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Like the spite-fueled, vitriol-spewing, grudge-holding wallow in hurt male pride and bruised ego that it is, “Snake in the Grass” doesn’t air specific grievances; it’s just a generic litany of the evil that the “bitch” did.

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“Cherry” is Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” times three plus Type O Negative’s “My Girlfriend’s Girlfriend” minus the testosterone. There are a few advantages to this math; for starters, no one has to think about baseball to swing all night.

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Inveterate blasphemer Glen Benton gets caught unwittingly paying a disservice to his “unholy master” in this otherwise self-explanatorily titled death metal ode to Lucifer.

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Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is as good a sequel in general and as good a Tim Burton movie in particular as we could have hoped for. It certainly is Burton’s best since the original and his first effort worth watching since Ed Wood.

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Although they couldn’t be more different, The Crow picks up right where The Crow: Wicked Prayer left off. How do you follow the self-parody? Why, with the reboot, of course!

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The Menendez Brothers is the filmic equivalent of a love letter written by one of those spinsters who end up marrying convicted serial killers. The only purpose of this belated pseudocumentary is to recast the titular homicidal siblings as heroic victims, taking advantage of the current social climate in which baseless accusations of sexual misconduct are accepted as gospel by the court of public opinion.

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Wit struggles to strike a balance between the cleverness promised in the title and the realism that the subject matter demands. The end result comes perilously close to being neither fish nor fowl.

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America 3000 is a misogynistic post-apocalyptic fantasy. It depicts women wielding near-absolute power, but to call that female empowerment is like saying that Schindler’s List is fascist propaganda.

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This is the kind of mid-90s, southern-flavored, neo-noirish thriller wherein Eric Roberts’s character is described as “one of those guys who was eating light bulbs and pushing thumb tacks into his kneecaps” and Teri Hatcher goes topless. Real? Yes. Spectacular? Meh.

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Wolfs [sic] is a hybrid Pulp Fiction/Assassins knockoff with a Bolivian Army Ending and a piss-poor command of English grammar. From a slightly different perspective, it is to Pulp Fiction what The Freshman was to The Godfather, minus a legendary actor unofficially reprising an iconic role. Either way, it’s a dumb fucking idea.

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The Second Act (original title: Le Deuxième Acte) is a reflexive, self-aware, metafictional film that pretends to deconstruct its very own medium. It’s also a fucking retarded piece of shit that is stupid in direct proportion to how witty it fancies itself.

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The Air He Breathes is about a man who falls in love with and is requited by the widow of the guy who killed his wife and eight-year-old son in a car crash. That right there is some twisted, 21 Grams-type shit that, for some indiscernible reason, is presented as a mildly erotic, life-affirming romance.

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Omni Loop is a time loop movie with the word ‘loop’ right in the title. They’re really not even trying anymore, are they? But then the late, great Harold Ramis was arguably the only one who truly put some thought into it. All that his countless imitators have done is beat the horse to death and then just keep beating it.

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I loves me some Adrian ‘Highlander’ Paul. Too bad, for me, that he’s not Cold Fusion’s main character (despite getting top billing); good for him, though. Here’s a movie that has Russians and Ukrainians at odds with one another but, in a regrettable lack of foresight, makes the latter the bad guys.

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It turns out that the Secret Life of a Sorority Girl isn’t really all that secret. High school math teacher Cheryl (Jessica Morris) discovers very early on that her 18-year-old daughter Ashley (Jessica Lynn Wallace) is stripping her way through college. How original.

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Trapped in the Rocky Mountains claims to be “inspired by actual events” involving a group of estranged college friends who are brought together under false pretenses on the 10th anniversary of the death of their friend whose body was conveniently never found. Uh-huh.

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Love on The Danube: Royal Getaway is yet another modern-day fairytale featuring a monarchy with a vaguely Eastern European-sounding name where people called József and Gudren speak perfect English, even among themselves.

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Would be a whole lot more compelling if the Uglies were, you know, ugly. Not necessarily ‘gobble gobble you’re one of us’ ugly, but at the very least Sandra Bernhard-ugly.

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How smart is Bigfoot? According to Feet of Death, smarter than the average bear. Eat your heart out, Yogi. Sadly, the filmmakers ain’t got the good sense God gave a rock (to use a line from their own script).

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JP

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