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Like many another horror anthology, the best that could be said about The United States of Horror: Chapter 2 is that at least its segments are short — but then, that sort of comes with the territory (not much of a compliment to say that something is, when stripped to its basic core, what it is supposed to be); moreover, there is such a thing as too short.

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JP  

Intentional comedy in a Steven Seagal movie is like the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I thought I might have hit the jackpot with A Dangerous Man when the hero goes into a liquor store and buys a bottle of Jack’s — not Jack Daniel’s Old Time No. 7 Tennessee Whiskey, but “Jack’s Old Country Bourbon,” the single most generic-looking bottle of “sippin’ whisky” you ever did see.

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JP  

I know this is just a silly fantasy adventure, but surely Sir Francis Drake deserved better than an extended Highlander flashback with the most primitive visual effects this side of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys.

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JP  

Mo’Nique’s performance in The Reading makes me think of glue. Not in the sense that it holds the movie together, because that would take nothing short of a fucking miracle; it’s more in an ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she took a long, hard sniff of rubber cement before each scene’ kind of way.

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JP  

Most “inspired by true events” movies are about 95% fantasy, but even if this film were 100% true to the quote-unquoute facts (such as they may have been), it would still be a crock of fucking bullshit.

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JP  

Christoph Waltz once won an Academy Award for essentially the same role — though certainly not the same performance; after this, perhaps he should give that Oscar back as a token of contrition.

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JP  

The Bell Keeper is not terribly bad for a horror flick co-executive produced by and co-starring Randy Couture. On the other hand, it’s not terribly original either, nor as clever as it fancies itself to be, and it would have behooved it to be a little less self-aware and a little more self-conscious.

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In the Fire is a triumph of ignorance over reason, which is not to say that co-writer/director Conor Allyn didn’t know what he was doing; first he denounces religious superstition, and then hits us with some paranormal claptrap, as if to insinuate that the latter isn’t as big a pile of horse shit as the former.

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JP  

The Burial is a load of razzle-dazzle bullshit; a retroactive, BlackLivesMatter-pandering, quote-unquote true story wherein an old white man plays the race card on another old white man.

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JP  

We Go On is easily twice as good and only half as dumb as similar efforts like The Discovery and Next Exit, which nonetheless makes it not very good and pretty fucking dumb.

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JP  

I didn’t pay too much attention to the first three Expendables movies, but based on casting alone, this fourth installment is by far the runt of the litter. Even Stallone himself can hardly be bothered with this shit anymore.

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JP  

It is to The Miracle Club’s credit that there aren’t any miracles in it. The central portion of the film is set in Lourdes, but the movie does not endorse nor condone the obscenely profitable pious fraud that is that city’s bread and butter.

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The title Beautiful Disaster is technically correct. The heroine is drop-dead gorgeous, and the movie is a fucking mess — a scatterbrained mishmash of Rounders, Fight Club, and some sort of quasi-reverse 40 Days and 40 Nights, all in the guise of a gross-out sex comedy. Basically, the filmmakers’ approach was to throw shit at the wall and see what stuck, and what did stick was precisely that: shit.

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What exactly can we be expected to learn from a movie about David Bowie that contains nothing Bowie ever said or did, nothing that ever happened to him, and no music ever composed by him?

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Amber Alert should have been called Follow That Car!: The Movie. This film faithfully recreates the experience of riding in the backseat of a car all day long while the driver and the person in the passenger seat bicker incessantly, and it’s guaranteed to make you feel like you’d rather jump out of a moving vehicle and take your chances with the pavement (which is certainly less thick and dull than this screenplay).

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JP  

Izzy may get the fuck across town, but both she and the movie go the fuck nowhere. This is a pretty pointless film, or even a pointless pretty film, but pointless nonetheless.

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JP  

You should never remind the audience that they could be watching a better film, let alone urge them to do so — but when the heroine says, “Can you please just watch Back to the Future,” that’s very sound advice that anyone watching (or even thinking of watching) Totally Killer should heed. Even Back to the Future Part III is better than this shit.

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JP  

In the 1989 film, a dead cat interred in the titular burial ground came back as an undead real cat (in my definition of ‘real cat,’ a live animal and a prop such as an animatronic puppet may overlap); in Bloodlines, a dog undergoes the same process but returns as a crummy computer-generated visual effect. That’s some evil shit right there.

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JP  

As William Friedkin’s swan song, The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial is a modest little affair that, while not great, isn’t all bad either (in the grand scheme of things, though, it’s a veritable return to form from Friendkin’s prior effort, an embarassing pseudocumentary about a so-called real exorcist).

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JP  

If real-life karate tournaments were anything like they are portrayed in Best of the Best (which is closer to Blood Sport than to Karate Kid), they would be a lot more entertaining — and a lot dumber.

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