Sanctum (2011)

When a thriller set beneath Papua New Guinea name-checks National Geographic magazine not once, but twice, it’s safe to say the focus might be on pretty pictures than pulse-quickening. Such it is with Sanctum, an Australian film to which James Cameron has attached his name as executive producer, because the guy gets erect for projects dealing with underwater exploration.

But don’t expect The Abyss. Fantastic Four‘s Ioan Gruffudd plays a billionaire financing a cave-diving scubafest that takes expert Frank (Richard Roxburgh) and his crew through tight squeezes as they venture through heretofore unexplored territory. Disaster strikes when a cyclone up top floods the caverns.

From there, it’s a swim for survival, with nature providing just as much conflict as Frank’s whiny, put-upon son (Rhys Wakefield). Any guess as to whether he and Pop will work things out by the end? Originality is not Sanctum‘s strong suit. I’m not sure it has one, but if it does, it’s in making viewers queasy with claustrophobia. (That could be because I was weak from hunger.)

Bad dialogue clashes with bad acting from all involved except Roxburgh. Gruffudd overacts to the point of being a cartoon (can we call a ban on all Apocalypse Now references in helicopter scenes from here on out?) and Alice Parkinson, as his girlfriend, reads her lines as if she’s expecting to be dubbed. And sorry, Jim, but the 3-D isn’t All That. Sanctum may not stink, but it sinks. —Rod Lott

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The Law vs. Billy the Kid (1954)

Before he became the Greater of Cheese, William Castle was an all-purpose director of schlock B movies at Columbia — Serpent of the Nile, Slaves of Babylon and The Saracen Blade, anyone? Even when these movies show up on TV, no one pays much attention to them because they’re not horror, the genre in which Castle made his reputation for goofiness and gimmickry.

But the truth is that the pictures are not half bad for what they are: B-level, Saturday-matinee kiddie-fodder. Take, for example, The Law vs. Billy the Kid with Scott Brady as The Kid; that terrific character actor James Griffith as Pat Garrett; and The Skipper himself, Alan Hale, Jr. as the bullying Bob Olinger.

The script even sticks, with some slight degree of stickiness, to the outline of the Lincoln County War. Kid and Garrett are saddle pals — Kid goes off the rails to avenge the murder of his boss; Garrett is recruited to become Sheriff and track the Kid down. Kid busts out of jail; Kid is killed by Garrett at Pete Maxwell’s ranch near Roswell, N.M.

Brady, who was Lawrence Tierney’s kid brother, was too old at 31 to play the Kid, but Griffith is just right. The action moves along quickly, the romance isn’t too romancy, the drama of two buddies on opposite sides isn’t too dramatic, the Technicolor is sharp, and the pic lasts only 72 minutes.

You may not be able to put faces to the names of the two leads, but you’ll know them when you see them. Brady’s last role was Sheriff Frank in Gremlins. You know he was a B actor if Joe Dante gave him a cameo. —Doug Bentin

Twin Dragon Encounter (1986)

Oh, man, where to begin? Martin and Michael McNamara are twins and founders of the real-life Twin Dragons Kung Fu Club. Despite looking like a godforsaken mix of Yanni, Chuck Norris, Robert Reed, Kenny Loggins, Geraldo Rivera and that guy who played Matt Houston, they decided they needed to be in the movies. But because there’s no market for goofy-looking Canadian boneheads who do karate, they had to make their own. One of them is Twin Dragon Encounter — a too-close Encounter of the unkind.

The brothers basically play themselves (which makes me feel sorry for anyone who has to live and/or interact with them) and they’re quite full of themselves, as an opening credit crawl informs us that they are “the country’s most renowned martial artists,” yet every Canadian I’ve asked has never heard of them. Cue the pure-‘80s hair-rock theme song (“Fight for Your Right to Fight,” by one Billy Butt) and montage of shirtless men exercising and hitting each other playfully like kittens.

After this brutal, near-endless workout, the brothers pack their identical vans to go “on holiday” with their nondescript rail-thin girlfriends, whom they delight in kicking around and putting down at every opportunity. Following several insufferable driving sequences, they finally arrive at “Twin Island,” the boys’ own slice o’ paradise on the lake. At the dock, however, they’re immediately menaced by a gang of “weekend warriors,” whom they take down in a ridiculous slow-motion fight.

These bad guys — led by a cigar-chomping near-albino with huge facial pores and a Mohawk — vow revenge and spend the weekend plotting to harass the McNamaras, who are too busy sawing and chopping firewood in the middle of summer and ignoring their beards to notice. But when the bad guys bust in their cabin and take the girls, the twins plot revenge. One has to question their motives, as when they enter their dishelveled cabin, the first thing they say is a panicked “Our poster’s gone!” Girls schmirls!

These McNamara boys fail cinematically, so I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to watch anything they produce. —Rod Lott

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Lipstick (1976)

How can you tell Lipstick was made in the ’70s? Two out of the three credited experts are male. Back then, you could make a movie about rape and still barely consider the female point of view. This probably explains why it’s best remembered today as a lurid melodrama, and not the call to social action some of those involved clearly wanted it to be.

In the film, Margaux Hemingway plays a model whose life is torn apart when she is raped by a psychotic music teacher (Chris Sarandon). When the jury buys his lawyer’s argument that she was asking for it by having a vagina, she is suddenly unemployable and ready to leave town after her last photo shoot.

Tragically, however, Sarandon is in the same building as the shoot and decides to attack Margaux’s adolescent sister (her real-life sibling, Mariel). Knowing the law isn’t on her side, Margaux decides to grab a shotgun and ensure Sarandon never hurts anyone else ever again (by shooting him in the balls).

Lipstick ends with the jury exonerating Margaux via an obviously last-minute voiceover. Apparently, the irony that she might go to prison after her attacker was freed was too much for audiences to take, and the producers decided to go with a happier ending. This irony might have gone a long way toward justifying the film’s long middle stretch of interminable courtroom scenes, but we’ll never know. Instead, the end result is a mostly terrible movie with a handful of effectively gripping scenes that can only be recommended to die-hard fans of the rape-revenge genre. —Allan Mott

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