Aboard a cruise ship, cheapskate crook Rooney (Don Gordon, Bullitt) poses as a doctor in order to con an aristocrat (Massimo Serato, Killer Nun) out of his considerable wealth. Making Rooney’s job easier is that his mark loves to gamble.
Meanwhile, Rooney hopes to get into the bikini bottoms of an incomparably beautiful passenger (Torso’s Suzy Kendall, suntanned within an inch of, well, every inch).
Except — surprise! — it is! Writer/director Ron Winston (Banning) based his film on the Russian novelist’s 1866 follow-up to Crime and Punishment. Liberties have been taken. (Or so I assume. I don’t read Dostoevsky unless eight pages of full-color photos of Kendall come inserted at the book’s midpoint.)
With the story fresh from celebrating its first century at the time, the third-act twist is obvious as soon the first act puts its players in place. Obviousness notwithstanding, The Gamblers reveals itself as a more-than-capable caper as bubbly as the champagne its characters imbibe, with a jaunty score to match, courtesy of Mel Brooks’ regular composer, John Morris.
With dated but delightful support from Richard Ng (Winners & Sinners) in his first feature, the comedy is featherweight-light until the last couple of minutes. At that point, Winston seems to realize he’s wasted Kendall on every level but eye candy, and ends The Gamblers with a grand, unearned romantic gesture. From what I gather, that’s the kind of scenario that happens among people more attractive than you, gallivanting about more attractive places you’ll never be able to visit. —Rod Lott
Mary Shelley’s foundational science-fiction/horror novel Frankenstein inspired this tale of systemic violence and grief gone mad. First-time filmmaker Bomani J. Story crafts a solid narrative of a young woman obsessed with bringing her slain brother back from the dead.
Brilliant Vicaria (Laya DeLeon Hayes) believes death is nothing more than a disease that can be cured, a theory that seeded in her mind following the accidental shooting death of her mother and the intentional murder of her brother Chris (Edem Atsu-Swanzy) by rival gang members. She snatches Chris’ body just after he was fatally gunned down, stowing the corpse in an abandoned utility room on her projects’ grounds.
Vicaria builds a machine that can harness the electricity from a nearby power station, and much like other Frankenstein adaptations before it, the ins and outs of this machine aren’t explained in full, letting the viewer suspend disbelief without a lot of cockamamie, pseudo-scientific jargon weighing the proceedings down. And much like in Frankenstein, Vicaria is successful in bringing Chris back, though of course he comes back all wrong. The gentle giant is now a bloodthirsty fiend whose motivations for killing are just as fuzzy as the methods that reanimated him. This is less Mary Shelley, more Hammer; the creature here isn’t a ponderous malcontent out for revenge, but a brute who can’t help but harm others indiscriminately — or at least, whenever he feels threatened.
Can Vicaria keep him a secret without losing her own life? This basic task is made all the more difficult by Kango (Denzel Whitaker), a local drug dealer who forces Vicaria to help him with his business after she steals some of his heroin to keep it off the streets and out of the hands of her father (Chad L. Coleman). Also complicating matters is Jada (Amani Summer), Vicaria’s little cousin, who seems to befriend Chris. To say that things eventually go sideways is an understatement.
There is much to love about The Angry Black Girl and Her Monster, but particular praise must be given to Hayes’ performance as Vicaria. She plays the role with subtlety and a plethora of emotions overlapping and interweaving with one another — from the titular anger to fear to joy and beyond. We understand the character as brilliant for her age, but we also see shades of her youth and at times naivety bleed through the brilliance, making the film overall as much a coming-of-age narrative as it is a horror film about life and death.
The look of the creature is especially impressive as well, as is the machinery that brings him back to life. Both harken directly back to James Whale’s iconic 1931 Frankenstein, with the creature’s hulking frame and sutured visage, and the elaborate electrical mechanics of Vicaria’s invention. These fantastical elements contrast nicely with the lived-in feel of the projects setting, a backdrop that allows the filmmaker to explore reality-based horrors like gang violence, poverty and drug addiction. It makes Vicaria’s quest all the more believable — who wouldn’t want to eradicate death in an environment like this?
The Angry Black Girl and Her Monster is overall an engaging and nightmarish update on a literary classic, one squarely positioned in modern day concerns yet also painted in broader, more universal themes, giving it a feeling of timelessness, much like Shelley’s novel. Story shows tremendous talent, and one cannot wait to see what he does next. —Christopher Shultz
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
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
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
