When the body of a barmaid surfaces in a river in London’s Chelsea district, the police realize they have their third murder “in a fortnight” — two weeks to you and me — with no noticeable connection. The dogged investigation by a young detective (Christopher Bramwell, TV’s The Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe) reveals a theory too whacked-out to be true … except it is: The victim’s initials all match those of famous Chelsea residents.
Also, a homemade “God Bless This Crapper” sign figures into the plot.
Out of budgetary practicality, the pic is shot on video, except for the infrequent jaunt outdoors, shot on film. To or fro, the switch is never not jarring — certainly not the type of impact director Derek Bennett intended for a murder mystery. Only the killer’s choice of mask — something akin to fitness guru Richard Simmons banging a clown emoji — jolts interest; one sequence with a hapless woman catching its glimpse in the shadowed hallway of her apartment building is truly chilling (as is its opening Thames logo animation, a scarred-for-life fright). The rest is truly boring. —Rod Lott
That counterintuitive, cost-saving measure is finally righted by Castle Bridge Media in a gorgeous trade paperback true to Wright’s vision: one full-page poster (or the occasional lobby card) on the one side of a spread; a page of accompanying text on the other. As a bonus, the book features striking, colorful and clean design all around (courtesy of In Churl Yo), both in step with modern typography and overall approach to the page while exhibiting just the right amount of retro influence without getting hokey.
Spanning 1950 to 1964, some 75 films get the double-page treatment. Wright chronologically divvies them up into sections embodying the pervading mood of America at the time, from the space race to the Atomic Age and the Red Scare. Naturally, the movies reflect those feelings and fears, if not seizing upon them; whether audiences were conscious of it, they were lured to the cinema by posters that promised much and rarely delivered half that.
Each spotlighted film is discussed in an essay that’s part art appreciation and part film criticism, with historical perspectives seaping into each. Rare is the examination that treats the genius of advertising artists Reynold Brown and Albert Kallis as important to a film’s promotion as the cast or concept. With such pictures as Forbidden Planet, Queen of Outer Space, The Thing from Another World and the cover’s Attack of the 50 Foot Woman among them, Wright embraces certified classics, cult classics and certified schlock — all without apology because none is needed. —Rod Lott
After a hiatus in Vegas, glamour model Emanuelle (Nicole D’Angelo, Darling Nikki) returns to town and into the abusive arms of her controlling ex (Chris Spinelli, who also produced). She makes her intentions clear: “I just want to be beautiful again.”
He makes his clear, too: “Street trash,” he chides her, then adds, “You can stay here and we can dream better” — whatever that means. As with the case of every Gregory Hatanaka film I’ve seen, “whatever that means” remains unclear, ostensibly up to the viewer. But we do know she stabs him with scissors … or do we?
With D’Angelo co-directing alongside Hatanaka (Samurai Cop 2: Deadly Vengeance), the hourlong The Awakening of Emanuelle then settles into a thrice-repeated pattern: She meets a photographer. The photographer shoots her in hot lingerie. She beds the photographer. Next!
Conceived as an affectionate send-up of the days when you (read: your parents) could go to the theater to see two movies, a serial, a cartoon, a newsreel and a handful of previews on one ticket, Flicks offers just that. Peter Winograd’s film is like Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez’s Grindhouse, but in half the running time and the fake trailers aren’t any good.
What little notice Flicks attracted on its way from skipping theaters for video store shelves flagged the animated “Cat and Mouse at the Home” as the standout. From the retirement home for cartoon actors, former teammates Cat and Mouse reminisce about their golden years before proceeding to beat the crap out of one another for old times’ sake. In taking the classic Tom and Jerry rivalry to an extreme, it’s an undeniable precursor to The Simpsons’ Itchy and Scratchy.
Then, in appropriate black and white, the “News ’R’ Us” segment (“All the news that be or ever were”) casts its roving-reporter eye on a unique medical experiment (compression of Siamese twins versus separation) and America’s ball-whacking craze — the latter because the joke wrote itself.
In the film’s first “feature,” Martin Mull (Ski Patrol) and Betty Kennedy (Cheech and Chong’s Next Movie) stars as spouses who move into the House of the Living Corpse, so named for the disfigured, malnourished, shellacked dog-loving creep who lives within the walls, Bad Ronald-style. Mull may be the name, but Kennedy’s in the driver’s seat as the dim-bulb blonde, delivering an excellent comedic performance that could go unnoticed if you’re disarmed by her sex appeal.
The second feature on this double bill is Philip Alien, Space Detective, a noir parody with a sci-fi gimmick: The third-rate gumshoe is a 6-foot bug from outer space. Voiced by Simpsons vet Harry Shearer, Philip falls for a human dame (Pamela Sue Martin, 1972’s The Poseidon Adventure) while looking for a runaway husband. While it may not land as intended, it earns a few laughs nonetheless, like when a flummoxed Philip tries to unhook Martin’s bra using four of his insect limbs.
Shown purposely out of order, two consecutive chapters of Lost Heroes of the Milky Way bookend the phony features. The Flash Gordon-style serial chronicles the intergalactic mission of the S.S. President Nixon patrol vessel, captained by Joan Hackett (The Last of Sheila) in her final film role. The serial also features Mull as the evil Emperor Tang, comedian Richard Belzer as a stoner, more dated counterculture humor and a henchman made of chocolate ice cream.
Penned by its director and three writers from HBO’s Not Necessarily the News, Flicks could illegitimately hail from the National Lampoon; it certainly reps the magazine’s spirit better than the Lampoon’s own similar project of ’82, the triple-spoofing Movie Madness. Unlike that partial-birth abortion, I find something new to appreciate in Flicks, however insignificant, each time I give it a whirl. —Rod Lott
In the sweepstakes of films in which strangers awake in a mysterious locale for unknown reasons or purpose, the Mahal Empire’s Death Count shoots to earn the consolation prize of Most Gory. Held captive in individual cells and outfitted with a back-of-neck explosive device are eight school faculty members, including a stereotypical Hispanic janitor, a stereotypical masculine female gym teacher and a stereotypical meathead coach for whom “violence” is a two-syllable word.
They’ve been gathered by a figure calling himself The Warden (Costas Mandylor, Saw III-VI), who looks like the CW’s Arrow, but with a bedazzled, BDSM-friendly leather eyepatch. Broadcast online, his game entails comply-or-die scenarios of self-injury, like fingernail removal via box cutter or scissoring off a fingertip. Each round, whoever gets the least “cyber likes” is eliminated. No contestant reacts properly to excruciating pain, whether hammering their hand, practicing dentistry with pliers or taking a kerosene shower. Now, before you think The Warden inhumane, please know he’s prestocked each cell with toilet paper.
Meanwhile, at the police station, the detective trying to locate the signal source is played by Michael Madsen (Species). From the looks of his bruised and butterfly-bandaged face, Madsen came straight to set from a snooze in the alley, where he tussled with a hobo for the biggest piece of cardboard. En route to The Warden’s pad, he delivers an impassioned monologue about the loss of true relationships and connections in the digital age. If that sounds preachy, it’s nothing compared to the reveal of Why The Warden Is Doing All This — a reason so asinine, it takes an otherwise serviceable bit of Sawsploitation from enjoyable trash in the first half to insufferable trash for the second.
Soon enough, a showdown — complete with a “Huzzah!”-style bit of stage magic — leads to an anti-ending, followed by end-credits jabber that shames the audience for watching. With that, one’s left to wonder why director Michael Su (The Revolting Dead) bothered with torture porn. I’ll give the benefit of doubt to screenwriter Michael Merino (Acceleration), considering his credit arrives with a rather suspicious F.U. attached: “with revisions by Rolfe Kanefsky.” No word which gentleman wrote The Warden’s “Now we’re cooking with gas!” quip (as a character gets the asphyxiant treatment) or tried to determine a credible way to get Sarah French (Insectula!) to bare her breasts. They didn’t, but she does anyway. —Rod Lott
When the body of a barmaid surfaces in a river in London’s Chelsea district, the police realize they have their third murder “in a fortnight” — two weeks to you and me — with no noticeable connection. The dogged investigation by a young detective (Christopher Bramwell, TV’s The Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe) reveals a theory too whacked-out to be true … except it is: The victim’s initials all match those of famous Chelsea residents.
