Horror

Saint Nick (2010)

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One could read the second word of Saint Nick‘s title as not just a name, but a verb, as in “to cut into or wound,” for the unheralded film is the Netherlands’ entry in the horror subgenre of Santa Claus slashers. Both tongue-in-cheek and ax-in-face, writer/director Dick Maas’ movie loves to spill the red stuff — ho-ho-homicide!

Being set in modern-day Amsterdam, the shiny-as-tinsel film cannot be mistaken for our Silent Night, Deadly Night — not with all the seasonal-clad prostitutes waving from windows and talk of gobbling down marzipan. Even more, the slaying Saint Nicholas (Huub Stapel, Maas’ Amsterdamned) is informed by Old World design; with a red robe and a pointy hat, he bears more than a slight resemblance to the Pope. The difference is the leader of the Catholic Church does not rides across rooftops on a horse, nor carry a staff just sharp enough to make decapitation a breeze.

Legend has it that every time there’s a full moon on Dec. 5, Saint Nicholas rises from the dead to avenge his death in 1492. But to 25-year police veteran Goert Hoekstra (Bert Luppes, Black Book), it is no legend — his entire family, kiddos included, succumbed to the slaughter in 1968. The only person who believes the cop is a college guy (Egbert Jan Weeber) nursing a broken heart, because he just watched his pals in blackface get murdered on their way to a sorority party.

Presenting a nasty sense of humor throughout, Saint Nick has the air of feeling original, although it clearly isn’t, up until the tired climactic battle to the (not) finish. But in a film like this, all that matters is that heads roll, bodies are stuffed up chimneys, torsos are halved, and so on. Those happen. —Rod Lott

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Action

Death Wish 3 (1985)

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Considering that whole moving-to-L.A. thing didn’t work out (see: Death Wish II), vigilante architect Paul Kersey (Charles Bronson) returns to the Big Apple — the very town he was told to skedaddle from — in Death Wish 3. Only the numbering system of the title has changed; trouble still follows Paul like his magnetic-filament mustache.

His first stop off the bus is the apartment of a Korean War buddy who’s just been fatally beaten by the neighborhood punks, and Paul is immediately pinned for the murder and tossed in jail. Lucky for him, Lt. Shriker (Ed Lauter, Cujo) knows how trigger-happy Paul is, and agrees to let him loose in exchange for helping NYPD squash the gang activity.

Their crime spree goes down in a six-block ‘hood that returning director Michael Winner depicts as comically dangerous. One of the most prolific gang members is called Giggler (Kirk Taylor, Full Metal Jacket), so named because he giggles when he runs — y’know, like a real tough guy. Paul won’t stand for it, setting booby traps in the apartments and pulling out his ol’ .475 Magnum, which he says, “makes a real mess.”

The same could be said of this sequel, except it is enjoyable trash cast in the unmistakable Cannon Films mold. Its reputation is sealed by the extraordinarily violent extended climax, in which the residents rise up against the bad guys, and everybody shoots everyone else, all to a terribly discordant score by Led Zeppelin’s Jimmy Page.

And as for Bronson, he is — once more — the man. —Rod Lott

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Thriller

Schizo (1976)

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Upon reading that ice skater Samantha (Lynne Frederick, Phase IV) is set to marry a well-to-do businessman (John Leyton, The Great Escape), middle-aged Haskin (John Watson, Peeping Tom) packs a big ol’ knife, hops a train to London, rents a room at a men’s hostel, and intends to freak her out. He totally succeeds.

See, as Samantha explains, Haskin was not only her mum’s lover, but her killer — an act Sam witnessed when she was 7. Now she’s convinced Haskin wants to do the same to her, despite the illogic of it all: “But he’s mad! He doesn’t need a reason!” His harassment antics have her so jumpy that she turns fraidy-cat over the smallest things, from a fake spider in the soap dish to hearing her name in the grocery store where she buys her Weetabix or whatever it is the Brits eat for breakfast.

As bodies start to pile up around Sam, Schizo is at its Psycho-tic best. Director Pete Walker (House of Whipcord) stages some fairly gruesome-for-the-era murders, including a sledgehammer to the noggin and a knitting needle through the face — too bad they’re not delivered with suspense. Instead, they’re telegraphed; for example, he shows you there’s a knife-wielding killer hiding in the backseat well before the driver gets his throat slit. There’s just no surprise in store.

Until the twist ending, that is, which although an interesting turnaround, is a cheat. For all its promise and bloodshed, Schizo is a pedestrian, stalk-and-slash thriller too bloated for its own good. Once Walker throws in a psychic who goes all milky-eyed while chatting up the dead, you’re more than ready for a denouement. —Rod Lott

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Reading Material

5001 Nights at the Movies

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As it should, reading Brian Kellow’s recent bio of film critic Pauline Kael made me want to read more of her work. Making that conveniently possible is Picador’s reissue of Kael’s 1982 review compendium, 5001 Nights at the Movies.

It does not contain 5,001 reviews; it just feels like it might. A doorstop of nearly 1,000 pages, the trade paperback carries a heft more than physical, but intellectual as well. And yet, this may be Kael at her most accessible, as the reviews are capsules culled from years of work at The New Yorker‘s “Goings on About Town” column.

Whether you agree with her opinions — I find them incredibly unpredictable — it’s tough to deny her unique voice, making it a joy to read both praise and pans. I was surprised to find her a fan of 1980’s much-maligned Flash Gordon (“pleasurable giddiness”), Tim Burton’s blockbuster Batman (“mean and anarchic and blissful”) and Stuart Gordon’s line-crossing Re-Animator (“the bloodier it gets, the funnier it is”).

She also classified the latter as “a silly ghoulie classic,” which proves how unhip and grandmotherly she could sound. Who else would call Ghostbusters “a scare comedy” or Cleopatra Jones “a swashbuckler”?

Redeeming herself is her near-effortless wit, whether it’s in discussing someone onscreen (George C. Scott is “that great spangled ham,” while American Hot Wax‘s not-yet-famous Jay Leno is “shovel-faced”), summarizing a plot (“He hates porno the way John Wayne hates rustlers and Commies”) or just plain ripping into a film, as she does so splendidly to 1962’s “extremely unpleasant” Gypsy: “Rosalind Russell is the psychopathic stage mother who uses and destroys everyone within reach of her excruciatingly loud voice.”

On too-rare occasion, Kael ventured off into sections of weirdsville that suggest an extra drink or two while at the typewriter. For example, she opens her take on Clint Eastwood’s Heartbreak Ridge with this WTF line: “It’s well known that many people have strong feelings about anal intercourse, but it’s doubtful if a while movie had ever been devoted to the expression of those feelings of this one.”

And finally, much more often, the grande dame of cinema criticism could be dead wrong. Look, I like Brian De Palma’s The Fury, but in no way would I ever suggest that “no Hitchcock thriller was ever so intense, went so far, or had so many ‘classic’ sequences.” Pour me one, too, please, Pauline.

5001 Nights at the Movies is full of such surprises. Unlike a majority of movie reference guides, she’s the star here, making this a perfect gift for the film buff on your holiday list, yourself included. —Rod Lott

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Sex

Street of a Thousand Pleasures (1972)

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I have never seen more female nudity in a motion picture than the flesh on parade in Street of a Thousand Pleasures. Hell, I have never seen more female nudity anywhere — motion picture or otherwise. For that alone, you really don’t need to read further; just watch it.

What, you’re still here? Fine: For his job, a henpecked husband (Garth Ruger) travels to the Middle East one day, where he saves the life of a sheik (Abdul Ben Hassein). The sheik demonstrates his gratitude by allowing the American the pick of his harem. Plot ends there. (And the moral of the story? Be extra-nice to Middle Easteners.) Every loving remaining minute consists of the guy putting his paws over each of what looks like hundreds of naked women, sampling a little of the all-natural goods before choosing which ones to bed. Uschi Digard and Joyce Mandel are merely two of these bra-busting women, so you really don’t need to read further; just watch it.

Jesus, what gives, people? Okay: The genius of Street is that most of it is shot from our protagonist’s POV, so when he feels a breast or goes in for a quick nipple kiss, the camera is your eye, my friend, so you really don’t need to read further; just watch it.

Unbelievable. You must be female, gay or a recovering victim of breast trauma. Anyway, normally a movie this repetitious would result in flat-out boredom, but for some reason, that’s not the case here — blue balls, maybe, but not boredom. If there’s a beef with it, it’s that you have to see a couple of wangers. But looking on the bright side, the breast-to-penis ratio is something like, what, 4,200 to 3? I lost my ability to count. It’s like director Clay McCord filmed a dream I’ve had regularly since 1981. —Ed Donovan

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