Double Indemnity (1944)

“Double Indemnity” is the film noir classic before there was such a genre. It forced extramarital sex and murder onto 1940s America, a place not used to seeing its own sin displayed onscreen. It’s a miracle the film ever got made. (Confused? If you tune in Fox News or vote Republican, then you know all about ignoring sin and fact. Please, go away.) I digress. This classic follows a greedy salesman (Fred MacMurray) out to dump unneeded car insurance on a rich prick, but instead gets sucked in by the man’s amoral wife (Barbara Stanwyck, has there been a deadlier/cooler actress?) who sees opportunity: Off hubby, get fucked on the side, and get rich. I will not spill plot, or the inevitable (government-forced) ending, but marvel at every beautiful cruel act. Billy Wilder made this gem, and he knows gems, and this may be his best. The lead actors kill as immoral shits you want to see die, but truly fantasize about. Best asset: Regular Hollywood tough guy Edward G. Robinson as the hero and book nerd! Dig his angry geek tirade against low-IQ insurance dweebs, and witness acting at its greatest. One of the true Hollywood greats, a must watch. A+

Jason and the Argonauts (1963)

“The greatest film ever made.” Says Tom Hanks of “Jason and the Argonauts.” Damn it, he might not be right, but he’s not far off. How can you argue? This is absolute movie magic beauty: Giddy childish wonder watching wide-eyed as a group of men take on the gods and battle skeletal beings risen from the ground, all for honor. The director is Don Chaffey, but this is Ray Harryhausen’s gem: The special effects guru dreamed up those skeletons and the myriad giants and monsters and living ships that make up this classic. Screw CGI, this is the stuff of a boy (and girl’s) deepest imagination. The plot veers way off the Greek religious record as Jason (Todd Armstrong), lost son of a dead king, captures the Golden Fleece to –- unknown to him -– reclaim his rightful throne in an adventure that should spawn 100 sequels. Along the way, Jason finds a ship, Argo, brave warriors, and adventure and love, and monsters, and I will stop. Ditch Jason. The hero is Harryhausen. Dig those skeletons battling men to the death. This is what it meant to be young in 1963! A

Rollerball (1975)

In 2018 super-corporations rule the world in a soulless oligopoly as every need is served by nameless businesses. Government and freedom of choice is dead. Citizen-consumers are told to do their part and buy, buy, and obey, making the corporations even wealthier. It’s the dream world of the modern Koch Brothers, Consumers United, and right-wing GOP greed. I digress, but that’s the world behind 1975’s “Rollerball,” a futuristic nightmare flick that focuses on a roller rink blood sport that’s like basketball on wheels, with spikes, motor bikes, and death. James Caan is Jonathan, the Michael Jordon of the sport, a long-time veteran at the top of the game. Until the Corporate Gods tell him to stop. Why? No man can rise against the Corporate Elite. Damn, this is a fine premise. It’s predictions are crazy eerie. The film itself, directed by Norman Jewison? A dud. Caan -– who can deny his screen power? -– appears bored, the pace glacial, and the cheapo imagery amateurish. Oh, there’s a fantastic bit that foresees the rise of the ’Net and the fall of books, but like the Koch Brothers warning, it belongs in a better movie. C+

Dredd (2012) and Mad Max (1979)

It’s the future, so bring on the apocalypse. I downed cheapo, gonzo 1979 Australian classic (and Mel Gibson debut) “Mad Max” as a fast antidote to “Dredd,” the second cinematic coming of comic book anti-hero killer cop Judge Dredd after the God-awful, terrible 1995 Sylvester Stallone film of the same name that put freakin’ Rob Schneider in the sidekick role. 

(The less said about that debacle, the better. It took me months to recover from just one viewing.)

Is “Dredd” better? By far. Miles. It’s still crap. For myriad reasons. The plot: It’s post-nuclear war U.S. of A., and the whole East Coast is a godless concrete jungle of high rises and crime. The police and courts have been merged into the Judges: Leather-clad, masked cops with guns and a glint to kill. Basically, it’s like present day America except everybody is an unarmed young black man. You can get “judged” and end up in a body bag just for walking. Sorry, I digress. Still on a “FrutivaleStation” kick. Can’t help it.

Anyway, Dredd (Karl Urban) is the best (read: most ruthless) cop in Mega-City (because Metropolis was taken) and we follow him here as he takes on a high-rise apartment tower that reaches for the heavens, but might as well plunge low to the pits of hell. As in 1995, Dredd has a sidekick. And it’s a she, and not Schneider in drag, thank the gods. Helmetless because why stump the fan boy’s eye candy factor, Judge Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) also is a mutant who can read the thoughts of others. Why are there mutants popping around? No idea. 

Dredd and Anderson enter the complex to investigate a grisly drug-related triple murder and within minutes find themselves at the mercy of the building’s ruthless drug lord (Lena Headey). Mama she is called, and she places the building on lockdown and tells every thug ruthless, shitty, one-eyed, tenant over an intercom that she wants Dredd’s head now. From there it’s war, the tenants attack our hero (and the girl rookie) and he shoots, bombs, kicks, scowls, and grimaces his way through the lot to the top.

If One Man Against an War Zone Apartment Complex and the intercom bit sounds familiar it’s because the plot and details were done exactly point-for-point in “The Raid,” an kick-ass Indonesian action/blood fest also from 2012. Literally, this is a replica. Down to camera angles. Everything says director Pete Travis is innocent, it’s a mere coincidence. If it is, “Raid” is still the better film. And Travis has the luck of a rat. “Raid” has a hero that means something and is one hell of a sight to behold, has a human trait, and a reason not to fail. It’s also a spectacular feast of stunts. Seriously, see it.

This has CGI glut, a zero hero with Urban (good actor, no slam, I like him) doing Eastwood as an unkillable tank, and it all means nothing. Absolutely nothing. I get it. Dredd is supposed to be the darker Dark Knight. Great read for a book, I’m sure, bur a lousy watch and with so many wasted opportunities. Dig it: Mama has created a nasty drug that slows the brain to a crawl so every movement feels wicked trippy, lights pop, and rushing water stands still, and the effect is crazy wicked on screen. So let’s see Dredd on that shit, right? No. Dude just kills and scowls. I won’t watch a third film. C 

“Mad Max” I can watch endlessly. You know the plot: It’s the near-future, meaningful authority is dust-bin history, and the highways are open roads of lawlessness akin to old Australia or the American West than anything we’d call the future. Zero horses, all cars. Gibson is Max, a highway cop trying to maintain some order against roaming bikers who steal, rape, and kill for the pure glee. The bikers make the error to wrong Max’s friends and family, and Gibson as Max explodes like a fuel-air bomb in a film that feels not scripted or planned, but captured out of a complete drug-fueled nightmare. Not slow like in “Dredd,” but warp-speed head-rush fast.

Whole sections of “Max” are incomprehensible and wreck loud, but few films -– especially chase ones -– have ever felt more in the moment. It vibes like a tale that had to be made or writer/director George Miller and his star would just die. And for all the story’s debauchery, Miller shows little blood or gore. It’s just over the camera frame’s edge, way deep in our skull, and that is scarier than anything anyone can put before our eyes. Gibson is young and scary fanatical, is that acting? A-

The Blob (1958)

Steve McQueen is the world’s oldest teenager in “The Blob,” the corny, campy horror classic that opens with the funniest, catchiest theme song that I can recall. “Beware of The Blob, it creeps/ And leaps and glides and slides/ Across the floor/ Right through the door.” It’s a laugh riot. The movie is too, right from the start with McQueen playing 17 (!) calling a first-date gal named Jane (Aneta Corsaut) as “Jenny,” and getting away with it because he’s Steve Freakin’ McQueen. Anyway, meteor hits, a blob pops out, eats an old guy’s arm, and it’s on  -- laughs, goofy special effects, and punk teen kids saving the world when the cops won’t listen. Classic scene: The cinema! What’s hard as hell to take is the sexism: Every woman and girl is a helpless twit prone to hysterics and less brave than the 7-year-old brat in PJs prone to carrying around his teddy. Actually that’s the gist of the film: Those nightmare fantasies kids have about monsters coming true and no adult will believe them real. So honk the horns, and hold those ladies’ hands tight. B

The Robe (1953)

Biblical epic “The Robe” is more akin to “Ben-Hur” than any film about Christ. It follows a (fictional) man inspired by Christ, here Marcellus Gallio (Richard Burton), the rich, man-ho, authority-bucking Roman centurion who oversaw the very crucifixion of the Son of God. The titular red robe is that worn by Jesus, dropped at the cross, and won by Gallio in a bet. The robe, or course, isn’t just cloth. It’s the whole blood of salvation thing set to wake up Gallio from his life’s stupor. Too dumb for analogies? Dude also literally gets Jesus’ blood on his hands. The rest of the film tracks Gallio as he becomes a believer. Burton gnashes teeth down to the gums and when he gets that robe near his face, he “sucks” it up like Frank Drebin wrestling with that pillow in “Naked Gun.” Tin sword fights on stairs abound, too. Very “Robin Hood” sans tights. Thank the Lord. Still, for all the unintended laughs, many of director Henry Koster’s images are knock out: A distraught Judas walking off into the night, a tree in the distance is stunning. The end-scene “walk to heaven”? Just ick. B

Fruitvale Station (2013)

I cannot recall a more timely film in recent years. Seemingly every week in some U.S. city, police and vigilante pricks (Zimmerman) are gunning down unarmed black men at a clip not seen since … pre-1960? It just happened in Charlotte, and it’s the cold plot behind true story “Fruitvale Station.” We open with cell phone footage: 22-year-old Oscar Grant is shot point blank in the back New Year’s Day 2009 by a transit cop. He dies hours later. We then flashback to Oscar’s (Michael B. Jordon) final day as he desperately steers away from peddling drugs, works his way back into the graces of his girlfriend and daughter, and helps celebrate his mother’s (Octavia Spencer) birthday. It is she who suggests Oscar and his pals take the train that night. Writer/director Ryan Coogler’s drama is full of gut-puncher tragic moments like that, but also too syrupy scenes where Oscar plays chase with his tot in slo-mo magic hour light. The best moments come when they show Oscar as just a guy, any guy, struggling to correct course, thinking he has time, not knowing he does not. One day, maybe, films like this will be of the past. A-

G.I. Joe: Retaliation (2013)

“G.I. Joe: Retaliation” outpaces the first installment of the toy-inspired franchise about an elite force of American soldiers dedicated to fighting uber-terrorist group Cobra, the latter obsessed with snake puns and world domination. Mind you, “G.I. Joe:Rise of Cobra” was an awful take on the 1980s comics/cartoon, mangling characters, adding ugly Iron Man suits, and putting (shudder) lips on the mask of a black-clad ninja. Here, director Jon Chu (“Step-Up”) ups the action -– dig the mountain-side battle of sword-playing ninjas -– and ditches much of the “Rise” low marks, reworking characters to give fan boys their due. The plot kicks off as Cobra has created an imposter U.S. Prez (Jonathan Pryce) and plans to take the world via nuclear disarmament. Satirical politics? No. This is child’s play. Speaking of, in action figure trading glory, most of the “Rise” cast has fled, but we get Dwayne Johnson as heavy-gunner Roadblock and Bruce Willis as the original Joe named Joe. (Channing Tatum briefly returns as Joe leader Duke.) Johnson carries all, while Willis yawns and the rest of the newcomers, including Adrianne Palicki in a painfully sexist “hottie soldier” role, strike poses more plastic than human. B-

The Rundown (2003)

It comes fast, a split-second cameo: Arnold Schwarzenegger walks out of a bar and yells, “Have fun!,” as Dwayne Johnson -– billed as “The Rock” for his wrestling -– struts into a showdown that will have him clobbering most of a football team. Off the bat, director Peter Berg in his second film is planting flags: Johnson is the new Action King and “The Rundown” is a goofy, bone-cruncher flick from 1986. And it is exactly that. Every beat, stunt, gag, and boom is wired to the days of Reagan. Irritation? Yes. Likely the point? Fact. Plot: Johnson is Beck, a bounty hunter sent to the Amazon to retrieve the son (Sean William Scott) of his loan shark boss. In the jungle, his target easily found, Beck gets sucked into a third-world slave camp (free market capitalism!) drama run by an evil baron (Christopher Walken). Skulls crack, you know the rest. Johnson’s charisma is strong as Berg dreams up cackling, chortling myriad ways to put his hero through the ringer. Scott’s Wile E. Coyote irritates and needles Beck in the film’s best unsaid gag: This is a bromance take on “Romancing the Stone,” one of those great ’80s films. B

The Possession (2012)

A girl on the cusp on puberty is possessed by a demonic spirit and spills familial terror as her soul goes dark and her body gyrates in inhuman forms. Familiar? “The Possession” is another spawn of diminishing returns and scene-for-scene re-dos from “Exorcist,” the demon queen of spiritual horror. Here, the girl (Natasha Calis) happens upon an antique wooden box with Hebrew engravings at a yard sale. It calls to her, quite literally. Daddy (Jeffrey Dean Morgan) quickly obliges daughter’s purchase as he wants to soothe her woes as he and mom (Kyra Sedgwick) sign divorce papers. (If the real horror on screen is divorce then it is badly, badly handled.) Emily is taken hold by the box and starts to splinter, distant, silent, and prone to stabbing dad with a fork. All this leads to a finale involving exorcism and a man of God, here a rabbi rather than a priest. (Jewish reggae star Matisyahu plays the role, oddly tone deaf.) Every scene here was done better in 1973, save one: Morgan as the desperate father begs a room full of religious elders for help. One old crow coldly replies, “It is up to God.” That’s chilling. The rest… C+

Twenty Feet from Stardom (2013)

“Twenty Feet from Stardom” is a music lover’s dream. If you have ever rocked to the Rolling Stones, David Byrne, Ray Charles, Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, Diana Ross, or Sting, you know their songs – “Gimme Shelter” and “Young Americans” are two – infect the soul as much from the backup chorus as the lead singers. “Twenty” is the story of those background voices. For me, the faces and names of Darlene Love, Judith Hill, and Merry Clayton have glimmers of faint recognition. But their voices -– “Rape! Murder! It’s just a shout away!” from “Shelter” -- vibe in me forever. These women never reached fame or riches, one even takes to cleaning houses. Their careers were sidelined by sabotage or bad luck, or by choice. Each woman recalls memories, and they and eat together, and their talents are praised by the likes of smitten men Mick Jagger and Gordon Sumner, and director Morgan Neville shows these ladies in a divine light. Too much so. The hedonism of rock n’ roll is vaguely referenced, but never explored. These women stood close to stardom, but also madness. Oddly, those stories are left off stage. A-

Much Ado About Nothing (2013)

Joss Whedon -– director of “Avengers,” creator of “Firefly” –- has adapted Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing” into a light and airy, black-and-white big-screen trip. The result is less movie and more “you have been invited to a weekend theater party” at Whedon’s own house no less, with his TV friends (Amy Acker, Alexis Denisof, Nathan Fillion, and Clark “Agent Coulson” Gregg) performing off the cuff and in the kitchen where last night’s dishes sit unwashed. Adorable. See, this “Much Ado” -– you either know the famous comedy about sex, dirty war, and feminine politics, or you are a home-schooled lonely Bible freak -- reminds us that these plays were not high-brow work for snobs, but blasts of escapist fun for the masses. The cast riffs and experiments on the dialogue and gender-flips roles, and some of it works, and what sinks has the beauty mark of trying something different. Fillion’s “police force,” which in modern day would not dither over infidelity and womanly virtues, seem to be having more fun than any group of people onscreen all summer long. Now, about that “Avengers” sequel… A-

Requiem for a Heavyweight (1962)

This is the real America. We’re told growing up that if you work hard and stay true, you can be anything with the American Dream waiting just for you. Not in “Requiem for a Heavyweight,” a true-classic film that shows the world outside the boxing ring as far crueler than the one between the ropes. In life one never sees the punch coming until it’s too late. We focus on Luis “Mountain” Rivera (Anthony Quinn) a boxer who -– as the movie opens –- sees his final fight when he’s knocked out, and the doctor deems him unfit to go again as blindness or a fatal aneurysm is assured. Born poor with no education, Rivera had and has zero chance, and now he and his “cut man” (Mickey Rooney) are at the mercy of the duo’s longtime manager, a gambler (Jackie Gleason) swallowed whole by booze and selfishness. The sick tragedy: Rivera remains true to his “master” because he knows of no other option. His loyalty is his doom. Rod Serling of “Twilight Zone” fame wrote the dagger sharp screenplay that draws blood with ripped dialogue. The final scene is one of Hollywood’s greatest gut punchers, leaving any compassionate viewer reeling hard. A+

Repulsion (1965)

Roman Polanski has done far more film-wise to make apartments the living embodiment of psychological hell on Earth than anyone alive, and saying his low-budget English-language debut “Repulsion” stands above “Tenant” or “Rosemary’s Baby” is one massive compliment. Catherine Denevue plays Carol, a manicurist living with her aloof sister in London, zombie shuffling to and from work, staring at sidewalk cracks, and from her bedroom to the loo, staring at the razor of sister’s (married) sugar daddy. She glazes out, does not talk, and fears the leers or touch of any man. In quick succession, a suitor comes on strong and her sister leaves for vacation, acts that push Carol off her ledge into shocking hallucinations and depraved acts. Carol has a past that purges out at the finale as we learn her hellish torture is not over by half. Polanski works with brimstone, fear, and one hell of an actress, laying the way for the nightmares of “Baby,” his horror masterpiece of stifled women. Sick irony or inevitable that Polanski had his own misogynistic demons to spew years later? A near-unbearable must-watch classic that left me gasping, and spawned the recent dark daughter of “Black Swan.” A+

Knowing (2009)

“Knowing” is forgetting. In 1958 Massachusetts, a frantic girl scribbles seemingly random numbers on a sheet of paper that is then placed inside a time capsule that is dug up 50 years later by another group of children, one of whom is the son of an MIT professor (Nicolas Cage). Widowed, drunk, and sure that God is dead, our troubled hero stumbles upon a code in the numbers -– it marks the date, map location, and death toll of every disaster since ’58 until the end. As in End of Times. Director Alex Proyas (“Dark City” and “I am Legend”) has served up a dark Christian apocalypse thriller with no way out, and if you go for angel starships and religion-heavy films that drop 9/11 tragedy and people burning to death with barely a shrug, and that God naturally only saves white American children, then have at. Not me. This is not deep or knowing, and it does not dare question what kind of god plays this cruel. Stupidity abounds. Dig the scene where Cage uses a magic ID card stamped “Academic” to get by the police. Really?!? Where can I and my wife get that? C-

The Hunger (1983)

“The Hunger” is so ’80s, I felt like popping over to MTV for a full night of music videos and the Moon Man. Drenched in equal parts German techno rock and blood, with sex on top, Tony Scott’s gothic thriller follows a love triangle between a vampire (Catherine Denevue), her undead boy toy (David Bowie), and a NYC doc (Susan Sarandon) who studies aging disorders, ironic as Denevue’s blood-sucker won’t age and Bowie’s poor sap is dying fast no matter how much young blood he drinks. (The couple tutors a neighbor girl on violin; let’s just say Mom and dad deserve a refund.) I won’t dive too much into plot or fates, but I can’t let go the bat-shit-crazy WTF studio-demanded epilogue that takes a stake and a blowtorch to every nuance and act of violence that came before it, all for the hope of a sequel. (Why!?!) It does not help that Scott, being Scott, overloads on smash edits, hellish strobe lights, and making everything so serious. A sex scene with Denevue and Sarandon should not be boring. Scott makes it boring. Hunger is overstuffed from the start. Often, being left hungry for more is better. Is it not? C+

Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice (1969)

Relatively tame now, when “Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice” debuted, it caused a shit storm of controversy that caught flak from the religious right because it dared dived into the then-taboo subjects of free-love,  open marriage, and recreational drug use, and did so as a comedy satire with a take it or leave it judgment card at the end. I daresay few of these critics even saw the film, but panned it eyes closed. In truth, this is an often hilarious blast at both the conservative and liberal divide, with the left actually taking the bigger punch as married Bob and Carol (Robert Culp and Natalie Wood) each take on lovers and suck longtime pals Ted and Alice (Elliott Gould and Dyan Cannon) into their “don’t think, just feel” bed-hopping circle. There’s no LOL scenes of slapstick comedy, just the constantly awkward chortling of watching fools run themselves sideways because they’re afraid to not do so, to not get angry, and to not babble on amok about “honesty” as it were alien. Gould standouts as one very hopeless dope who cannot win, ever. B+

The Lost World (1960)

“The Lost World” is some kind of crazy time capsule flick, a reminder how far most of America and the world has progressed since 1960. Here, a group of explorers led by a pompous professor (Claude Rains) jet to South America to claim what the prof calls “El Dorado,” a forgotten mountain where “dinosaurs” roam and dark-skinned cannibals screech and chase after good white folk. Among the heroes is a helpless, always shrieking lady (Jill St. John) who is repeatedly told a woman’s only place “is in the home” and her venturing outside is dangerous. She agrees. “150,000 years ago or today?,” the “Lost World” poster reads. That’s irony. Then and today, this is a Tea Party GOP’ers warped version of the world, as it was, is, and shall be forever. Hey, it’s an improvement over the 6,000 years thing, right? In the end, all of the white people survive, find wealth, and laugh. All the foreigners die, including the maybe gay guy. I cringed, winced, and, yes, laughed at the sexism and xenophobia, and the ancient special effects that have lizards with glued-on appendages “chasing” people. “Lost World” is accurate. C

The Muppet Movie (1979)

“The Muppet Movie” is perfection. This is one of the first movies I saw in a theater. The very Jim Henson fourth-wall tweaking story has Kermit the Frog making his way from his tiny swamp to Hollywood, meeting his felt gang (Fozzie, Piggy, Scooter, Gonzo, and even Big Bird) along the way, and outsmarting Charles Durning as a seller of fried frog legs. Yikes! The kick, so to speak, other than seeing the Muppets move freely, ride bikes, and drive cars: Henson’s unparalleled love of entertaining children with no pandering still warms my soul. He celebrates each child in the audience, upholding above all the joyous wonder, curiosity, imagination, and intelligence of the very young. No studio does that now. Not one. “Rainbow Connection” truly is one of the greatest film songs, that final verse saying you -– the children -- make all this possible. For the adults, the humor – loner Rowlf takes himself for a walk -- and guest stars –- Richard Pryor! -– never tip toward concession or ridicule. I can drone on forever of my love for “Muppet Movie.” I love it now as I did at age 5. A+

Jack Reacher (2012)

In “Jack Reacher,” Tom Cruise is the coolest guy in the room who’s miles ahead of everyone else, can fight five guys no sweat, and when he walks by -– even at a Goodwill –- every woman swoons. The college girls, too. Yes, Cruise may be “playing” Jack Reacher, but really he’s spinning on his own ego. And since Reacher is one of those secret Army guys with no personality or background, why not let Cruise do so? He is the main attraction. Sorry Lee Child books fans. Here, Reacher investigates a mass murder carried out by an ex-Army sniper who we know is innocent because we saw another man (Jai Courtney) do the deed. Fear not, Reacher/Cruise will down every villain, right up to the one-fingered evil Blofeld cousin (famed director Werner Herzog) with an agenda so uninspired 007 would yawn. Not Reacher/ Cruise. He coolly threatens, scowls, and drives a Chevelle in a kick-ass car chase that’s a riotous hoot. All of this is carried out as a massacre plot that shies at the shock of violence to get a kid-friendly PG-13. But post-Sandy Hook, when a movie killer targets children, why are we not looking at an automatic R rating? B-

The Way, Way Back (2013)

I got into “The Way, Way Back” fast. The title refers to those nerdy 1980s station wagons with the reverse seat in the far back that faced traffic, exile from all family interaction as you wondered if the truck in “front” of you crashed into the rear, would you survive? Not likely. Yes, I have mental issues. So does Duncan (Liam James), a 14-year-old stuck on a beach trip with his mother (Toni Collette) and her boyfriend (Steve Carell, against type and damn good), who riddles the boy with abuse. “You’re a three,” this dick chides the boy. Seat position is Duncan’s least worry. Seeking escape from boredom and his mother’s daftness, Duncan peddles a girl’s bike (too easy a joke) around the lazy town and finds himself at a cheapo water park run by a beach bum (Sam Rockwell, air quoting Bill Murray) who reaches out with friendship and a job. Duncan gets to drive. Directors/writers Jim Rash and Nat Faxon (“Descendants”) have crafted a great -– if overly familiar -- film about a kid who wants nothing more than to jump out that back window and run. I was him long ago. A-