A little game for you. Read the following, and think of who could best personify such a monster: “When he grins, birds fall off telephone lines. When he looks at you a certain way, your prostate goes bad, and your urine burns. The grass yellows up and dies where he spits. … He has the name of a thousand demons.”

Did you answer Christian Slater? Of course you didn’t. You thought of Al Pacino, or maybe Javier Bardem. Gary Oldman? But in the no man’s land of direct-to-video fare, you get Slater, the poor man’s Jack Nicholson, hardly an untalented actor but hopelessly miscast in portraying such devastating evil.

But then, most everyone involved in Dolan’s Cadillac is vastly out of their depth. Wes Bentley, the very poor man’s Tobey Maguire, can barely summon a passable hissy fit, let alone the rage of man whose wife was killed by Slater’s human trafficker. Director Jeff Beesley has done plenty of Canadian TV comedy work, but is nowhere near talented enough to capture any of the tension of Stephen King’s original short story. The ending, on the page a pleasingly ironic tale of revenge with healthy dollops of righteous anger, is, onscreen, kind of silly.

It’s best to look at Cadillac not as another DTV release, but as a guide to some of the best Canadian character actors working today. Greg Byrk (Immortals) would have made a far better Dolan; Aidan Devine (A History of Violence) classes up the joint; Eugene Clark (Land of the Dead) is always a commanding figure; and Emmanuelle Vaugier (Mirrors 2) is way too smart and classy to end up with a sad sack like Bentley. They all deserve better. —Corey Redekop

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I have a theory that any movie opening with an attractive swimming nude in the ocean can’t be bad at all. You know: Jaws, this. In his opening sequence, director Pavlos Filippou (Black Aphrodite) goes where Steven Spielberg didn’t, couldn’t and wouldn’t: ass massage! After all, this Eurocrime obscurity hails from Greece, so expect sinning, shooting and sex, sex, sex.

The potent posterior belongs to Cristina (Sasa Kastoura, The Abductors), a MILFy member of the Latin American Revolutionary Movement who uses her feminine wiles to convince George Evans to put his hands to one other good use: namely, smuggling a casino’s security plans from his employer. Cristina’s group isn’t exactly flush with cash currently, and could use some serious bank to buy weapons. With said security plans in their possession, she and her cohorts plot to break into the casino vault, conveniently when a bunch of oil tycoons are in town throwin’ around dough.

Using the ol’ short-circuited computer trick (mind you, technology of the era equalled blinking light panels) and a VW bus with an IBM sticker as getaway, the revolutionaries succeed. They learn how to hide their Benjamins in cigarettes in order to travel inconspicuously, but what if they get caught? It’s then that the title finally comes into play, as Ransom Baby suddenly turns on its head from heist film to kidnapping thriller.

For an obviously rushed production — the very nature of the genre called for it — the film holds high value in the departments of music (Yannis Spanos’ sticky jazz score), direction (Filippou owns an eye for interesting angles, notably with spiraling staircases) and story, which isn’t as simple as one may assume. The ending’s well-staged shipyard shootout plays for keeps, which may infuriate some viewers. However, in Eurocrime, it’s welcomed with open arms. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.