The Expendables (2010)

If you have not seen “The Expendables,” stop reading now. I’m about to throw a snit fit about the ending to this rehashed 1980s brainless action flick that goes further retro with a 1960s “Dirty Dozen” suicide mission homage. But not a single one of Expendables is … expendable. None. This is a G.I. Joe cartoon, AARP style. A suicide mission flick without a suicide. Like porn without skin, useless. WTF!?!

Director/co-writer/star Sylvester Stallone is Barney Ross, leader of the Expendables, a pack of tough-as-leather American mercenary soldiers out to save a woman and topple an evil Latin dictator. Which they do. Quite easily. Like I said, they all live to clink beers, throw knives and assure each other that none of them is gay, despite the fact that none of them can live with a (eww, girls!) woman. And they constantly talk about each other’s bodies without end, cause all guys do that, right? We are talking “Top Gun” territory here, without the volley balls.

I just sat dumb struck as Stallone missed the entire freakin’ absolute point of the iron-clad, Suicide Mission genre. Heroes die. I remember watching “Dozen” and “Bridge on River Kwai” plus “Predator” as a teen, gripped, thinking … Who will die next? (Alec Guinness! Noooooo! Run Carl Weathers! Run!) There are zero surprises. Zero reasons to pay attention. Zero reasons to call this “The Expendables.”

This is a dullsville. That’s wild to say, with Jason Statham, Dolph Lundgren, Jet Li, Terry Crews, Eric Roberts and Randy Couture among the beefed-up mother farmers, good and bad. (Steven Seagal, where art thou?) Look, it’s not a terrible film. The carnage is over-the-top 1980s bad. Meaning good and bloody. Of the cast, Lundgren has the most spark. A better word: hunger. The former “Rocky IV” boxer looks hungry for new stardom. Mickey Rourke wonders in as an ex-Expendable turned artist, and then wonders out, quickly. Why?

Teeth grinding abounds. We get the villain’s obligatory and endless half-mile run to the escape helicopter, helpless woman in tow, and, by God, did any one – CIA included – get a memo that it’s 2010, not 1984? No one even has a Word Processor. Motion sensors? Oh, wait, what, David Lee Roth quit “Van Halen”? Damn! You don’t say. See what I’m sayin’? And can we get a Linda Hamilton/Sigourney Weaver shout out? No. This film is Rush Limbaugh approved. Women are near mute with submission.

Now the worst part. “The Expendables” delivers a scene featuring the Holy Trinity of 1980s Action Stars: Stallone, Schwarzenegger and Willis. It falls flat. Set inside a church, Willis is another CIA goon, pitching the suicide mission to the former Rambo and ex-Terminator. The scene took months to schedule and film, by all accounts. Yet, it plays slapped together, uneven and meanders to a crap ending. Schwarzenegger plays it awfully sarcastic. Stallone appears exhausted. Lastly, Mr. John McClane suggests oral sex all around. (Huh? Oh, yeah, homophobic jokes were funny 30 years ago, too.) No one does it. There’s a sequel coming, though. Maybe one of our heroes will get blown away. One way or another. C

Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)

James Cameron again proves himself King of Action Cinema with “Terminator 2: Judgment Day,” the follow-up to the 1984 hit that launched Cameron and Arnold Schwarzenegger to stardom. This film still rocks with ace special effects, a relentless pace, and show-stopper moments such as a tractor trailer chasing a child on a dirt bike through Los Angeles, the near-leveling of an office building, and a climatic freeway chase that ends in a steel plant. It also has what is now a Cameron standard: A woman stronger and more ruthless than anything else on screen.

The story in case you don’t know: In 1995, a shape-shifting, liquid-metal assassin (Robert Patrick) is sent to kill young John Conner (Edward Furlong), who decades later will lead a revolt against Skynet, a self-aware humanity-destroying supercomputer. In a twist of irony, a second cybernetic robot (Arnold Schwarzenegger) is tasked with saving John. This is the same model that was the assassin in the first film. The two robots battle each other over the boy and his mentally warped, bad ass mother (Linda Hamilton), nearly destroying Los Angeles along the way.

Every action scene aims to top the one before it, but Cameron leaves room for character development. His mildly satirical touches are sharp. Early on, the T-100 strides naked into a biker bar and orders a man to hand over his clothes. The patrons stare. Several women smile big. Every person is crack-an-hour-glass ugly. (If this were a Michael Bay film, it'd be the hottest boob bar in California, with 150 Playboy bunnies.)

I also love how Schwarzenegger’s shall we say “limited” acting chops are spun into a slight joke. The T-100 is an outdated, outclassed robot, fighting a top of the line model. And as that adversary, Robert Patrick steals the movie. Look how hard that guy works: The running, the steel trap mind and eyes, the utter lack on emotion. He’s a liquid Jaws on two legs, sporting a police uniform. Void of life.

Look, Cameron can’t do dialogue. “In an insane world, it was the sanest choice” is high-school clunky, and one more “fate is a highway” analogy could make me convulse. And the whole time travel thing is bunk. But Cameron knows people, and he knows how to destroy millions of dollars on screen and make it look like joie de verve. A

City of Lost Children (1995)

“City of Lost Children” is an amazing-looking, mind-screw of a film. A dark, wet, sewer-level nightmare of and about children intended only for adults from French directors Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet. In this alternate past, a grim-looking megalomaniac (Daniel Emilfork) kidnaps children from a local city and brings them to his water-bound tower of doom. Krank is a crank. He is dreamless, therefore he is sleepless. He steals the dreams of children as compensation, seemingly commanded by a talking brain in a fish tank that could be HAL’s grandpop. Among Krank’s victims is a boy (Joseph Lucien) with a much older brother who can pop chains and lift huge weights. That’s French-speaking Ron Pearlman, he of future “Hellboy.” Pearlman's character befriends a local girl named Miette (Judith Vittet), and here’s where the film gets creepy. They snuggle on burlap sacks in a back alley, and he gives her a deep, long foot massage. Nothing untoward happens, really, but the hints, the insinuations … linger. They make the film squirmy. Me squirmy. There’s not much otherwise depth or feeling to compensate. Those French. B

Planet 51 (2009)

Despite a full crop of Spanish creators, the CGI animated flick “Planet 51” is a very American spoof on the 1950s genre of space invasion flicks. The coin is flipped though: The invader is a NASA astronaut, and the victim planet an orb full of green creatures who live similar to the U.S. of A.’s population circa 1959. Dwayne Johnson voices Chuck Baker, the visitor who speaks in hyper sci-fi/jock/hero clichés as he tries to steal back his spaceship. Justin Long is the greenie who helps him, with Gary Oldman as the typical Army general with gun powder for brains. The movie is harmless fun and cute, but every gag is lifted from better sci-fi flicks. Disney could sue over the robot here that blatantly rip-offs WALL-E, melded with Eve. Speaking of that Pixar gem, “51” is as redundant as “WALL-E” is stirring. Good work by Johnson. C+

The Men Who Stare at Goats (2009)

“The Men Who Stare at Goats” is a spineless stab at the war satire genre -- war is irrational, why try and rationalize it? -- created by “Catch 22” (book) and “M*A*S*H” (film). “Men” skips bloodshed, offering a high (literal) concept story – the use of mind-control warfare and psychic drugs against the enemy.

Ewan McGregor is reporter Bob Wilton who flees an imploded marriage to Kuwait circa 2004. Bob’s hope: Write an epic story, become famous and win the missus back. His ticket is Lyn Cassady (George Clooney), a Special Forces operator who claims he can burst clouds and kill goats with his mind. As Bob and Lyn drive (alone) into Iraq, they meet kidnappers, IEDs, Kevin Spacey and a secret base.

The best satires give us a hook -– people to care about, a maddening danger, or an edge, they also allow us characters unaware they are the butt of a joke. (Everyone is dead serious in "Dr. Strangelove," after all. Classic.) You can see the actors smirking here. This amounts to a piss-poor Coens knockoff with Clooney as the heroic idiot, Jeff Bridges rehashing Lebowski, and Spacey going gaga for Twizzlers. “G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra” had more to say about war. (Clooney pal Grant Heslov directed, not the Coens. Or Kubrick.)

Every joke is a near-decade late: If you thought LSD gags died out with Timothy Leary, you’d be wrong. As for the McGregor/Jedi jokes, who wants to recall those prequel films? D+

The Bounty Hunter (2010)

There’s a nasty feel to the rom-com/thriller “The Bounty Hunter.” Gerard Butler is Milo Boyd, a crude, drunken ex-cop who strikes karma gold: The chance to haul his ex-wife (Jennifer Anniston) to jail for skipping bail. Nichole is a reporter at a NYC newspaper, hot on the trail of a big story.

In the course of a single day, Milo pulls a gun on his former spouse in a public before tossing her in a car trunk, manhandles her at a Jersey casino, and then later handcuffs her to a hotel bed to keep her still. This is romance? If Nichole were a real woman that I knew, I’d plead with her to drop this dick as quickly as possible.

But there’s nothing real here. Nichole wears a skintight mini-dress and stiletto heels to chase leads, because that’s what female reporters do in these movies. Chased by Z-grad villains, his car shot full of holes, Milo dishes some such nonsense as, “These guys are professionals!”

That I didn’t loathe Nichole’s character is a testament to Anniston’s charisma. All praises to Christine Baranski who shines comic gold as a martini swilling Atlantic City singer, and mom to Nichole. She should be the lead character. C-

Body of Lies (2008)

“Body of Lies” is a horrible title. But it sure beats “Generic, Unconvincing Middle Easy Spy Movie.” The name it deserves.

Ridley Scott’s thriller starts off with a bang – a busted group of Islamic Jihadists blow themselves up inside a block of English row houses without so much as a shrug. The scene shocks. Then we jump to hot, dangerous Iraq where super CIA spy Roger Ferris (Leonardo DiCaprio) is digging and running to nail a second cell of Jihadists. The mission goes to hell, and Roger is wounded. That’s the first half hour. I liked it.

Then the show falls apart. Roger is sent to Jordan by his boss (Russell Crowe) to bust another cell. The job goes to shit and injured again, Roger starts digging on a local nurse. Because that’s what white-as-rice American spies do in the hostile Middle East, date Muslim women in public and play grab hands, as to not get noticed. Everyone notices. Dogs even perk their ears. DiCaprio, sporting a beard that looks like arm pit hair, can’t push this slop to credibility. He’s too eager to please, and why is a war-scarred spy all gaga over a woman? And why does she believe his flimsy cover story? Because the script demands that the hero be compromised. No other reason.

Roger isn’t even actually a character, a person to root for. He’s an ideal – the young, pragmatic, justice-seeking American who wants to vanquish evil, but with utmost care for the innocent. Crowe also plays a symbol – the fat, pretentions, know-it-all American who doesn’t care if he’s right or wrong, and can’t tell the difference because he’s busy driving the minivan. Crowe is good, but his character is white noise. Debates about war far flat: Good guys want the war to end, but the bad guys don’t. Deep.

Scott’s best playing card is the might of tech-savvy U.S. surveillance, and the way terrorists stay out of sight by staying off the grid, all hand-written messages, bicycles and 1,000-B.C. hideouts. This is perfect entertainment for 2000. An unlikely dud from Scott. Bag this “Body.” C

Alien Trespass (2009)

“Alien Trespass” is a tribute and gentle spoof of the 1950s alien invasion flicks that promised “us vs. them” fights, spaceships, ray guns, damsels in distress and square-jawed Anglo-Saxon heroes. This has nearly all of those ingredients, except a reason to exist. And it’s in color. Horrible color. The simple gist: A spacecraft crashes outside a Texas town, and the unseen alien pilot seizes the body of a local genius (Eric McCormick) as it diddles about trying to capture its prisoner, a slimy zucchini with one eye ball. I loved the cast and slight tweaks at ’50s culture: The brain and his wife (Jody Thompson) have a rockin’ sex life, but sleep in separate twin beds. But here’s the thing, this has been done before: “Independence Day” is a fantastic subversive comedy spoof of space invasion flicks, with the heroes being Jewish and African-American. I laughed from start to finish at “ID4,” and got mean looks. There’s nothing interesting here. This is a yawner. B-

The Apple Dumpling Gang (1975)

The “Apple Dumpling Gang” is the equal of a sick beagle. You can’t not go, “Awww,” and smile. I must have seen this film a dozen times as a child, back when there was a “Disney Sunday Night Movie” on network TV, pre-cable. We have the Disney essentials: A trio of adorable orphans, an exasperated father figure (Bill Bixby), two bumbling thieves (Don Knotts and Tim Conway) who couldn’t steal bark from a tree, and a bad guy (Slim Pickens) so harmless, he’s huggable. The story: Bixby’s all-for-me gambler is hoodwinked into taking custody of the children, who in turn find a massive gold boulder in an abandoned mine. The gold brings much attention, but all the kids want is a dad. There’s a scene where Pickens says he’ll “blow a hole” in somebody “so big, you can throw a mule through it,” and that describes the plot. But this is harmless fun and still entertaining. Disney films from this era had amazing casts, hands down. B+

The Machinist (2004)

“The Machinist” is painful to watch. It’s not the story, another take on a man’s cracking sanity as he muddles hallucinations and reality, and rages. Nor is it the cinematography, all gas station greens and yellowish-whites. It’s Christian Bale. Dude lost 60 pounds to play Trevor Reznik, a severe insomniac who’s watching his weight drop by double digits and his eyes black out. Yes, the visage of his freakish, skeletal body is meant to shock, but it’s also overwhelming. He weighed more in “Empire of the Sun.” At 13. Jennifer Jason Leigh (“eXistenZ”) lowers herself and plays an aging prostitute. The only other woman is an airport waitress. Do screenwriter Scott Kosar and director Brad Anderson know of any other roles for women? The interesting bits come in parsing out how much of Reznik’s world is only in his head, and that I’m still undecided is a good mark. That the movie brings nothing new to the table other than Bale as Twiggy is a swift bad mark. B-

Inland Empire (2006)

“It’s kind of laid a mind fuck on me.” Laura Dern drops this non sequitur after the second hour in “Inland Empire,” a film that sees Mad Hatter filmmaker David Lynch dive gloriously off the cliff and deep into his own endless subconscious. And a deep dive it is.

This is Lynch’s most avant guard film since “Eraserhead,” but infinitely more complex and with a sprawling multi-language cast that touches on infidelity, Hollywood, Poland, a killer hypnotist, screwdriver murders, and giant talking rabbits that live in an old urban apartment. That’s not a typo. It is a fascinating, maddening, over-long, never-boring trip that is brilliant, both horrific and hilarious, and just plain WTF strange.

Diving into the plot may be pointless, but here goes: The film opens on a Polish man and woman, faces blurred, as they enter a hotel room for sex. We then switch to a crying woman watching TV. Cue the bunnies. Then we focus on a L.A. film star (Dern) as she is visited by a neighbor (Grace Zabriskie), just before the former starts work on a film with a cad actor (Justin Theroux). From there … it’s down, or rather up, Lynch’s twisted brain stem, and onto his cinematic themes of identity, multiple bodies in one persona and the way Hollywood splatters, not realizes, dreams.

This all makes the story of “Mulholland Dr.” seem as daring as “Horton Hears a Who.” And that fact actually lends the films its surrealist Dali-on-film kinetic kick. This is art. Hands down. A Lynch regular, Dern’s multi-arc performance here is an amazing to behold, on par with Daniel Day-Lewis in “There Will Be Blood.” She’s in virtually every scene, and plays characters playing other people who, in fact, may be an entirely different third person.

Not all of “Inland” scores: At three hours, the film takes far too many side trips into nowhere, and the cheap film stock used by Lynch can be frustratingly blurry in darkness and blown out in bright light, rendering many scenes indecipherable. But when the credits roll, one can’t deny that they just took a singular trip. B+

Suspiria (1977)

I’ve long heard of Dario Argento’s “Suspiria” as one of the Best Horror Movies Ever Made in film snob magazines. Its Italian pedigree only added to the allure. My verdict: One of the craziest, blood-chilling movies I’ve ever watched. The plot is not just simple, but a sketch: American ballet student (Jessica Harper) takes a plane to Munich, Germany, grabs a cab and heads out to her new school: An ultra-European, gothic dance academy. In pouring rain, she arrives at the school only to watch a hysterical girl flee in terror out the front door. Nevertheless, our heroine enters on. That same night, the fleeing girl is attacked, suffocated on a window pane, stabbed, strangled, smashed through a stained glass ceiling, and then hung. That’s 10 minutes of film. The rest of the 80 minutes is a hell ride with mad dogs, maggots, and a barbed wire murder so nasty, it cannot be described. Filmed in wildly bright Technicolor on eye-throbbing sets, this wild, bloody artistic stunt blew my mind. The proceedings are fueled by the single most disturbing and bizarre film score I’ve ever heard, created by the director and Italian prog rock band Goblin. A

The Big Lebowski (1998)

I dismissed “The Big Lebowski” the first time I saw it in 1998. Following “Fargo,” I wanted a substantial work of art from brothers Ethan and Joel Coen. But that’s not how they play. So, with my now third viewing, I’m a Believer. Jeff Bridges is Jeff “The Dude” Lebowski, an unemployed stoner who leaves his house for only two reasons: To bowl, and to buy supplies for White Russians, dressed in a robe and boxers. When goons (Hey! It’s Jacob from “LOST”!) mistake The Dude for a rich old man with the same name, our hero finds himself involved in a film noir caper normally reserved for tough-guy cops, private detectives or journalists. And that’s the joy of this funny, endlessly quotable satirical tale, with stand-out performances by John Goodman as a Vietnam Vet still stuck in his own time warp, and Steve Buscemi as a guy who couldn’t follow a “Peanuts” strip. I still think “Lebowski” is too long and serves up too much zaniness for its own good, but The Dude is so wonderfully written and performed, that he’s become an icon. Bridges is Lebowski, and Lebowski is Bridges. Abide. A-

Warlock (1989)

“Warlock” is a Satan-themed horror spin on “Highlander,” where two warring men, one evil and one good, zap from their mid-20th century world to present day America. Here, it’s a male witch (Julian Sands) and a Pilgrim-employed witch hunter (Richard E. Grant) that bounce from early Boston to modern L.A. (huh?) and then back to modern Boston. This “horror” movie is too silly to provide a single scare, and drops more logic balls than a first- grade basketball team. So let’s skip talk of suspense. Sands milks devilish charm as the pony-tailed blond Errand Boy of Satan, while Grant is deadly serious (and therefore hilarious) as the ’80s-rock- hair-dressed-as-a-squirrel Man of God. The best bits are on an airplane, as Grant’s MofG goes hysterical at the sight of creamer mini-cups and cigarette lighters. “Witchcraft!” he yells. Funny. But scary? No. C

Run Lola Run (1999)

Recall the adrenaline shot in “Pulp Fiction”? Where Uma Thurman shot up awake, crazy eyes and screams? The whole film jumped. That’s “Run Lola Run,” an 80-minute rush about a red-haired German punk (Franka Potente) who has exactly 20 minutes to find 100,000 Deutsche Mark, or her Z-Level mobster boyfriend (Moritz Bleibtreu) likely gets capped. Out the door she goes, over to poppa’s bank to get the money and – FAIL. She dies. As she bleeds out, she screams, “No!” And fate listens: Her quest -- and the movie -- begins again. And again. Director Tom Tykwer’s film is a blast. It tosses the rules for fun: Lola repeatedly passes the bum who caused all this mess, and as she passes other no-names – a bike thief, an old woman, and an office drone – we see their three cracks at fate. Before the whole gimmick becomes redundant, the film shuts down, heart still pounding as fast as Lola’s feet hit the pavement. A-

The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)

The original “The Day the Earth Stood Still” is a cheesy 1950s space invasion flick with stiff acting, a condescending treatment of women and limited special effects, but it’s glorious. It’s an anti-war call for coming together that ought to be played around the world today. The plot: Human-looking alien Klaatu (Michael Rennie) comes to Earth, with robot Gort in tow, and lays out the facts: Bickering humans are out of control with their petty “my [god, country, skin color, way of life] is better than yours” wars and threaten the universe. Klaatu promises that if Earth keeps this pace, it’s going to get vaporized. (Tough love!) A White House flack sputters, and basically says, “Well, hell, other than killing each other, we don’t know what else to do.” Klaatu rolls his eyes. Gort gets mad. This film is 60 years old, and it’s more viable now than ever. Rennie, tall and emulating wisdom, rocks. Patricia Neal, a favorite 1950s actress of mine, is relegated to panic. Several plot mechanics grind my mind, especially the clueless military approach, but that’s the film’s weird, quaint charm. Skip the remake, which is neither quaint nor charming. A-

Bronson (2009)

Pulling from “The King of Comedy” and “Natural Born Killers,” the gonzo bipic “Bronson” tells the ultra-violent tale of Michael Peterson, a.k.a. Charles Bronson, a.k.a. Britain’s most violent criminal. Bronson (Tom Hardy of “Inception”) tells us he can’t sing or act, but wants fame. So he (successfully) chooses the route of unmitigated, pulverizing violence as his golden ticket. The destination: Prison. Behind bars is his world to play with, and that he does to the fullest extent for 35-and-counting years, and mostly in solitary confinement. Director/co-writer Nicolas Winding Refn uses a “King” trick to dramatize Bronson’s inner workings as the prisoner performs on a “stage” to an audience alive only in his head. It is fascinating and scary as Hardy gives a thundering, crushing performance. Even as Hardy as Bronson commits heinous acts fully naked and covered in any combination of blood, soap, oil and/or black paint, he can't not be watched. A mix of horror, comedy and blow-hard direction add kicks to the movie, which may only be playing in Bronson’s own mind. A-

La Vei en Rose (2007)

Biopics on artists are a dime a dozen, as prolific as superhero films. Edith Piaf gets her due in “La Vie en Rose,” the most ironically titled movie I’ve ever seen. Yes, it’s the title of her hit song, but there is no pink (French for rose) here. This is all dreary grays, browns and blacks, with a dash of American pop art near the end. Piaf was an absolute talent, for sure, but the film posits that her life began in astounding poverty and disease during World War I, and was forever littered with copious amounts of alcohol and drugs, and more disease. She died at 48, looking 78. “Rose” makes “Pollack” seem as joyful as “Yo Gabba Gabba.” The film’s use of fractured timelines goes too far, and I got lost among husbands and lovers, but star Marion Cotillard (“Inception”) is so amazing in the lead, all complaints are moot. She shrinks and contorts her body, and sings the hell out of every tune, under heavy makeup. I love the use of “Je ne regrette rien" ("No, I regret nothing") at the end. B+

Withnail & I (1986)

“Withnail & I” is near-perfect British art house cinema, best watched with a bottle of wine. This dark-as-night autobiographical farce from director Bruce Robinson is vulgar-funny from the start as two unemployed, starving London actors – Withnail (Richard E. Grant) and “I” (Paul McGann) – grow tired of living in their house of squalor. They bum the key to a countryside cottage owned by Withnail’s gay uncle (Richard Griffiths), and head out for R&R. If only. In a film full of great lines, the best is “We’ve gone on holiday by mistake!” The cottage is in ruins, there is neither food nor firewood, and the locals do not abide fools, and these actors are fools. Uncle Monty soon appears with food and wine in hand, and his eyes set on “I.” This is how you do a city-country farce, bare-knuckle satire all around with human follies roasted on a spit. The love–hate “bromance” between the leads is priceless; the ending sad. Griffiths (who now plays Harry Potter’s uncle) nearly steals the film from the brilliant Grant. Second best line: “We want the finest wines available to humanity, we want them here and we want them now!” A-men! A

The Boondock Saints II: All Saint’s Day (2009)

It took Troy Duffy 10 years to make “The Boondock Saints II: All Saint’s Day,” a sequel to his 1999 fascist romp about two devout Christian brothers (Norman Reedus and Sean Patrick Flanery) doing God’s work. If God we’re a White Master Race sociopath hell-bent on mass murder.

Part 1 was repugnant, sexist and cruelly anti-gay, on top of being a poorly made rip-off off of Tarantino, Woo, Scorsese and Coppola. One would hope that Duffy matured during the past decade. He did not. This is the same piss-poor film, only more offensive. Hate Mexicans? You’ll love this.

Here the brothers are self-exiled in Ireland until the vile murder of a priest in Boston calls them back into action. The boys soon find themselves in cahoots with an FBI agent (Julie Benz), very much in line with Willem Dafoe’s self-loathing gay agent from film one, as they hunt and kill. Benz’s agent dresses in stiletto heels and high-dollar call girl outfits, when she’s not imagining herself as an Annie Oakley stripper.

Her first line: “I’m so smart, I make smart people feel retarded.” Benz outdoes Dafoe in trash acting with the worst Dixie accent I’ve ever heard. Her character is not so much a woman of power (FBI agent), but a cartoon written by a man who hates (fears?) strong females. Added screen treats: Several close-ups of a fat man’s ass after he shits his pink panties. How subtle. Duffy is an anvil to intelligence. His fans, fuck them.

The first film’s only redeeming asset was Reedus and Flanery. Not here. Reedus is listless, while Flanery looks like a strung out Meth addict barely able to stay awake. I still can't decide if Duffy is, in fact, a self-loathing homosexual or a full-blown hater, the Fred Phelps/Bull Connor of trash cinema. In both films Duffy has his brothers shower together, and the camera stares in slo-mo awe at their naked bodies as water runs down. You decide.

The final scene promises a Part III, as the brothers mock-shoot a group of black men. Stay classy, Duffy.There is not one redeeming person of color in this film, which must play constant at Klan rallies and Tea Parties, gun nuts crying, “Take our country back, ” with dreams of  popping off minorities. Rarely has a film ever made me so sick in the soul, so ashamed of having watched to the end credits. F