A Town Full of Ghosts (2022)

We Bought a Zoo can F itself, because Mark and Jenna have bought a ghost town.* Their plans are to revitalize the remote, abandoned Old West town of Blackwood Falls into a family-friendly shopping destination and tourist attraction.

A recovering alcoholic turned workaholic, Mark (Andrew C. Fisher, 2010’s Night Music) is so sure it’ll work, he’s sunk their life savings into it. Jenna (Mandy Lee Rubio, Jurassic Tale) is … well, doing her damnedest to stay a supportive spouse.

The premise is not unlike this year’s millennial-driven Texas Chainsaw Massacre reboot, swapping one boogeyman for a boogeywoman. After digitally signing on the dotted line, of course, our couple learns Blackwood Falls’ true history: The Texas townspeople thought the brothel to be run by witches, not bitches, so they burned it to the ground and buried its prostitutes in a mass grave. Oops!

Minus a few flourishes impossible for Mark’s camera to catch, A Town Full of Ghosts plays as found footage intended for his YouTube channel. Even in his dead-of-night sojourns (Where’s that piano music coming from? Do you smell smoke?), he’s smashing that “REC” button almost as often as he pushes Jenna’s buttons of evaporating patience.

The found-footage subgenre has become so overused the last two decades, especially by indie filmmakers, because going that route maximizes what little resources are at their disposal. Therefore, it’s a bit of a wonder writer/director Isaac Rodriguez (Last Radio Call) is able to prove there’s life in it yet. He adds elements that work so well, they justify its use, from a wasp nest that grows exponentially overnight to, best of all, the ghost town’s wooden maze. The POV sequences of stumbling through it in darkness ring particularly effective; Rodriguez even tops it with an overhead drone shot that approximates the God-like view a classic video game, as we see Mark turning left and right, unable to see the horror ahead.

The movie’s not perfect, as Mark’s transformation seems rushed and some digital effects work diminish the scares. Still, amped by the built-in atmosphere, those frights are present and largely work, in part by the movie closing up shop at an economical 67 minutes. —Rod Lott

*In actuality, We Bought a Zoo can also F itself for being We Bought a Zoo.

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NOW OUT: Flick Attack Movie Arsenal: Book One

“Nobody — and I mean nobody — dissects and dismembers films as memorably, cleverly and heartlessly.”
—Herschell Gordon Lewis

From Abraxas: Guardian of the Universe to Zoombies — with at least one L.A. AIDS Jabber and a spare Yo-Yo Girl Cop somewhere in between — nearly 1,500 genre and exploitation movies undergo the spotlight and/or scalpel in the fully packed Flick Attack Movie Arsenal: Book One, our first book.

Expect horror, action, sci-fi, comedy, kung fu, sex and mystery, not to mention all seven regrettable Police Academy installments and an alarming number of titles containing exclamation points. (Warning: Do not expect drama. If you want tears, we’ll be happy to kick you in the shins — no deposit, no return.)

Continue reading NOW OUT: Flick Attack Movie Arsenal: Book One

Stunt Seven (1979)

In a high-profile kidnapping case that crosses international borders, whom would you trust for a rescue mission?

You answered, “Dallas supporting cast member Morgan Brittany,” too, right? Well, we’re 14.3% correct; she’s part of Stunt Seven.

In John Peyser’s slimly plotted but convivial made-for-CBS movie alternately known as The Fantastic Seven (I guess “magnificent” was taken?), actress Rebecca Wayne (Elke Sommer, The Wrecking Crew) is abducted from a film shoot. She’s taken to the sovereign state of Freeland, which exists as a few wooden structures on stilts in international waters. Mastermind and contemporary pirate Boudreau (Patrick Macnee, A View to a Kill) demands a $10 million ransom within 72 hours … or Rebecca dies.

The movie studio doesn’t want to front the funds for Rebecca’s release, but justifiably: because her last two pictures fizzled. And no U.S. government agency will claim jurisdiction due to Freeland’s establishment in lawless international waters. You know what that means: Stuntpeople, assemble!

Sheet of sandpaper-voiced stuntman Hill Singleton (Christopher Connelly, Strike Commando) spends two-thirds of Stunt Seven recruiting six others to form an extraction team. He starts by skydiving so he can parachute down to a hang-gliding pal: “Horatio! Have I got a crime for you!” Next thing you know, Hill and Horatio (one-and-doner Brian Brodsky) scale the FBI building in daylight — no worries; it’s Saturday — to break in and steal the highly confidential Freeland file, unmistakably labeled and in the open on an agent’s desk.

Joining the crew are an explosives expert (a pre-typecast Christopher Lloyd in a cowboy hat), a weapons specialist (Olympic gold medalist Bob Seagren), a kung-fu bartender (Soon-Tek Oh, Collision Course), a good swimmer (the aforementioned Brittany) and another good swimmer (Juanin Clay, WarGames). Barely planned, the actual reconnaissance operation is as easy as counting to the titular number while blindfolded. The end! What’s our next assignment?

Clearly, Stunt Seven intended to kick-start a weekly series, which I would have watched since director Peyser (The Centerfold Girls) packs this 90-minute outing with action aplenty. Biplanes! Sharks! Bar brawls! Diving! Scuba diving! Cadillac driving! Truck driving! Fisticuffs! Explosions! Whistling lessons!

All stunts were performed by such fall-guy brand names as Dar Robinson, Dick Warlock, Buddy Van Horn and Dick Durock. Some of their stunts also were performed by an 8-year-old me and the next-door neighbor kids the afternoon after this aired, and we thought we’d be cool by jumping from a tree. —Rod Lott

Mid-Century (2022)

I don’t like ghost movies in which someone says, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The character may not be cognizant, but the movie sure as hell winks. Mid-Century is one of them.

Coinciding with a big eclipse, Alice (Chelsea Gilligan, Door to the Other Side) and Tom (Shane West, Escape the Field) rent a 1950s home for the weekend. She’s a surgeon interviewing for a hospital gig; he’s an architect who drops Andy Warhol quotes in his RFPs. And the house? It’s one of the first designed by architecture giant Frederick Banner (Stephen Lang, Don’t Breathe) — think, oh, Frank Lloyd Wright, but if Frank Lloyd Wright branched out from designing skyscrapers to also murder beautiful women.

Tom finds a book revealing Banner was a polygamist whose wife “disappeared” under mysterious circumstances. He was also deep into the occult via a secret society called The Brotherhood of the Orange King (you mean MAGA?), which sought to achieve immortality. Not long after, Tom starts receiving visits from a ghost of one’s Banner’s victims — lucky for him, a redheaded cutie-pie one (Sarah Hay, The Mortuary Collection).

And that’s merely the tip of the Eames chair. As a fan of mid-century modern architecture and its general aesthetic that seeped into the design of American culture at a time when “copasetic” lived free in our vernacular, I was primed for Mid-Century. Turns out, it’s a mess, but a fabulous-looking mess. The script by first-timer Mike Stern (who effectively plays Banner’s progeny) is overly complex, with too many characters straddling too many subplots amid too many time frames. It’s as if he gave his director (#1 Cheerleader Camp actress Sonja O’Hare) not merely a story, but a world-building bible.

It feels like three movies stuck together with tape — the kind people in movies tear with their teeth — and it would even if we discounted the hallucinatory cameo by the great Bruce Dern, who utters a few sentences without having to stand. While West is not likely destined for film history, he deserves credit for always showing up with a committed intensity. By contrast, a vacancy exists behind Gilligan’s lines, some of which are cribbed from millennial memes: “Real talk,” “This is a mood,” et al. In that spirit, I’ll borrow an oft-used slang word from my teenage son: This tale of the supernatural is indeed “mid.” —Rod Lott

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Crimes of the Future (2022)

Unrelated to his 1970 featurette of the same name, David Cronenberg’s Crimes of the Future posits a time in which “surgery is the new sex” amid human evolution’s next giant leap.

Starring in his fourth Cronenberg film, Viggo Mortensen plays Saul Tenser, a man whose body grows new organs. His blood and guts make the ideal canvas for performance artist Caprice (Léa Seydoux, No Time to Die), who tattoos these organs and, in full view of spectators, removes them via remote-controlled device of crab leg-like bony things tipped with scalpel blades. It slices, it dices, responding to Caprice’s every push of a gamepad, which looks not unlike a frog and strongly recalls the director’s 1999 effort, eXistenZ. As Tenser and others undergo the procedures, they moan in orgasmic ecstasy — and with an acceptable amount of camp — at each cut.

Enter Kristen Stewart (2019’s Charlie’s Angels) as part of a shadowy organization that registers people’s organs, Scott Speedman (The Strangers) as the father of a kid who eats plastic, and the foregone conclusion that Cronenberg is not operating in accessibility mode à la A History of Violence, his first collaboration with Mortensen, the DiCaprio to his Scorsese. Did I mention the dancer (Tassos Karahalios) with several dozen ears and a sewn-shut mouth and eyes?

As par for Cronenberg’s course, Crimes of the Future finds him bringing an inherently intriguing premise full of Big, Intellectual Ideas. What ultimately keeps this film from success is how less-than-fully fleshed-out the speculative execution seems, in part due to an overly talky script. The auteur’s unmistakable and unmatched eye for set design, however, is present and alert, from a pulsating umbilical bed to a tooth-laden feeding chair with herky-jerky moves like the 4D motion seats at your local multiplex — you know, the theater chain likely not playing this movie.

Intentional or not, this is Cronenberg as close to alienating the mainstream as possible. I say “close” only because at no point does a character sexually penetrate an open wound — and certainly not for a lack of opportunity. That’s too bad, because Crimes of the Future could use a car Crash or four. —Rod Lott

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