Elevator (2012)

A group of people step onto an elevator; no matter the floor buttons pushed, most won’t land on their desired destination. The M. Night Shyamalan-produced Devil, right? Well, yes, but also Elevator, two years later. Whereas supernatural forces were to blame in Devil, the indie Elevator boasts something even more evil: mankind.

Going up in a metal box to a corporate fundraising party are nine people, including:
• the CEO (John Getz, Blood Simple) and his “evil little bitch” granddaughter;
• a company mover-shaker (Christopher Backus, Rogue Hostage) and his newswoman fiancée (Tehmina Sunny, Children of Men);
• a less-successful employee (Devin Ratray, Home Alone), presumably because he’s obese;
• a gorgeous pregnant woman (Anita Briem, 2008’s Journey to the Center of the Earth);
• a claustrophobic comedian (Joey Slotnick, Twister), who’s the night’s last-minute hired entertainment;
• a security guard (Waleed Zuaiter, London Has Fallen);
• and a longtime investor (Shirley Knight, Grandma’s Boy).

Oh, and one of them is hiding a bomb that will kill anyone within a 5-meter range. (Is that bad? I don’t know metrics.)

I’m a sucker for small-scale, single-location movies, and Elevator succeeds more often than not. It builds a solid batch of suspense that while never boils over, sustains itself until Norwegian director Stig Svendsen loosens his grip to allow you to breathe.

The identity is the bomber is just one aspect of the suspense; defusing the device is another. While someone like Alfred Hitchcock would’ve had a field day with Marc Rosenberg’s script, Svendsen does a fine job with what looks to be very little money. —Rod Lott

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Infrared (2022)

In Sacramento, the dilapidated and abandoned Lincoln High School building is reportedly haunted. With rumors abound of murderous teachers and demon rats, more than one camera-toting, would-be ghostbuster has made his or her way into its hallowed halls to sniff out the true story.

The latest, paranormal investigator Wes Wheatley (Jesse Janzen, Cry_Wolf), is shooting the pilot for a reality show. Because an impromptu exorcism on a local housewife just isn’t enough, a trip to Lincoln High it is, thanks to a loan of keys from the landlord (The Room’s Greg Sestero). To amp up dramatic tension the crew finds lacking, they’ve roped in Wes’ former partner without his knowledge: his long-estranged sister (Leah Finity), a psychic medium.

The footage for their eventually unsuccessful (or is it?) first episode makes up the bulk of Infrared. What our elders say about not judging a book by its cover can apply to this found-footage movie, too. Fresh off their COVID-lockdown comedy The Other Girl, Robert Livings and Randy Nundlall Jr. not only share duties as writers, directors and producers, but bring that film’s entire cast along for this wild ride. Perhaps that behind-the-scenes familiarity and comfort with one another allowed everyone to make something more special and surprising than the FF subgenre usually gets (and rarely so deserves).

The performances really push Infrared toward standout status. Janzen brings a manic energy to his Wes’ self-absorbed petulance, while Sestero proves quite funny in his character’s cluelessness and Finity makes us feel every awkward moment of sibling rivalry. Moments of comedy remain true to the story, though; this is, after all, a horror film — one that, by its end, so skillfully turns alarming, you may not want the camera to keep peering around corners so quickly. —Rod Lott

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The Chelsea Murders (1981)

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.

Based on the same-named 1978 novel by Lionel Davidson, The Chelsea Murders was made for England’s Armchair Thriller anthology series. Whether you watch it in six episodes at 145 minutes or the feature-length version at 108, the mostly tell-don’t-show procedural of coppers, journos, artistes, dandies and, eventually, a “cuppa tea” is bone-dry.

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

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Yesterday’s Tomorrows: The Golden Age of Science Fiction Movie Posters

Nearly 30 years after its initial publication, Yesterday’s Tomorrows: The Golden Age of Science Fiction Movie Posters is available in the revised edition author Bruce Lanier Wright always wanted. As he explains in a note opening this 2022 do-over, the original publisher presented the art as he never intended: the size of postage stamps.

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.

queenouterspaceSpanning 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

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The Awakening of Emanuelle (2021)

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!

More metaphorical than sexual, Awakening doesn’t do enough shedding to qualify as an Emmanuelle movie, whether we’re talking the real, double-M kind or the alternate-spelling knockoffs. Nonetheless, I find D’Angelo incredibly appealing onscreen, even when that screen is awash in purple wigs, cheap Mardi Gras masks and infuriating editing. —Rod Lott

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