Action

Mirageman (2007)

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One of the best superhero movies you’re likely never to have seen hails from South America: Mirageman, one of a number of kick-ass collaborations between Chilean writer/director Ernesto Díaz Espinoza and star Marko Zaror, aka the Latin Dragon.

Here, Zaror plays Maco, the strong, silent type who lives alone and earns a meager living as a bouncer, and whose life is given purpose after thwarting a home robbery while out for a night run. One of the victims in that incident is foxy newscaster Carol V. (María Elena Swett), who later sings his praises on TV, but has no idea who he is, because Maco had donned the blue ski mask of the first criminal he foiled.

Setting up an email account, the superhero soon known as Mirageman becomes a public vigilante, but mocked by the media. His missions increase in severity, from sparring with a gang of breakdancers to rescuing a 6-year-old kidnapped by a pedophile network. Along the way, he (briefly) acquires a sidekick, Pseudo-Robin.

Realistic and original by comparison to Hollywood’s comics-spurred tentpoles, this scrappy, low-budget effort — shot partly catch-as-catch-can — soars on the sure hand of Espinoza’s vision, which comes infused with a dose of good-natured humor, and the broad shoulders of the instantly endearing Zaror, who’s an Expendables-worthy real deal. He speaks very little throughout, but lets his martial-arts expertise — and his homemade Spider-Man goggles — do the talking. —Rod Lott

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Sex

Secrets of Sex (1970)

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As far as I know, Secrets of Sex is the only film I know of — softcore or otherwise — to open with a quote from John Milton and be narrated by a mummy. (No wonder it’s alternately known as Bizarre.) Living 1,000 years wrapped in gauze is certain to give one quite the case of blue balls, so said mummy leads the viewer through several near-non-sequitur stories involving the ol’ slap-and-tickle.

An early sequence depicts the film’s female starlets in their underwear, being pelted with tomatoes, leading into the first tale, in which a woman photographs men in poses of medieval torture. Cutting into her lunch of steak has a voodoo-esque effect on the model she left strung up. Later, a man catches a comely cat burglar (Cathy Howard, School for Sex) pilfering his home, so naturally, he ends up rubbing lemon-cucumber soap all over her naked body in the shower. Moving to the bed, he stuffs a phone receiver down back of her panties so the other line can hear whatever it is one would hear from such awkward placement.

Perhaps the most amusing vignette is a spy spoof, in which one Col. X briefs his curvy Agent 28 (Maria Frost, School for Sex) to infiltrate a foreign embassy; seduction becomes a required part of the mission. Sandwiched within the segment is a spot-on parody of a silent comedy, a bedroom farce circa 1929. Elsewhere in Secrets, a man (Elliott Stein, one of the screenwriters) orders a hooker (Benny Hill girl Sue Bond) for some lizard-loving, and an elderly woman puts her past lovers’ souls — all 17 of them — into garden flowers.

The film ends with fireworks that score an orgy ever after. As if you couldn’t tell, Secrets of Sex is nonsensical, but nudity trumps lucidity in such a project, and this UK one actually possesses as much brains as beauty. The women are gorgeous and natural, and the proceedings told with so much humor that it reeks of being good-natured. Director Antony Balch (Horror Hospital) bathes it in such vibrant colors, it’s a practically a piece of Pop Art — with just as little meaning, but none of the pretension. —Rod Lott

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Horror

Spirits of the Dead (1968)

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In stark contrast to AIP’s sometimes-silly Edgar Allan Poe anthology film Tales of Terror, the Franco-Italian omnibus Spirits of the Dead aims for serious, capital-A art, siccing a trio of international A-list directors on some of Poe’s most obscure works. Results are mixed, meaning that Roger Corman trumped the combined might of Roger Vadim, Louis Malle and Federico Fellini.

Vadim’s “Metzengerstein” stars a never-sexier Jane Fonda as 22-year-old countess/libertine Frederique who lives an orgiastic existence in a castle, where she keeps a tiger cub as a pet. Although wooed by her cousin (Peter Fonda, uncomfortably enough), Frederique loves a horse — not in an Emanuelle in America sort of way, but I wouldn’t put it past Vadim — perhaps the horse wasn’t young enough. This opening segment is about as successful as then-married Vadim and Fonda’s collaboration on Barbarella, which is to say it looks great, but has a story that plods along like so many exhausted equine. Vietnam vets may most enjoy seeing Hanoi Jane stepping into an animal trap in the woods.

Alain Delon is “William Wilson” in Malle’s middle, rushing to confess an act of murder to a priest. This leads to a series of flashbacks that illustrate Wilson has been haunted since childhood by a double bearing the same name (also played by Delon). Whereas the real Wilson is and always has been a número-uno dick, the doppelgänger intrudes to halt or expose his bad behavior, whether torturing a classmate with rats; dissecting a live, nude woman just for kicks; or cheating in a card game against a brunette Brigitte Bardot. The latter act, unfortunately, plays out in real time, consuming many more minutes than needed.

Unquestionably the finest is the finale, “Toby Dammit,” the only tale set in modern day. Fellini takes the opportunity to satirize celebrity, especially the oversized kind forever pursued by the paparazzi — here, an ill-tempered, arrogant alcoholic (Terence Stamp) who despises his fans as much as his critics. He gets his comeuppance in a long-overdue end. While sly and dreamlike, the piece is, like the others, one that makes its point at two to three times the length it should. —Rod Lott

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Thriller

Anatomy 2 (2003)

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The 2000 German horror film Anatomy cast Run Lola Run’s Franka Potente as a med student discovering a secret society of surgeons operating on bodies before their time of expiration. To its credit, the sequel is no mere carbon copy, switching gears from the slasher genre to the medical thriller, but still rendered in that twisted manner we’ve come to expect from the Krauts.

In Anatomy 2, an idealistic young intern (Barnaby Metschurat — gesundheit!) joins a Berlin hospital and is soon invited to join a select group of doctors that gathers weekly. As he soon learns, they’re all anti-Hippocratic, but since he’s eager to rub shoulders with the bigwigs, he joins anyway. Perhaps his decision had something to do with the late-night sexperiment he has with the Jeri Ryan lookalike who gives him seven orgasms. The lot is conducting clandestine research of its own involving synthetic muscles operated via remote control that improve one’s muscular strength by as much as 400 percent.

At first, our hero sees potential in curing his crippled brother, but it becomes clear that the organization is only interested in creating supermen at all costs — even if it means become morphine junkies and killing off any member who tries to leave. Potente has a cameo as an investigator who warns the doc of his involvement — perhaps far too late.

Anatomy 2 isn’t better than its predecessor, but at least it is its own being. The filmmakers could have just retread the original, but opted to go a different route while still playing upon our distrust of doctors and fear of bodily harm. In the process, the sequel has become far more glossy and far less gruesome, but I was entertained. —Rod Lott

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