Hangman’s Curse (2003)

Hangman’s Curse is perhaps the world’s first Christian paranormal teen mystery spooker, and as expected, it’s so bad, it’s good — a crazy combo of The Omega Code, The X-Files and Spy Kids, with elements of Heathers and Arachnophobia thrown in just to muddy up an already messy mix.

David Keith and Mel Harris star as the parental units of the Springfield family, a gypsy-like clan roving the country in an RV with their twin teenage children, Elisha and Elijah, and Max, the drug-sniffing dog, all working together as The Veritas Project, a crack freelance undercover investigations team. They’re hired by a public high school to uncover the truth behind a series of mysterious deaths that has so far claimed the lives of three football players. The bullied Goth kids — depicted as Satanists, of course — explain that the soul of a kid who hung himself in the school years ago is getting revenge on all classroom tormentors.

Donning baseball cap and spectacles, Keith unconvincingly goes incognito as the school janitor, while Harris looks at evidence under microscopes and calls for the assistance of a nutty professor, played by Frank Peretti, author of the book on which the film is based. I can understand cutting him a little slack since these characters are his and all, but Peretti is no actor and seems to think the dramatic narrative is sturdy enough to support his decision to channel Bruce Dern, Jerry Lewis and Prof. Irwin Corey, inadvertently providing many funny moments. (The honor for the funniest, however, goes to the scene in which virginal Elisha wraps a snake around her neck and comments, “It reminds me of a boyfriend I once dated.”)

The kids are the real stars of the ham-fisted, underlit, amateurishly acted film, especially Elisha (Leighton Meester, TV’s Gossip Girl), who exclaims “Oh, snaps!” whenever something doesn’t go her way — like plunging down an air duct and landing in the nest of hybrid killer spiders. The tumble and resulting bites nearly kill her, but she’s saved by reciting the Lord’s Prayer. (Oh, and a fresh dose of anti-venom, but that doesn’t get near as much credit.)

Whom did the Christian backers hire to helm their cinematic testament of God’s love? Rafal Zielinski, director of such noted church faves as all three Screwballs titty flicks, of course. They also couldn’t have picked a better example for the sanctity of marriage than Harris, who’s such a firm believer, she’s been hitched five times. —Rod Lott

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Psychic Killer (1975)

Although he’s second-billed, Jim Hutton (TV’s Ellery Queen) plays Arnold Masters, the Psychic Killer in question. Wearing red-rimmed glasses that likely make him the least popular man behind bars, he’s institutionalized for a murder he swears he did not commit. And he didn’t. But give the man some time.

After a fellow mental patient commits suicide, Arnold learns the man willed him some sort of voodoo necklace, which enables him to astral-project into others’ bodies and do some crimes. Once the murder charges are dropped and Arnold his free, he uses his new jewelry as often as a teenage boy does erections.

Anyone responsible for the death of his mother and his wrongful imprisonment are at the top of Arnold’s shit list. A rapey doctor goes kablooey; a hot nurse is scalded to death in the shower, as its head cranes to follow her around the tight space; a cop drives his car off a cliff; a contractor is smashed by a cement block; a butcher is chased by slabs of meat until he gets caught in a machine that turns him into ground round. It’s tough not to think of the Final Destination series since the culprit is nowhere present at these grisly deaths.

Because Hutton was such a likable actor — or perhaps I’m just a sick bastard — I was rooting for Arnold, and not for the gruff detective (Paul Burke, Valley of the Dolls) eager to get his goat. Directed and co-written by Ray Danton (Deathmaster), the film alternates between police procedural and speculative fiction, with some surprising gore sprinkled about, and topped with one of the screen’s oddest stripteases (courtesy of Love Me Deadly’s Mary Wilcox). Yet for some reason, it doesn’t feel like a mess; it feels like an undiscovered gem of weirdo ’70s cinema. —Rod Lott

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Plot of Fear (1976)

In Italy, a serial killer leaves a calling card alongside his victim’s corpses: vintage illustrations from a book of fairy tales. What a plot! A Plot of Fear, one might say. Our intrepid investigator is the horny Lomenzo (Michele Placido, The Divine Nymph), who learns that the dead have something in common: being founders of a wildlife organization called the Fauna Club, which collects endangered species and smokes a lot of hash, although not necessarily simultaneously.

The fur flies big-time after a cop discussing the case on live TV is shot in the head. Lomenzo gains an ally and a bed partner in Jeanne (Corinne Cléry, The Story of O), a pro whore who tells him of a Fauna Club shindig she recently attended, where rich men, Phyllis Diller-esque hookers and one chimpanzee got drunk, watched a pornographic cartoon, played an X-rated party game at the dinner table, then nearly fed a call girl to a tiger. But she died of fright first, the party pooper.

Directed by Mondo Cane creator Paolo Cavara, Plot of Fear is so narratively muddled, I didn’t initially realize the above flashback was a flashback, but I also didn’t care. I was too distracted by the plentiful nudity, pig carcasses, hammer attacks, Tom Skerritt’s haircut, and racist dialogue like, “You’re worse than a black man!”

Questionable lines prove to be a theme, with a cuckolded hubby reacting to pics of his cheating wife thusly: “Look at that ass! And her tits, they’re so slutty!” Better is this exchange between Lomenzo and a fellow cop while rifling through LPs at a late-night record shop:

Lomenzo: “Do you like classical music or not?”
Fellow Cop: “No.”
Lomenzo: “Just fuck off.”

Speaking of, Lomenzo and Jeanne engage in a sex scene with so much aggressive, wide-open French kissing, one wonders if their taste buds were forever wonky afterward. —Rod Lott

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Around the World in 80 Days (2004)

Too bad it bombed, because Around the World in 80 Days, an adaptation of Jules Verne’s classic novel, is one of the most purely enjoyable American vehicles for Jackie Chan. On the run after stealing his village’s one-of-a-kind jade Buddha from the Bank of London, Chan’s Passepartout finds a convenient hiding place as a valet to eccentric inventor Phileas Fogg (Steve Coogan, Tropic Thunder). When Fogg accepts a career-on-the-line bet to traverse the globe in 80 days, Passepartout sees the trip as a great way to evade authorities.

No matter where they go, they’re pursued by policemen, not to mention the occasional ninja. Picking up a French painter for whom Fogg has an eye (the cute but annoying Cécile De France, Hereafter), the pair finds adventure going country to country, continent to continent, whether by air, land or sea. Said adventures include meeting an egotistical Turkish prince (Arnold Schwarzenegger) who’s on the prowl for a seventh wife, running into the Wright Brothers (an ad-libbing Owen and Luke Wilson) in the middle of the desert and rightfully returning the Buddha to his Chinese village, only to find themselves in the middle of a martial-arts battle, with Sammo Hung as the legendary fighter Wong Fei Hung.

The way the movie plays with various genres, locales and historical characters is undeniably fun, but it’s elevated to another level entirely by Chan’s set pieces. The aforementioned fight that has him squaring off alongside pal Hung is a highlight, as is when he attempts to board a hot air balloon by hanging on to a rope, encountering numerous obstacles in the process, just ripe for his brand of physical comedy.

Usually family films are seemingly made for only one half of the family: the young one. But 80 Days can be enjoyed by all ages without insulting the older half. Oh, sure, there are obvious slapstick bits to guarantee laughs from the kids, but many of them are carried off with enough skill and comic timing that it was hard to resist them myself. It is an old-fashioned epic adventure that remains true to Verne’s light style while also making for a great and appropriate showcase for the inimitable Chan. My only problem: Where are his trademark end-credit outtakes? —Rod Lott

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