300: Rise of an Empire (2014)

Not a sequel, not a prequel, more likely a tax write-off, “300: Rise of an Empire” plays like a long-ass chunk of deleted scenes from 2006’s “300,” from director Zack Snyder and Comic Book God Frank Miller. Shot in studio with buff-ass actors against green screens in an endless orgy of deft Greek violence, guts, blood, and machismo, “300” fuckin’ rocked, killing every snob film instinct I hold. Sick, depraved, baseless fun. This thing, seven years late and directed by some shit I cannot Google, plays like a junior high school knock off. I grow tired rehashing it. Eva Green (“Casino Royale”) is the conquering bad ass b*tch coming to fuck over Greece, and hero Sullivan Stapleton, whose name sounds like a law firm but he is actually an actor playing hero Themistocles, vows to stop her. Blood flies. Tons of it. Gobs of it. Gallons. This is a film seemingly made by adults that vibes like it was dreamed by my war-obsessed 12-year-old nephew who has not a clue what war and violence entails. Except he’s smarter than this lot and can call bullshit. This is bullshit. D-

The Patriot (2000)

“Braveheart” goes Tea Party in “The Patriot,” a three-hour drama/revenge flick starring Mel Gibson as a Very Angry Man that only pretends it’s aghast at the terrible effects of war on one man’s soul and family, but really it’s jerk-off gun worship as every battle and death ups our blood and demand for Gibson to kill and maim. Gibson’s Benjamin Martin is a veteran turned Southern plantation owner – the blacks on his field are (cough) free, not slave – who gets sucked into the Revolutionary War after Brits kill his middle child. Director Rolland Emmerich needs his movie Red Coats -- led by Jason Issacs as a sniveling colonel – to be as evil as possible and commit atrocities that would make Nazis shudder to justify Martin’s blood lust. I get it, it’s a movie and we moviegoers love our Mel in seething Mad Max mode, but the flag-waving propaganda crosses into perversion. More aching is the depiction of slaves. The scene where a black man is conscripted by his cruel master, only to be followed by a comedic ginger 6-year-old boy asking to sign up for battle? Who the fuck thought that was a good idea? Patriotism with no insight. C-

Sabotage (2014)

Watching bloodbath -– not in a good way -– “Sabotage” it makes one wince at Arnold Schwarzenegger’s post-political film career. The light seems sucked from his eyes. Here we follow personality-free ultra-A DEA thug cops who drink, drug, swear, and easily swipe $10M from a drug’s lord’s house. The loot goes missing and the team starts dying in gruesome ways only a screenwriter can imagine. Ugly. Writer/ director David Ayer (“End of Watch”) has that duty, killing one guy by nailing him to a ceiling. By the film’s exhaustive end, you’ll –- or I did -– laugh at the big shock reveal, and still have to muddle through one more shoot out. Terrence Howard, Sam Worthington, Mirelle Enos, and Josh Holloway comprise the team, all screaming “fuck” as if they’re in a contest to out cuss “Wolf of Wall Street.” They fail. Ahnuld has the role of thug leader haunted by the death of his family by drug cartel, watching a snuff film on loop in the dark. We never see his face. But so what? Botox and steroids have rendered Ahnuld inert. What’s he thinking? Is he thinking? Is he a robot? Do I care? No. D

Ravenous (1999)

“Ravenous” is as wildly offbeat onscreen as its behind-scenes history (rewrites, cast revolts, multiple directors) indicates. It veers shocker, horror, satire, comedy, drama, fantasty, and all-out Midnight Movie nuts. It is split open dripping guts on the floor. Oh so apt for a blood-soaked cannibal tale set in the 1870s California that marries Cormac McCarthy brooding to Stephen King camp, and featuring Guy Pearce as a haunted soldier and Robert Carlyle as … let’s call him mysterious. Pearce is a faux hero who took a dive in battle and is relegated to a western outpost with other rejects –- bookworms, stoners, drunks, and fundamentalists -– who are visited by man (Carlyle) who spins a tale of escaping a terrifying camp of cannibals. Our soldiers unwisely take action. I’ll stop there. Antonia Bird –- third hired director –- serves up a movie that’s all body parts, none a head, with Carlyle diving in madly with glee, and Pearce scrambling to keep up. The fight scenes are underdone, the comedy crashes into indigenous lore, but not a moment is boring. When a dead character reappears, you could fit a thigh in my mouth. B

Sisters (1973)

During the finale of Brian De Palma’s “Sisters,” a bloody schizoid mind fuck love letter to Hitchcock, my jaw hung open. This riffs on Siamese sisters -- one alive, the other not quite, and both played by Margot Kidder –- and doesn’t just drive off the cliff. It launches off the road at rocket speed and explodes in a splatter of gore and brain pulp. We follow, as with any good Hitchcock film, a guy (Lisle Wilson) and a gal (Kidder) attracted to each other after a bizarre appearance on a TV game show that has unsuspecting men watching woman strip bare, with the latter in on the gag. The couple’s date goes bad fast: Her ex-husband (William Finley) prowls crazy and stalks the couple to her apartment, where things get icky and –- no spoiler –- bloody. De Palma then switches gears to a writer (Jennifer Salt) who sees the crazy deeds, before slamming back into drive, then reverse, then circles, burning out the engine for a finale that hit me far different than any plot synopsis I read. I loved every whacked red-soaked second. I still don’t know how to grasp it all, but obsess nonetheless. That’s addictive filmmaking. A 

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