Short Takes: ‘Aaron Loves Angela’ (1975) ★★ 1/2

With the recent passing of Irene Cara, I thought I’d check out one of her earliest film roles, director Gordon Parks, Jr.’s 1975 movie Aaron Loves Angela, made when she was just 15 years old.

Aaron (Kevin Hooks, age 17 at the time) is a Harlem teenager being pressured by his father Ike (Moses Gunn) to become a basketball phenom (Ike measures his son daily to see if he’s grown any taller), while his pimp neighbor Beau (Kevin’s real-life dad, Robert Hooks) taunts Aaron for even dreaming of earning any money legally. Aaron’s more concerned about his present, however; specifically, making Angela (Cara), the cute Puerto Rican girl at his school, part of it. He expresses his infatuation through graffiti, tagging walls with “Aaron likes Angela.” Angela knows her mother wouldn’t approve of her dating a Black boy, but she can’t resist Aaron’s charms, or his graffiti. It’s not long before Aaron’s spray painting “Aaron loves Angela” (title drop) on tenement walls.

What drives a wedge between the two teen lovers isn’t racism, however, but Aaron absconding with a briefcase full of cash that he gets through a series of thoroughly contrived events.

This one’s a mixed bag. Parks makes good use of his setting, showcasing the griminess of 1970s NYC without making it seem totally bleak, and there are some effective slice-of-life moments between Aaron and his father and between Aaron and his best friend Willie (Leon Pinkney). Helping the movie immeasurably is its soundtrack, supplied by José Feliciano. But the movie fails as a blaxploitation retelling of Romeo and Juliet, with neither the Super Fly director nor screenwriter Gerald Sanford having much interest in the central teen romance. There’s a bit more attention paid to the animosity between the African American and Hispanic communities—standing in for the Montagues and the Capulets—but even that is fleeting. Parks and Sanford seem more invested in shoehorning a subplot involving a scheming pimp, his good-hearted ’ho and ruthless mobsters. You know, the usual blaxploitation shit.

The acting is decent, at least. I’d like to say Cara makes an impressive film debut (we won’t count her bit part as a dancer in the comedy Apple Pie), but she and Kevin Hooks are merely adequate, with the adult performers—especially Gunn—making bigger impressions. The only truly awful bit of “acting” is from Walt Frazier as himself. In his brief cameo the “NY Knicks basketball legend” (per his Cameo page; I know nothing about sports and care even less) delivers his lines like he’s taping a PSA encouraging kids to stay in school. Though in Frazier’s defense, his dialog is written as such.

Overall, Aaron Loves Angela is enjoyable despite its unfocused storytelling and uneven tone, but it’s no must-see like Gordon Parks, Jr.’s classic Super Fly—or the camp classic (and beginning of Cara’s rapid descent) Certain Fury.

Double Takes: ‘The House of Usher’ (1989) ★★ / (2006) ★

OK, I was wrong.

A couple years ago, when I reviewed a selection of David DeCoteau movies, I advised readers to skip DeCoteau’s very gay and very bad Edgar Allen Poe’s The House of Usher and try their luck with two other schlocky versions, one from 1989, the other from 2006, speculating that both movies look “like they deliver the fun kind of bad DeCoteau didn’t.”

They do not, though director Alan Birkinshaw’s The House of Usher (1989), comes close. In this one, Molly (Romy Walthall, billed as Romy Windsor) and her fiancée Ryan (Rufus Swart) are vacationing in London when they get an invitation to visit Ryan’s heretofore unknown uncle, Roderick Usher. But on the way to visit Uncle Rod, Ryan swerves into a tree to avoid two children in the middle of the road (why, yes, they are ghosts; how did you ever guess?) Ryan’s injured, so Molly goes to get help, by chance stumbling up to the Usher mansion, where Clive the asshole butler (Norman Coombes) assures her that he’ll make sure Ryan gets the medical assistance he needs. Meanwhile, why doesn’t she have a cup of tea and a lie down upstairs before dinner with the master of the house?

When Molly finally meets Roderick (Oliver Reed), she’s assured that Ryan is in the hospital but unable to receive visitors just yet. Though Molly has her doubts, she agrees to stay put. However, it seems no amount of drugged tea—served regularly by Clive’s miserable wife (Anne Stradi)—will keep Molly in her room. As she explores the titular House of Usher, discovering, among other things, another member of the Usher clan (Donald Pleasence) kept locked away in the attic, Molly begins to suspect Uncle Rod might have sinister intentions.

This version of Usher has some things going for it. There are a few—very few—noteworthy set pieces, including a hand forced into a meat grinder fake-out and a character getting his dick gnawed-off by a rat; plus, Reed and, especially, Pleasence raise the bar considerably. Unfortunately, we spend most of our time with Walthall, whose performance seems better suited for a movie entitled Sorority Beach Party than a Gothic horror. In fact, the movie’s whole tone is off, like Birkinshaw and screenwriter Michael J. Murray had initially conceived this adaption of Poe’s story as a horror comedy but couldn’t think up any jokes—good or bad—before filming began. Yet, the movie is still filmed like a comedy, as brightly lit as a Disney Channel sit-com and with tacky sets that look as if they were hastily painted for a haunted house attraction at a high school Halloween fair. And the less said about the ending, which is as infuriating as it is nonsensical, the better.

But at least 1989’s Usher has some entertainment value. Not so director Hayley Cloake’s 2006 adaptation, which clocks in at a mere 81 minutes yet feels twice as long. This time out, our doomed heroine is Roderick Usher’s ex-girlfriend from college, Jill (pouty blonde Izabella Miko), who travels to the Usher estate upon learning of the death of Roderick’s sister—and Jill’s best friend—Madeline. Though the stern, Mrs. Danvers-esque housekeeper Mrs. Thatcher (Beth Grant) is less than welcoming, Jill sticks around after Maddy’s funeral, rekindling her romance with the charmless Roderick (a monotone Austin Nichols). Jill puts up with Mrs. Thatcher’s cock-blocking and her beau’s nightly sessions in a sensory deprivation tank to treat his neurasthenia, but it’s only upon discovering that the Usher family tree is a straight line that she begins to reconsider her relationship to the brooding Roderick.

Cloake’s movie may be a bit more competently made than DeCoteau’s Usher, but it isn’t any better; it’s just straighter. The movie’s most inspired elements—mixing in bits of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca into the story; the incest twist—are wasted, as are most of the actors. Miko makes the best impression, though I’m not sure if that’s testament to her acting skill so much as she’s just given more of a character to play than her co-stars. An actor who should have stolen this movie was Grant, a prolific character actor who usually makes a big impression in small roles. Grant frequently appears in comedies, so I was looking forward to seeing what she did with a more serious role. Not much, it turns out. It’s not her fault, though; it’s screenwriter Collin Chang’s. And if you’re thinking of checking this one out to ogle Miko or Nichols, don’t bother. Though rated R, this Usher only offers a few shots of Miko in panties and skimpy top and a near-subliminal shot of Nichols’ pubes. At least DeCoteau had the courtesy to appeal his audience’s prurient interests, albeit clumsily. Despite the curb appeal of her movie’s cast, Cloake’s The House of Usher is strictly a teardown property.

Toxic Relationships Build Self-Confidence And Other Unhealthy Life Lessons

Trigger warnings: This post includes references to sexual assault and abusive relationships. It also features photos of men kissing and Charisma Carpenter nude, but I can’t believe either of those things is a problem for readers of this blog.

Goddammit! I thought I had a good six months before I’d have to review the third 365 Days movie, but that was, like a lower subscription price or fewer transphobic comedy specials, just too fucking much to ask of Netflix. So, on August 19 the streamer dropped The Next 365 Days, and now, because I hopped on the bandwagon of reviewers shitting on this softcore sludge, I feel duty-bound to review it.

But first, let’s check out one of the first Fifty Shades of Grey knockoffs, 2015’s BOUND, from the studio that brought us the Sharknado franchise.

The Asylum was so eager to capitalize on the Fifty Shades sensation buzzing between pop cultures’ trembling thighs that it not only released the first Fifty Shades-inspired knockoff, the studio released it a full month before the first movie adaptation of E.L. James’ tragically popular porno books hit theaters.

Now, just because a movie is released by the Asylum doesn’t automatically mean it will be bad. They did give us Stuart Gordon’s King of the Ants, which is actually good, and the company has put out a few Christmas-themed movies that have a gotten five-out-of-ten stars or (slightly) higher on IMDb. The fact that Bound’s story did not include any supernatural elements also gave me hope as it would not be hindered by any shitty CGI. Plus, Bound stars Charisma Carpenter of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and its spinoff Angel. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? After all, she was quoted in 2003 as saying, “I’m not going to just do anything simply because the money is good. If I can't love a project, then I’m not interested.”

This is likely the expression Charisma had
when she got to page 5 of the script.

Then I watched the movie. Charisma lied. Or, maybe she agreed to take the part only knowing the movie’s title, thinking she’d be appearing in a remake of Lana and Lily Wachowski’s acclaimed lesbian thriller, only to realize too late that she’d been duped. But, most likely, her position changed as the years went by and the career momentum from Buffy and Angel began to wane. The only reason anyone appeared in Bound is the only the only reason the movie was made to begin with: to make a quick buck.

But while Bound is a cash-in on Fifty Shades, director and co-screenwriter Jason Cohn has done what he can to ensure that it isn’t a total rip-off. Michelle Mulan (Carpenter) is no naïve college student but a single mother with a daughter about to start college and a boyfriend, George (Mark McClain Wilson), who can’t make her cum.

Though maybe don’t feel too sorry for Michelle. Sure, she may have to use a vibrator to get off, but she also lives in a house the size of a Comfort Inn.

This is Michelle’s house. I call bullshit.

Daniel Baldwin, delivering the performance
you’d expect of him.

How is Michelle able to afford a mansion, and in Southern California, no less? She’s an executive for a real estate development company run by her father Walter, played by Daniel Baldwin (OK, you can go back to feeling sorry for her). But the company is not doing so well, and Walter’s right hand man Preston (“that guy” Michael Monks, cranking it up to 11) is pushing Walter to accept a bid to be bought out by a rival. Michelle is opposed to the sale, but she doesn’t yet have an alternative idea and is immediately dismissed by Preston, who’s an asshole. Lest you think Michelle has her father’s ear, Walter says he’s “inclined” to take Preston’s recommendation. “You said you wanted to sit at the table with the big kids,” Walter tells his frustrated daughter. It should be noted that all the other “big kids” are men.

So, Michelle might live in a mansion (yes, I’m going to keep harping on it, because it’s fucking  ridiculous), but she’s not respected at work, and she’s got daddy issues. And George can’t find her clit to save his life!

Ryan hopes Michelle will overlook his Big
Rapist Energy.

Then she meets Ryan (the late Bryce Draper, no stranger to Z-grade material), who makes eyes at her from the bar while she and her daughter Dara (Morgan Obenreder) are having dinner at what looks like a nightclub repurposed as a restaurant. Michelle ignores him at first, but only because she’s in the company of her daughter. After they get back home, she realizes she “forgot” her credit card and returns to the restaurant. Ryan’s waiting for her. After introductions, he invites her to have a cigarette with him. Michelle tells him she doesn’t smoke, to which Ryan responds: “Yeah, you do.”

Let’s discuss Ryan for a moment. I get that the character is supposed to be self-confident and arrogant, with an air of danger—all qualities someone with a shaky self-esteem and a hankering for excitement might respond to. But Bound has the same problem as Darker Shades of Elise: its male lead immediately comes off as creepy and repellent rather than sexy and mysterious. Draper isn’t bad looking, but he doesn’t project the sexual magnetism his role requires. He’s not so fuckable that one would overlook Ryan’s charmless personality. I can see the desire to fuck Jamie Dornan or even Michele Morrone (were his character not a kidnapper, that is) being so strong one would ignore the warning signs, for one night at least; Draper is easier to resist.

Michelle doesn’t resist, however, and is soon letting Ryan go down on her atop her father’s desk…

“I can’t wait for him to ask where all the snail trails came from!”

… and accompanying him to a BDSM sex club, exposing her to the mild side of kink (no fisting, piss play or CBT here).

Cordelia discovers the Bronze is under new management.

Ryan’s attempt to fuck her in the alley outside the club, in full view of a guy in a leather face cage, gets a hard no from Michelle. Ryan shows he’s open to compromise and takes Michelle back to his place, which looks like they just re-arranged the sex club set. Though Michelle is cuffed to a chair and blindfolded, the BDSM trappings do little to raise the temp of this lukewarm sex scene. At least Michelle liked it, and soon thereafter she’s ditching boring, stable George for a man who gives strong serial rapist energy.

You just know the Asylum wanted to put a starburst on the
DVD cover, urging people to “See Angel’s Charisma Carpenter
nude!” Too bad Carpenter beat them to the punch by posing for
Playboy a decade earlier.

But Michelle’s improved sex life negatively impacts her career. She blew off an important meeting with the head of Elliot and Associates, one that could possibly stave off the sale of her father’s company, to take a tour of the wild side (“wild” if you think French vanilla is daring). A day or so later, she brings Ryan along to a company-sponsored fundraiser. Though the event appears to be held in the entranceway of Michelle’s home, they hire a chauffeur to take them there, and during the ride Ryan gives Michelle a clit vibrator that’s remote controlled, and guess who has the remote? 

“Oh, shit. This movie isn’t going to get any
better, is it?”

Ryan wastes little time abusing his privilege, revving up the sex toy during Walter’s speech about finding a cure for Alzheimer’s. Ryan later pulls her into a bathroom for a quickie, then insists she not fix her makeup before they rejoin the party, so she steps out of the bathroom with her lipstick smeared down one side of her face like “a messy whore.” And who should be standing in front of the bathroom door but fucking Preston, who introduces Michelle to Jesse (Noel Arthur), the head of Elliot Associates! It should be noted that Preston enjoys Michelle’s humiliation more than Ryan does.

Less amused is Walter, who chastises her for bringing a “drug dealing car thief” to the fundraiser (like Daniel Baldwin can talk). This is not only the first the audience learns of Ryan’s criminal past; it’s also the first time Michelle learns of it, and yet she never comments on this revelation or in any way seems concerned by her lover’s alleged criminal history.

This is Michelle and Ryan, two scenes later.

What ultimately brings an end to this toxic relationship is Michelle suggesting some role reversal. How about if she spanked Ryan? Ryan coldly tells Michelle to leave, then goes after someone even more vulnerable: Michelle’s daughter Dara.

Bound is neither as terrible as I thought it would be nor as fun as I’d hoped. Carpenter does what she can, but her performance seems less committed as the movie goes along, as if she realized midway through that there’s no polishing this turd, so why bother? Even with the f-bombs and nudity, it feels like a Lifetime movie, and not a particularly well-made one. The movie seems to have a particularly hard time grasping how time works: it’s nighttime when Michelle arrives home from work, but once inside her house the mid-day sun is shining through her kitchen window. Later in the movie, the camera shows the clock on Michelle’s office wall moving from 1:50 to 4:20 p.m., right before Michelle makes 2 p.m. lunch appointment for that same day. Michelle travels further back in time to drop by a Terrell Owens-hosted pool party (sure, why not) to see Ryan on her way to this 2 p.m. appointment, telling him she can only stay a minute because the restaurant where she has her meeting is 30 minutes away. It’s like a math word problem that only has wrong answers.

The nipple clamps of vengeance.

To the movie’s credit, it doesn’t pretend its story is a romance, acknowledging that Ryan and Michelle’s relationship is abusive. In a scene in which Michelle returns to the sex club for some independent research, a dominatrix warns her that Ryan isn’t in for the kink; he’s a predator. “People like Ryan give people like us a bad name.” Bound’s messaging is still a bit dicey, suggesting that abusive relationships are merely character-building. Nevertheless, it was fun to see Michelle finally beat shithead Ryan with his own cat o’nine tails, though I still felt she was a little too merciful. It’s a scene that would’ve benefitted with the addition of a crocosaurus.

Torn Between Two Kidnappers

Bad as Bound is, it at least has a story to tell, with a beginning, middle and end within a compact 90 minutes. There are now three movies in the 365 Days franchise and there’s not a complete, cohesive narrative among them. THE NEXT 365 DAYS is like trying to fuck while drunk: it never gets good, and it never finishes.

In This Day’s climactic gun battle, Laura (Anna-Maria Sieklucka) was shot by her husband/kidnapper’s ex-girlfriend Anna, whereupon Nacho (Simone Sussina)—not a gardener but the son of a rival Mafia family—shot and killed Anna. Massimo (Michele Marrone), a.k.a. Scowly, then shoots his twin brother Adriano (also Marrone), a.k.a. Twitchy. At the beginning of The Next 365 Days, it’s revealed that Adriano, who took a bullet in his shoulder, is dead, while Laura, whose liver was aerosolized, survived, suffering only a barely perceptible scar and a bad dye job. When Scowly checks on her, she wakes up and immediately she wants to fuck. 

Americans struggle to get insurance coverage
for insulin but Laura is provided false eyelashes
while recovering from a near-fatal wound. Healthcare
really is so much better in Europe.

Remarkably, Massimo urges Laura to cool it; she’s still recovering, after all. Laura storms out of the bedroom in a snit and joins her pal Olga (Magdalena Lamparska, even more annoying this time out) on the patio, because I guess Olga now lives with them permanently (for those who give a shit, Olga has “changed her mind” about marrying Domenico, though I don’t know if that means she is or isn’t marrying him and the movie never clarifies the matter). Olga tells Laura they were all afraid of losing her and Laura says she’s grateful to have a second chance. Then Olga says what I was thinking: “More alcohol! I can’t look at that hair sober.”

In stunning turn of events, a makeover montage does not follow. Instead, the movie cuts immediately to the after, when Laura, hair done and wearing a sexy black dress, interrupts Scowly’s meeting with his fellow gangsters and asks her beloved kidnapper to see her when he’s done. Though Scowly was just hours earlier refusing to give Laura a hot meat injection for fear it might put her back in the ICU, he immediately excuses himself from his meeting to go fuck the bejesus out of his horny wife (time code 10:20, but it’s not really worth it).

What’s up with that tarp? Are Scowly’s loads so huge
the walls need protecting?

But just when it looks like the couple are about to rekindle that moment in Laura’s initial captivity when she said, “Fuck it, he’s hot,” she gets a call from Nacho, who, interestingly, also kidnapped Laura, albeit in a friendlier fashion. Laura later spots Nacho at a nightclub but is intercepted by Scowly before she can say hello. Later, Scowly accuses Laura of cheating on him with Nacho, plus he’s pissed that she didn’t tell him about being pregnant. Laura snaps that she lost their baby because of his enemies. It’s so sad to see a criminal and his victim fighting. 

Laura Torricelli: Businesswoman.

There’s an attempt at make-up cunnilingus later, but Scowly intuits (through taste?) that her thoughts are elsewhere, and he’s correct: Laura is fantasizing about Nacho eating her pussy. And so begins the cold war between the Torricellis. Since the lives of these “characters” revolve almost exclusively around fucking, Laura and Scowly must find other ways to pass the time while giving each other the silent treatment. Laura, remembering she was given a fashion house for Christmas in This Day, decides to throw herself into her business, while Scowly pursues other interests: jacking off in the shower and snorting cocaine.

The rest of the movie is devoted to Laura trying to decide between two kidnappers. Since those are the only two options (the third, more sensible option of escape, followed by intense therapy, is never on the table), it should be a no-brainer: Nacho. Sure, he kidnapped her, but he at least made it appear like he was rescuing her, and he’s way more pleasant, besides. Also, in all the sex scenes in which Nacho appears (three in fantasy, one real), he seems to be a more giving lover (Scowly fucks like he’s late for an appointment). Alas, The Next 365 Days can’t make it that easy, or that final. I’m saddened to report that this one also ends on a cliffhanger, meaning there could be fourth one of these things.

Massimo Torricelli: Pud pounder.

That the possibility of a fourth installment of this supposed erotic franchise fills my heart with dread should tell you all you need to know. The Next 365 Days isn’t quite as offensive as its predecessors, but only because the movie brushes the circumstances of Laura and Scowly’s first meeting in 365 Days under a cum-stained rug and never acknowledges them. Plus, this franchise gets less and less engaging each time out so by this point I couldn’t even work up the energy to be mildly annoyed by its fucked-up sexual politics.

If you think getting drunk and screaming a lot
is funny, then you’re in for a treat: The Next
365 Days features 30% more Olga.

About the only thing The Next 365 Days has going for it is featuring more Nacho—or rather, more nude scenes from Sussina. If you were to just watch the scenes with him and Sieklucka together, you might even mistake this movie for being the erotic romance it’s pretending to be. It’s a good thing, too, because Marrone has noped out of doing any nude scenes for this one, and Sieklucka gets naked less frequently. Had directors Barbara Bialowas and Tomasz Mandes (really, it took two directors?) not included some sex scenes involving superfluous characters and/or extras the movie would be in danger of having a whole 20 minutes go by without any simulated humping. If you think that’s a complaint, it’s not. I’ll take gratuitous sex scenes over pointless montages—or “comic relief” from Olga—any day. Unfortunately, whether people are bumping uglies or slow walking into a restaurant, it’s going to be soundtracked to irritating Europop with godawful lyrics like: “Kiss me like a stranger/Come and taste my flavor/You don’t need no chaser/Just vibe on my danger.” There are no fewer than 27(!) songs featured on the soundtrack. The original cast recording of Evita only had 23, and that’s a fucking musical.

The “Good Parts”

Psych! This is as far as they go.

22:30: In the VIP room of a nightclub, Laura fondles Scowly’s crotch while an exotic dancer performs. She then joins the dancer on stage, acting like she’s about to treat Scowly—and the audience—to some girl-on-girl action, only to dismiss the dancer so she and Scowly can have some hard-pounding (but fully-clothed) sex.

A box lunch with Nacho.

30:19: Laura dreams of Nacho going down on her, and the scene really does Sussina’s ass justice. The scene transitions into Scowly eating out Laura for “real”, but Marrone keeps his pants on for the scene.

Scowly suspects this meal isn’t for him.

“Quack like a duck!”

39:00: Scowly goes with some of his Mafioso colleagues to a fetish club where lines of coke are served on trays like hors d’oeuvres. He makes out with a silicone-inflated club girl but can’t bring himself to cheat on Laura. The camera instead turns its attention to another guy in Scowly’s booth having a three-way with two latex- and leather-clad women.

41:35: Laura walks in on Emily, the lead designer at her fashion house, getting rammed from behind by a hunky model.

Emily and her boy toy pad the run time.

52:10: More fantasy sex with Nacho, this time featuring a full menu of positions: rear entry, missionary and cowgirl, all performed in smoke-filled studio under a tent of bamboo garden netting and lit by a flashlight.

Laura fantasizes of Nacho while the audience has fantasies
of the producers of The Next365 Days hiring a
lighting technician.

1:08:23: Real sex with Nacho. You know Laura is really with Nacho because you can actually see what’s going on.

Laura about to get covered in hot Nacho sauce.

1:19:08: Laura in the shower. No sex, just titties. (You’re welcome, straight male and lesbian readers.)

1:27:57: Laura is in a ménage à trois with Scowly and Nacho. The guys work their way down Laura’s body, then pause to look into each other’s eyes…and kiss! To the actors’ credit, they fucking go for it. Yes, there is tongue, and not just a little bit. Alas, just as the scene is getting interesting, Laura wakes up, because of course it’s just a dream. 

OK, now I’m interested.

If there is in fact going to be a fourth movie, I can only hope Scowly and Nacho will make my dreams come true by going all the way. But this is the 365 Days universe; nothing that interesting would be allowed to happen.

The end? That’s about as likely as Sussina and Marrone fucking
on camera.

Short Takes: 'Something Weird' (1967) ★ 1/2

I have the same co-dependent relationship with Herschell Gordon Lewis’ work that I have with Jess Franco’s: I know he’ll probably let me down, but I keep coming back because he showed me a good time once or twice. I came to my senses years ago with Franco (OK, I watched Bloody Moon last year, but what can I say? I’m weak), but I keep holding out hope that the next one of Lewis’ movies I watch will be a diamond in the rough like Suburban Roulette or Scum of the Earth or will at least equal the awful/awesomeness of The Blood Trilogy. It was this hope that led me to watch Lewis’ 1967 movie Something Weird.

The movie gets off to a haphazard start, opening with the murder of a woman by an unseen assailant, then jumping to a martial arts lesson in which the student and the teacher—both middled-aged white guys—demonstrate they still have a lot to learn. Then the martial arts student, Alex (wooden William Brooker), is about to get busy with a young lady when the movie smash cuts to a scene in which engineer Mitch (smarmy Tony McCabe) is electrocuted. Something Weird decides to stay with Mitch for a while, revealing that though the near-fatal jolt of electricity scarred his face beyond the repair of plastic surgeons, Mitch did get some psychic powers in the bargain. Mitch doesn’t seem to give two shits about his new power, squandering it by telling fortunes at $2 a pop.

Enter “the Hag” (Maudite Arums), who claims to have powers of her own: if he agrees to become her lover, she can restore Mitch’s face. Though the pair have the hammiest-member-of-the-high-school-drama club acting style in common, Mitch doesn’t think he can get it up for a woman with a face covered in green makeup and spitball warts. He changes his mind when he discovers that, after a forced kiss, the Hag transforms into a beautiful, vacant blonde named Ellen (Elizabeth Lee, who might be a sentient department store mannequin).

With his face now free of papier mâché scars and Ellen by his side, Mitch starts exploiting his special talent to the fullest by making a series of TV appearances, which attracts the attention of FBI agent Alex. You remember Alex, from earlier in the movie? Yes, that’s right, the failing judo student. (Or was it karate? It doesn’t matter.) Alex is trying to solve a series of grisly murders (also from the film’s beginning) and thinks someone with Mitch’s abilities might be able to help him in his investigation. To help Mitch, he offers the electric engineer-turned-psychic some chemical help: “What I have here is a drug, called LSD. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.” Mitch's trip and that murder investigation are put on hold, however, when Alex meets Ellen. Fuck getting a killer off the streets, Alex has got a hard-on!

Something Weird has its moments, including a WTF sequence when Alex is attacked by his own bedding, the camera capturing the dental floss used to manipulate the homicidal blanket, and some of Lewis’ signature gore, including a wig stand woman’s head set on fire. Unfortunately, while Something Weird lives up to its title, much of it also pretty fucking boring, having more in common with She-Devils on Wheels than Two Thousand Maniacs. The barely comprehensible story might be from the mind of screenwriter James F. Hurley, but this is very much an HGL movie. I could maybe forgive the bad acting and static camera work if I were able to overcome the overwhelming ennui felt watching it. It’s not the worst of Lewis’ movies I’ve seen so far, but that’s not saying much. At the end of the day, you’d do better to check out the video company that took its name and logo from Something Weird than watch the actual movie.

Short Takes: 'Shallow Grave' (1987) ★★ 1/2

I remember seeing this title at one of the video stores I frequented in the early ’90s when I lived in Tennessee. Though mildly curious, I never rented it, dismissing it as just one more lazy cash-grab on the slasher trash heap. Decades later Shallow Grave ended up on Tubi, as lazy cash-grabs so often do, and since streaming has made me a much less discerning movie consumer, I decided to give it a watch. And, whadda you know, it’s not half bad.

Sue Ellen (Lisa Stahl), Patty (Carol Cadby), Rose (Donna Baltron) and Cindy (Just Kelly – no, really), four misbehaving students at a Catholic women’s college up North, take a road trip down to Fort Lauderdale. Their plans for beachside debauchery—including hooking up with the two cute guys they met on the road—take a detour when a flat tire strands the women in Medley, Georgia (Rose took out the spare for more luggage room, because girls, amiright?) What should be a temporary delay becomes a fight to stay alive when Sue Ellen witnesses Medley’s sheriff (Tony March, whose bare chest is photographed more admiringly than his female co-stars’) murder his side piece, Angie.

Shallow Grave is not so much a slasher as it is a hicksploitation thriller. Before you get to the good parts, though, you must make it through the first twenty minutes, which play like a lamer sequel to producer Allan Carr’s tacky Where the Boys Are remake. You’ll be looking forward to seeing the girls get terrorized by the time they reach Georgia, if not rooting for their demise. My sympathies increased as the characters—those that survive, at least—developed. This character growth, as well as the actors’ above-average performances, made the bleak ending even more impactful. There’s even a bit of racial commentary (inadvertent, I’m sure) when the girls are afraid to enter a barbecue joint with a largely Black customer base but dismiss the mostly white residents of Medley as harmless yokels.

Shallow Grave is no hidden gem—it’s got nothing on that other Shallow Grave—but it’s better than you’d expect, and certainly better than anyone would have expected from the director of Sorceress II: The Temptress. Besides, you could make worse choices on Tubi.

The Sony Walkman Giallo

“The ulitimate hi-tech thriller” only if you think
Pong is the ultimate video game challenge.

A future murder victim; a future sit-com star-turned-Fat Actress-turned-QAnon conspiracist; a future Star Trek counselor; two established actors with rapidly dropping Q Scores grabbing a quick buck and a Greece vacation on their way down— all appearing in one of my favorite genres, the giallo. And all of them brought together by a director whose most notorious film featured, among other things, a man pissing in a wealthy socialite’s face and fucking a goat.

These were the ingredients that drew me to Nico Mastorakis’ 1984 thriller BLIND DATE (a.k.a. Deadly Seduction). So, why was I so bored watching it?

Things start off well enough. A young woman in serious need of some dental work leaves her amusement park date and takes a cab home. We already know before she closes the car door that the cab driver has sinister intentions as the camera is careful—in the beginning, at least—to only show his hands and feet. And, sure enough, as our young woman is showering (tits at three and a half minutes in; Nico doesn’t waste time) the cab driver is letting himself into her darkened apartment because his victim—like so many characters in thrillers and horror movies—hasn’t bothered to turn on any lights for the sake of maintaining a spooky atmosphere. When she steps into the living room, certain she’s heard something but still not switching on a single lamp, she’s grabbed from behind, her mouth covered by a chloroform-soaked cotton pad. A second later she’s in the cabbie’s makeshift operating theater, about to get dissected. If only she’d thought to flip a light switch.

Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk.

Suddenly we’re watching Joseph (The Black Hole) Bottoms strutting through the streets of Athens, dressed in a tan suit and a white t-shirt reading “I ❤ My Dentist” (your guess is as good as mine). Bottoms plays Jonathon, an American marketing executive whose job seems to consist of boning his assistant, Claire (a pre-Cheers, pre-weight-gain and, presumably, pre-batshit Kirstie Alley) and watching commercial photo shoots. It’s during one such photo shoot for a travel company promotion that Jonathon thinks he recognizes one of the models, Mary Ann (the late Lana Clarkson, who gets an “introducing” credit even though she had already been in a few films prior), his former girlfriend from the U.S. Except the model’s name is Rachel, and the U.S. Embassy has no information about her under either identity. 

“My E-meter is all warmed up and ready for you.”

So, what’s a guy to do? Maybe approach her and ask? Something as simple as, “Excuse me, you look like someone I knew in the States. Are you…?” should do the trick. Worst case scenario, she misreads this as a lame pick-up line—and most likely would, given Jonathon comes across as a smug asshole—and tells him to fuck off.

Or he could stalk her, which is exactly what Jonathon chooses to do. The movie tries to explain away Jonathon’s decision with a few quick flashbacks to when Jonathon and Mary Ann were attacked on the beach by a group of thugs, who beat the shit out of Jonathon and raped Mary Ann. The incident resulted in Mary Ann landing in a psychiatric hospital and Jonathon barred from seeing her lest his presence trigger memories of that night. Yes, this is the movie’s logic: approaching Mary Ann/Rachel directly could traumatize her; better to stand outside her apartment building with a pair of binoculars and spy on her instead.

Lana Clarkson has a Nice Guy looking out for her.

Meanwhile, a hooker (Marina Sirtis) turns her last trick when she takes the scalpel-wielding cabbie back to her place. 

Counselor Troi in more traditional Betazoid wedding attire.

Jonathon’s stalking blows up in his face when Rachel’s boyfriend Dave (James Daughton of Animal House fame) catches him watching them at a mountainside make-out spot. Jonathon eludes Dave in a chase only to run face-first into a tree branch, which may not have been intentionally funny, but I laughed anyway.

Somehow, this collision with a tree blinds Jonathon even though, as his doctors stress, there is no damage to his optic nerves. “You should not be blind,” says specialist Dr. Steiger. Dr. Steiger is played by Keir Dullea, perhaps best known for starring in the sci-fi classic 2001: A Space Odyssey, so it’s only fitting that his appearance marks Blind Date’s hard left into sci-fi territory, if “sci-fi” were short for “Science? Fuck it!”

The doctor has invented a way for Jonathon to “see” that bypasses the eyes, implanting a “minute, platinum electrode plate” in his skull that interprets Sonar-like signals sent to his brain as images, something he calls CompuVision. (Isn’t interesting the number of sci-tropes that hinge on an ableist mindset?) And how are these Sonar-like signals received? Perhaps with a small device that’s worn like a hearing aid. Or maybe Dr. Steiger must remove one of Jonathan’s eyes and replace it with a glass one that contains all the necessary technology for receiving the necessary signals. Or, if you’re Nico Mastorakis, you could just give Johnny a Sony Walkman and a bunch of bullshit and hope nobody notices.

“And after we hook up your CompuVision device we’ll get
you a Swatch watch for the pain.”

Seriously. There isn’t even an attempt to disguise the Walkman and headphones with different casing or decals or just wrapping the fucker in tin foil. Nope, it’s just a Sony Walkman with all its branding in place. Though Dullea is clearly phoning it in, he deserves an honorary Oscar® for maintaining a straight face as he explains how the fast forward button activates the device and the rewind button activates the cassette inside the unit. Despite Dullea’s efforts, his explaining how this Sony Walkman is really a CompuVision device was the moment I gave up on this movie.

Vision restored!

Joseph Bottoms, the Not-Quite-Blind Avenger.

Alas, there’s a lot more movie to go as we watch Jonathon try out his new “eyes,” starting with his resuming his creeping on Rachel, going so far as breaking into her apartment and watching her nude slumber (just a reminder, he’s our protagonist). Then he heads to the subway avenge his beating and robbery by three sexually ambiguous hoodlums prior to his being outfitted with the magical Walkman. He handily beats the shit out of them with a lead-filled cane. He also plugs his, um, CompuVision device into his video game console, apropos of nothing, nearly giving himself a brain hemorrhage in the process.

In case you’re wondering, the movie hasn’t forgotten about its killer. While Jonathon is taking his special Walkman for a test drive, the homicidal hack is still killing his fares, including a young couple on a date, whom he politely allows to enjoy one last orgasm before slicing them up. The cabbie has to get in line before he can attack his next victim, who comes home to discover doddering old man hiding in her bathroom hoping to sneak a peek, something that’s played off as harmless fun instead of a dial 112 situation (seriously, movie, what is wrong with you?) As always, our killer waits until the victim gets in a gratuitous nude scene before whipping out his scalpel.

It’s OK, he’s just a pervert, not a killer.

Except, this time the Jonathon happens to be strolling by the victim’s apartment building when she screams. Jonathon runs inside to investigate, but he’s not in time to prevent the woman’s murder, and he nearly gets killed himself trying to escape the killer. However, he does inadvertently get some clues to the killer’s identity, and the audience does, too, when the camera shows the back of the murderer’s head and his distinctive hair color.

Prepare for more bullshit: It turns out that when Jonathon nearly fried his brain plugging into his game console, he gained some extra abilities, like being able to hear voices from within the passing cab and get more detailed images when he rewinds the tape in his Walkman/CompuVision. Yeah, the movie is pulling more things out of its ass than a Club Inferno Dungeon video, but I still found Jonathon’s sudden development of special abilities easier to believe than that goddamn seeing-eye Walkman.

Jonathon is also able to determine—via the special ability of knowing his thriller tropes— that the killer cabbie’s next victim will be none other than Rachel. If only he can get to her apartment without killing himself or anyone else as he speeds through the streets of Athens in his Renault Farma.

The Renault Farma: Giving the small pickup the meter maid
cart makeover drivers didn’t know they wanted.

Eager to Sleaze

On the surface, Blind Date seems like promising trash. As always, Mastorakis is eager to sleaze. Though the murder scenes are fairly restrained, the movie makes up for the scant amount of blood with liberal amounts of skin and misogyny, with the camera lingering over a victim’s bare breasts while the killer prepares to cut into them. There is also plenty of what-the-fuckery, such as when Claire plans a surprise birthday party for Jonathon, arranging for guests to arrive while she and Jonathon are fucking, which, “Surprise!”

Also, get the fuck out!

Lana Clarkson (right) wears the finest
’80s street(walker) wear.

And then there’s the cast. At the time Blind Date was released, Joseph Bottoms and Kier Dullea were the “big” names in the cast, but viewers today will likely be more interested in getting a peek at Kirstie Alley and Marina Sirtis before they became TV stars and Lana Clarkson before she became a tragedy. Unfortunately, none of the women get much to do. Sirtis doesn’t do much beyond stripping down to a pair of bikini panties and screaming, but if you’ve been wanting to see Counselor Troi topless, I guess that could be enough. I’d like to say that Clarkson, who achieved greater fame when she was murdered by Phil Specter in 2003 than she had for any of her film and TV roles, is a standout as Mary Ann/Rachel, but her role is largely decorative, most of her time on screen spent modeling swimwear and some of the worst of early 1980s fashions (the clothes in this movie are so atrocious I suspected actresses requested nude scenes to limit the amount of time they had to spend wearing them). She was undeniably attractive, but she showed more acting chops in Barbarian Queen.

Only Alley gets much to do, and she does it fairly well, though her character is largely on the sidelines (and not really necessary to the story, in all honesty). For the past couple decades Alley has gotten more attention for her struggles with her weight, her devotion to Scientology, and being someone next to whom Sean Young stands to appear sane by comparison, so it was nice to be reminded that she was once a gifted comic actress, something Mastorakis must have picked up on as Claire is often this movie’s comic relief.

A pre-fame Valeria Golina also makes an
appearance, and this is as much of her that appears.

But for all its WTF storytelling and pre-fame celebrity titties, Blind Date is only intermittently entertaining. Like Mastorakis’ 1990 erotic thriller, In the Cold of the Night, Blind Date wastes too much time on extraneous scenes that only bloat the runtime and slow the movie’s momentum, while completely ignoring other story points introduced earlier (i.e., it’s not entirely clear if Rachel is Jonathon’s ex Mary Ann). At 90 minutes, Blind Date would be a trashy good time, but it’s 103 minutes and by the time you hit the 40-minute mark you’ll feel every one of them. In the end, watching Blind Date is better than going on one, but like a real blind date, you’ll be wishing it ends much earlier than it does.

RANDOM TRIVIA: The end credits tease a sequel to Blind Date — Run, Stumble, Fall — that never materialized. However, I’d argue that In the Cold of the Night, with its mix of tits and cheap sci-fi, is its spiritual sequel. Further bolstering that argument is that Cold star Shannon Tweed was originally cast in the role of Claire.

TL;DR: ‘Deadly Illusions’ Fucking Sucks

A generic poster for a generic title.

In the 2021 Netflix thriller DEADLY ILLUSIONS, the main character, Mary, may or may not be mentally ill, but she is, quite definitively, fucking stupid.

Deadly Illusions is pretty damn dumb itself, which I’d forgive were it not for the fact that the movie expects its audience to be as well. For starters, there’s its tortured set-up. Mary Morrison (least-talked about Sex in the City cast member Kristin Davis) is the author of a lurid mystery series — or rather, she was. When we meet her, she’s settled into the life of a rich, white stay-at-home mom and would like to remain such, which is why she’s incensed when her editor shows up, with his assistant Darlene (Abella Bala, who’s not in this movie nearly enough) in tow, to propose that she write another book. She immediately ushers the editor and his assistant out of her house like they’re reporters at a Trumpist’s town hall. The editor meekly apologizes and assures Mary that those royalty checks will keep coming. Darlene, however, isn’t so meek, at least when her boss is out of earshot.

“Bitch, please.”

“You’re Mary Morrison, best-selling author. Yet there was a time when Mary couldn’t get one publisher to read her work,” Darlene says, barely fighting back a smug smile. “So, she resorted to writing salacious stories and now she gets to sit back and rake in residuals without a single thought to how she got there or who put her there.” 

Mary tells Darlene she should be fired and storms back into her mausoleum-like home. Asking a writer to write — how dare they! (Even before this meeting one senses that Mary is the type of author who puts more effort into her book jacket glamor shot than writing, so this actually tracks.) She’s so pissed that she doesn’t even open the envelope containing her publisher’s written offer. 

It’s Mary’s husband Tom (Dermot Mulroney) who actually looks at the proposal, discovering her publisher is offering to advance her $2 million to crank out another book. “That’s more money up front than all your other books combined,” he points out in a so-why-aren’t-you-writing-you-silly-bitch? tone of voice. But Mary just wants everyone to sit down for dinner.

Later, the couple has some under-the-covers sex, during which Tom deflects Mary’s attempt to blow him, like no man ever. Afterwards, Tom tells Mary about how an investment he made six months ago went tits up, costing them half their life savings, which is why it would be really super helpful if she took that $2 mil advance. Though Mary is upset that Tom risked their money without consulting her, learning that they’re now only half as rich as she thought still is not enough to convince Mary to resume her writing career.

Now, I don’t think people should do things just because they are paid a lot of money, but it’s never made clear why, exactly, Mary’s reacting like her publisher asked her to clean the grease traps at her local Carl’s Jr. “You’ve never seen me when I write. I turn into a different person,” she tells her friend Elaine (Shanola Hampton, whose character outline in the script, I suspect, was simply “Mary’s Black friend”). But ultimately, it’s Elaine who convinces Mary to write the book, suggesting she get a sitter to help with her children while she works on it, and refers her friend to a chichi childcare agency. 

So, that was why Mary didn’t want to write, because she didn’t want anything to take time away from raising her children? I call bullshit. Her two kids — basically props trotted out whenever the movie needs to remind the audience Mary is a mom — are roughly 8 or 9 years old, so they’re away at school for a good chunk of the day. Also, Tom clearly wants Mary to write this fucking book so, presumably, he could shoulder a lot of the childcare duties in the evenings while Mary’s in her office cranking out another one of those salacious stories. They may need a sitter for the occasional date night, but they do not need one to free up Mary’s “busy” schedule. (Of doing what? Going to the gym with Elaine?)

But with no sitter we have no evil nanny movie, I guess, so cue the montage of Mary interviewing potential babysitters, all of whom are rejected for one reason or another (too religious, too germophobic, too self-absorbed). But, just when Mary’s about to give up hope, she interviews Grace (Greer Grammer, Kelsey’s daughter), a sweet young woman who loves to read (they bond over the works of Gene Stratton-Porter and Judy Blume), is excited by the prospect of working for an author, and, most importantly, she’s great with kids, as she demonstrates when she quiets an argument between Mary’s two whining brats. Why, she’s perfect! Too perfect, you might say. And fake as an Ellen DeGeneres apology. But Mary—who, remember, has written a series of mystery novels—fails to see through Grace’s obsequiousness and hires her on the spot. 

She seems stable.

Grace quickly becomes a fixture in the Morrison household, preparing meals and keeping the kids occupied while Mary and Tom go into the pantry to fuck. But while Grace was hired so Mary can concentrate on writing, she’s actually a distraction for the author, their relationship going from employer-employee to BFFs to, maybe, BFFs with benefits. It’s Grace who first takes things in a sexual direction, guiding Mary’s hand to her breast while they’re bra shopping. (Do women really team up in the dressing room to help each other into a Victoria’s Secret demi bra? Seems like a scenario that exists only in porn. And bad Netflix thrillers.) 

When bra shopping goes too far.

Mary’s shocked… and also intrigued. She’s so intrigued that she does some sexual teasing of her own, first by asking Grace to rub sunscreen on her back, then encouraging her cute babysitter to doff that Catholic school girl get-up and go skinny dipping with her.

Grace opts to wear a control-top bikini instead.

These flirtations ultimately cross over fully into Sapphic territory, with Mary getting fingerbanged by Grace while luxuriating in a petal-strewn bathtub. Or was she? Deadly Illusions presents many of Grace’s seductions as possibly only happening in Mary’s head, with Mary beginning to doubt her reality.

Grace gives Mary a helping hand.

Of course, Grace isn’t restricting her flirtations to Mary. After dropping the kids off at school Tom invites the kids’ sitter to a brunch of quiche and Bloody Marys, where he gets around to asking Grace’s age. “How old do you think I am?” she asks coquettishly. Tom says a week ago he’d guess she was 20, but today, 40, which, in reality, would be when Grace would say fuck you and just go back to messing around with Mary as the only time you can get away with guessing a woman’s age as 40 is when the woman in question is obviously in her 60s. Instead, Grace stretches, causing her midriff-baring sweater to ride up, threatening to show Tom one of the sexy bras his wife helped her pick out. 

Actually, this is what I think lunch with Madonna looks like.

Poseur.

After a cutaway to Mary savoring a cigar (just… no), we see Tom and Grace bopping down the highway at night. What were they doing all day? Who picked up the kids? Mary’s not concerned, so I guess we shouldn’t be, either.

So, that’s the first hour, with not much happening beyond a bitchy confrontation with Darlene, the sassy assistant, and a few non-explicit sex scenes. Do things get more thriller-y in the second half? Yeah, but also a lot dumber.

The story jumps ahead three weeks, when Mary and Grace go on a bike ride down to a river, where they have a picnic and start to make out, Mary stopping things before Grace has a chance to burrow under her skirt. When they return to their bikes they discover their tires have been slashed. It’s nighttime when they get home, where they’re greeted by Tom and Elaine, who’s dropped by to share her suspicions — once she and Mary are away from Tom — about Tom is schtupping the help. Mary is indignant and accuses Elaine of having the hots for Tom.

Girl, don’t even.

The next night, Grace gives Mary a taste of the chili she’s preparing, then helps herself to a taste of Mary’s pussy. Things end abruptly when Tom walks into the room, though he’s so clueless I bet Grace could finish the job without him noticing. Mary is suddenly woozy (possibly roofied) and Tom has to help her to bed. Minutes later Mary comes to, hears the unmistakable sounds of people in the throes of passion and gets up to investigate. To her horror she discovers Tom, now blindfolded, going down on Grace in the kitchen (this movie really champions cunnilingus and sex in kitchens). Mary collapses, and as the screen fades to black we hear Grace tell Tom not to worry, his wife won’t remember any of this. 

When pillows attack.

But then, a few minutes later, Grace is once again getting out of bed and joining the family for that chili dinner, saying she had the most disturbing dream. And it does seem like it was a dream. To suggest that it wasn’t is to suggest that the kids were also roofied to allow time for Tom to go clam diving. It doesn’t matter, because Mary goes batshit at the table like this dream (or “dream”?) did happen (“You and my husband were fucking! Over there, on the counter!”) Later, Mary goes on a rant about how she’s been putting all her energy and talent into her family and all she gets is “fucking screwed!” I so wanted Tom to ask Mary by whom does she feel betrayed, him or Grace, but all he does is apologize to Mary like she’s an angry caller on a customer service line.

Mary then finds out that (gasp!) Grace just might not be who she says she is. She investigates further, starting with finding out Grace’s last name. Seriously. Grace has been working for the family for roughly two months and neither Mary nor Tom bothered ask her last name? And how does Mary go about learning this crucial information? Maybe ask Grace directly. Or, how about handing her a W2 to fill out? No, Mary goes to the library to see if the librarian will give it up. “She’s your best friend and you don’t even know her last name?” asks the librarian/audience stand-in, a rare moment of self-awareness on the movie’s part.

Then there’s a murder and all evidence points to Mary as the prime suspect. With only 24 minutes left in the movie, Mary will have to act fast if she’s to clear her name and find the real (or “real”) killer. Good thing for her the cops at the station don’t keep too close an eye on their murder suspects.

Potential as an R-Rated Lifetime Movie Squandered

So much of Deadly Illusions’ story plays out as if writer-director Anna Elizabeth James was selecting tropes like they’re dishes on a buffet line: “Let’s see, I’ll start with The Hand that Rocks the Cradle, with a generous side of Single White Female and just a dallop of Basic Instinct—but hold the cooch flashing, please. Ooooh, and how about a helping of Identity? And let’s ladle on some of that old-fashioned Gaslight gravy.” This wouldn’t be so bad if these tropes were used in an interesting way, but James struggles to use them competently. She frequently loses her place in her own script, introducing some potentially interesting story elements (alluding to Mary’s dark past; rifts in the Morrison marriage) only to forget them a scene later, then summon them in the last act when they’re useful to the plot. 

The people most short-changed by Deadly Illusions, second only to the audience, are the movie’s cast. Kristin Davis seems game for Mary’s many mood swings, but I have to think that even she wondered at some point if her character was A.I.-generated. Greer Grammer fares a little better in that Grace is a bit a more of a fully realized, if poorly written, character. Elaine has little character beyond being The Best Friend, but Shanola Hampton doesn’t let that stop her from injecting a little personality into her role. On the other end of the spectrum, Dermot Mulroney is barely present in the part of The Husband (at one point he clearly calls Grace Chris). Then again, the role gives him little reason to be.

Mulroney does show some skin, so if you like your men to
have some mileage on them, enjoy. Lookin’ good, Dermot!

Only Abella Bala seems to realize this movie’s potential as an R-rated Lifetime movie, making me wish that Deadly Illusions was about an editor’s assistant out to sabotage a best-selling author’s career rather than an evil nanny story. 

James’ previous films have been family friendly, equestrian-focused fare like Destined to Ride. Deadly Illusions is her first produced thriller, and if it’s anything to go by perhaps James should just stick to stories about girls and their horses. The rest of you should just avoid Deadly Illusions, which isn’t even worth a hate watch.