Timeline (2003)

Although it’s adapted from a swiftly paced Michael Crichton novel to which it stays fairly faithful, the stunningly weak Timeline is a dreadfully dull excuse for a sci-fi action thriller, not to mention a career low for director Richard Donner.

A group of graduate students is excavating an old castle in France when a strange message from their professor that carbon-dating suggests is 600 years old. Turns out the old coot has wayback-machined himself to the 14th century! The corporation behind the technology making it all possible recruits a few of the kids to go back in time as well to save him.

And how I wish I could go back in time to save myself two hours and four bucks. This is not a story — it’s an endlessly cycling collection of footage of knights falling down, students climbing out of houses, swords clanging, and our heroes checking their “countdown markers” to see how much time they have left to make their rescue. In the spirit of things, I kept checking the readout on my DVD player to see how much more crap was left to unload before the closing credits.

If I hadn’t read the novel beforehand, I never would. There are so many things wrong with this movie that I lost count. But I have mustered up enough energy to recall three:
• Scottish comedian Billy Connelly — Howard Hesseman’s replacement on Head of the Class — plays the professor. Do you remember how annoying it is to hear Connelly speak? Me, too. I’d leave him trapped, because even powerfully grating voices like his can’t travel six centuries.
A.I.’s Frances O’Connor looks like an elf. And I don’t mean a cute elf, but a gnarly elf with food poisoning and gonorrhea.
• Paul Walker — the himbo star of The Fast and the Furious franchise — is a truly terrible actor. But he is prettier than any of the females in the movie, which is never a good sign. —Rod Lott

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A Study in Terror (1965)

Years before Bob Clark did the same with Murder by Decree, director James Hill pitted Sherlock Holmes against Jack the Ripper in A Study in Terror, a more-than-servicable entry in Holmes pastiche cinema. Strange how it was promoted with a campaign comparing it to TV’s campy Batman, because the master detective is neither a superhero, nor is this film campy.

It is, however, surprisingly bloody for its time. And pretty good, although slow by today’s rough-and-tumble standards. In his lone appearance as Holmes, John Neville does a terrific job, almost as if he knew this was his one shot; Donald Houston is his Watson, and Robert Morley and Judi Dench are among the supporting players.

Plot? We’ve pretty much already said it. Like From Hell, it’s all about the Ripper ripping up — or stabbing, to be precise — London’s prostitutes. Here, their cups runneth over their corsets, and they’ll all pretty hot. Not so much once they get a knife through the neck, although some people are into that sort of thing.

Producer Herman Cohen cuts some corners, but not when it comes to splashing on ever-vibrant color. The game is afoot … and fun! —Rod Lott

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Dark Night of the Scarecrow (1981)

Made-for-TV movies didn’t always suck. In the 1970s and very early ’80s, they were downright awesome. Just look at Duel, Gargoyles, Killdozer, Dead of Night and Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark — solid, well-oiled genre flicks one and all. But the best of these spookshows was Frank De Felitta’s Dark Night of the Scarecrow (sorry, folks, but Trilogy of Terror is only one-third good).

Charles Durning headlines as Otis, a sweaty, pumpkin-assed small-town postman who’s also a closet alcoholic, big-time bigot and all-around loser. When the mentally handicapped Bubba Ritter (Larry Drake) carries the torn-up, near-lifeless body of a little girl to her mother, Otis and pals assume the worst and grab their guns.

Bubba’s mom hides him in the scarecrow on their farm field, but the vigilante mob finds him and shoots him dead. And for nothing: Bubba saved the little girl’s life; ’twas a vicious dog to blame for her bloodiness. D’oh! Just desserts arrive as a scarecrow comes a-knockin’ for vengeance, one by one. You might say they get the short end of the straw. (Insert rimshot here.)

So much of this movie has haunted me since I saw its CBS Saturday prime-time premiere at the age of 10. Nearly three decades later, it still holds up — sadly, so does the small-mindedness of its characters — as a creepy, effective slasher film, minus the slashing. You won’t miss it; this is a well-told story that gets its thrills the old-fashioned way: It earns them. This is a true horror treasure. —Rod Lott

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Macabre (1980)

Macabre is Lamberto Bava’s first solo directing credit and it arrived in the year of his more famous father’s (Mario Bava) death. The film is late giallo and lacks many of the genre’s traditional touches, but Lamberto manages the suspense well and delivers some genuinely creepy moments.

Bernice Stegers stars as Jane Baker, a New Orleans wife and mother who leaves her kids in the care of the yard man one morning so she can tryst with her lover, Frank. While the two of them are playing Ride ‘Em Cowboy, her adolescent daughter (Veronica Zinny) drowns her little brother in the bathtub. Someone calls Jane, who gets Frank to drive her home. On the way, they’re involved in a freak accident and Frank loses his head. Literally.

One year later, Jane is released from an asylum and moves into the old house where she and Frank used to meet. The blind landlord, Robert (Stanko Molnar), who has a crush on her, is glad she’s back until he starts hearing the sounds of passion issuing from her apartment as she calls out Frank’s name.

At varying points, the movie could become a ghost story, a psycho kid story, a creepy landlord story, or a nutty woman in the upstairs apartment story. Actually, it blends elements from all of them together. Unfortunately, Bava gives in to the temptation of tossing in a last-second kicker designed to shock that just doesn’t work and futzes with the story as we expect it to end. Bad move.

Filmed in New Orleans, the flick lets us see parts of the city that aren’t the French Quarter, and that’s nifty. It’s a near-miss that works for 88.5 minutes out of 89. —Doug Bentin

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Armored (2009)

Armored is one of those movies whose trailer got played so many times in front of other movies, for what seemed to be an interminable amount of months, that you feel like you’ve already seen it. And you pretty much have, although it’s still a mildly enjoyable 88 minutes — decent, but by no means necessary.

Columbus Short is Ty, the cash-strapped vet who secures a gig with an armored truck company (so that’s what the title refers to) in an attempt to set a new, clean course in life. That route appears doable until co-worker Mike (Matt Dillon, doing Matt Dillon) approaches him with an offer he can’t refuse: He and his fellow armorees (I just made that word up) — Laurence Fishburne, Jean Reno, Skeet Ulrich and that Hispanic guy from Prison Break — will hijack their own truck and make off with $42 million.

Needing money so child welfare can’t split him from his orphaned little brother, who likes to graffiti owls on their kitchen wall, Ty agrees, even though Skeet is involved. All goes according to plan until some asshole hobo has to fuck everything up, and, well, money corrupts, especially when we’re talking enough Benjamins to fund a Dillon vehicle.

Predators helmer Nimród Antal directs with enough competency to keep things slick and moving along, even when the story gives up. Short is really likable in this, which is good, because Heroes‘ Milo Ventimiglia, as a cop, is not. In his first scene, he scarfs down chili cheese dogs like he’s auditioning for gay porn. —Rod Lott

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