not to mention snazzier shark CGI.

The worst element is an ending so cheesy, it practically suggests a chardonnay to pair. —Rod Lott

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Horror

Scream Queen (2002)

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In Brad Sykes’ Scream Queen, real-life VHS scream queen Linnea Quigley plays the fictitious scream queen Malicia Tombs. On the set of her latest opus, she argues with her co-stars, director and crew members before leaving in a huff. Tragically, Malicia’s car crashes and explodes, killing her.  

The director, Eric Orloff (Jarrod Robbins, Sykes’ Zombie Chronicles), remains haunted by the events of his unfinished picture. One day, via an invite to a mansion, he’s offered $10,000 to complete it. Despite the place being located at 101 Killington Street, he shows up at the designated time, only to find a reunion of sorts of his ill-fated production’s cast and crew. They’ve been gathered for an evening of revenge in Malicia’s name — call it Six Little Indians with zero second takes. “Cut” means “cut.” 

Let’s acknowledge the obvious: Shooting on VHS presents several inherent and inescapable challenges, such as wind overpowering the camera’s microphone or night scenes looking especially ugly. The more SOVs you expose yourself to, the easier it is to forgive those limitations. Here, doing so leaves you with terrific fun. Your one true complaint may be the absence of nudity from the chesty Nicole West (Ted V. Mikels’ Dimension in Fear) in her animal-print underwear sex scene. I’m with you.

Building his slasher with a meta setup, Camp Blood creator Sykes gives the shot-on-video world its Scream. At the risk of oversell, it’s clear from the outset Sykes poured his all into the project, where others would half-ass it. His opening shot is Altman-style audacious for any format, running a couple of minutes as the camera moves from person to person, introducing viewers to each character and requiring every performer to be on their toes. 

Similarly, the prolific Quigley (Murder Weapon) is asked not simply to show up, but act. Don’t worry, kiddos, because your beloved kill scenes remain in full supply. Serving as host for the proceedings is a dwarf (Kurt Levee) — a nice Gothic touch, even if the guy is wearing a quasi-Christmas sweater. That’s just one element making Scream Queen the most wonderful kind of SOV horror. —Rod Lott

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