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