Wicked Ways aka Table for One. (1999) - Ron Senkowski.

I'd happily watch a half-eaten jar of marmalade if it had Rebecca De Mornay's delicious face on it. Neglected, highly strung wife Ruth (De Mornay) and her bigamist husband's (Rooker)marriage is dysfunctional in the way Vlad the Impaler enjoyed a quirky way of alfresco dining. De Mornay's compelling allure is undiminished by her escalating eccentricities, she's John Water's kooky, giving off more searing heat than a hot rock massage in Death Valley. Gotta love Hollyweird, as their manifestations of crazy are often hyperbolically sexed-up, and mirrors reality no less falsely than Hubbard's Dianetics. Real crazies smell bad, look worse, and make an uncommon nuisance of themselves in public libraries, whereas De Mornay's hot-panted wife Ruth is never once ever less than eminently boffable!

The dramatic lure of things going catastrophically south for her duplicitous husband are quirkily telegraphed by Ruth's mountingly bizarre behaviour. Most women make do with erogenous zones, whereas Ruth has equally multitudinous 'Danger Zones', a series of inventive, Home Alone, husband annihilating booby traps! The sublimely farcical scene with the forgivably horny delivery dude was absolutely laugh out loud funny. I don't wish to be discourteous to Michael Rooker, who is more than fine, but he is resolutely outgunned on all levels by De Mornay, and I fell unashamedly in love with these fifty sultry shades of De Mornay. Endings are tricky, sequelitus has precluded anything but a goofy climax to a horror film, but the whimsical last shot in Wicked Ways suggests hope for the hugely beleaguered Kate.

L.A. Vice (1989) – Joseph Merhi.

I feel that it is entirely just to claim that no true blue B-movie cultist can remain oblivious to the hyper-ballistic, generously pyromaniacal charms of indie-action impresarios PM Entertainment Inc. Det. Chance (Lawrence Hilton-Jacobs) investigates a mob-curated kidnapping, which leads to the expectedly explosive conflagration of bloody bullet-hits, cliched Goombah blarney, fisticuffs, alpha cop repartee, and the obligatory scene of convenience store carnage. PM Entertainment are mostly consistent purveyors of above-average DTV goodness, and hiring gravel-voiced icon William Smith, albeit briefly, provides additional value. Det. Chance is a charismatic, shoot first, Miranda rights later cop, he eats bullets for breakfast, pisses napalm, has a dynamite right hook, and is no less adept at kicking ass, than tapping it!

Merhi's grungier L.A. Vice enjoys a flintier edge, in addition to the plentiful blood-squibs, someone is cruelly immolated, and a wise guy is gorily disseminated into family-sized chunks of Ravioli! L.A. Vice culminates in a wholesomely gee-whizz fashion, blithely suggesting that no amount of gratuitous violence can't be wholly redeemed by an act of God-fearin' charity. The DNA to Chance's roughneck cop, like many others, can be directly linked to Harry Callahan, his volatile admixture of might is right, street smarts, and straight-shooting morality means Chance sho' nuff gets the job done! L.A Vice is conspicuously less polished than PM Entertainment's later, slicker productions, but, for me, that works eminently in its favour!

 Apology (1986) – Robert Bierman.

This HBO/Cannon co-production has Peter Weller and Lesley Ann Warren providing a touch of class to so-so serial killer potboiler Apology. The hook is a new one to me, conceptual artist Lily(Warren) invites randoms to leave messages on her answerphone, pertaining to past crimes/misdemeanours/regrets, fatally attracting the macabre confessions of 'Claude' (Jimmy Ray Weeks), a homophobic maniac with an exceptionally grisly MO. While never straying from its conspicuously TV Movie-of-the-week aesthetic, Apology mostly held my interest, and not just because I wanted to know what the grandstanding skeeve was planning to do with all those severed peni!

Handsome pair, Weller & Warren are engaging, and appear well-suited, expressing a tangible chemistry, making the inevitable will-they-won't-they shtick appear less contrived than usual. Thriller fans might regard Apology more appreciatively than those looking for an especially bloody Psycho-shocker. Without belabouring the point, the exemplary leads are what prevent this from mediocrity, but even they can't quite revivify the formulaic final act. While Apology is well-made, employing an almost Giallo-esque audio trope, it spiels inexorably to its pallid conclusion, only briefly enlivened by some inspired Macgyver-esque shenanigans. Not wishing to end on a bum note, Maurice Jarre's inventive score has nothing to apologise for, being really rather splendid.

 Double Tap (1997) - Greg Yaitanes.

'Mowing helps me relax!!!!'

This satisfyingly violent Stephen Rea/Heather Locklear crime thriller enjoys some heft, namely being produced by Joel Silver and Richard Donner, but I still don't know exactly who to blame for hiring Moby to do the score! Only kidding, guy! Vegans are almost people too, m'kay!!! For the very first time I was able to fully appreciate the schmendrick line 'My Ass is on the line!!!!??', since, of course, Locklear's preternaturally perky botty MUST be protected all ALL costs!!!! The stolid cat and mousing herein isn't continually fascinating, but Locklear and Rea are consistently fun to watch, with hard-smoking, flint-edged Locklear proving especially magnetic. Double Tap remains a serviceable 90s Cop v. Hitman shoot 'em up, and the mostly prosaic text is embiggened by the quality of its exceptionally fine supporting cast.

The major dramatic surprise is the fact that I didn't hate the Moby score as much as I had initially thought. An energized Locklear is arguably at the height of her deliciously drop-dead dazzling-ness, and her willingness to assist killer Cypher (Rea) is credibly dramatized, since his righteous modus operandi is an eminently sympathetic one. Often brief, I have always relished legendary stuntman/wrestler Gene LeBell's playful cameos, and his skeevey appearance in Double Tap is a doozie!!!!! This is strictly Hot Dog and a Pepsi fare, and sometimes that hits just the right spot, but it never lasts. Heather's resourceful FBI agent is a real Live Wire, sorry, I couldn't resist at least one Crue reference!

 Ultimate Desire (1993) – Rodney McDonald.

A ritualistic killer douses a specific perfume over each victim, and it's mostly down to tough, sexy undercover ex-cop Lauren (Kate Hodge) to sniff out the malign perpetrator. Routine DTV thriller is largely a slinky cat and mouse between handsome perfumer Gordon's (Martin Kemp) prodigiously gifted olfactory bulb, and Lauren's heaven scent sleuthing, as they both attempt to out foxy one another. Glamorous vixen Deborah Shelton is no less glamorously vulpine as usual, she's bold, sassy, bi-curious, and wants us to think she might be the musky marauder! Is she? Pfft!!!! with all that toilet water under the bridge, who's gonna care now!?? As a permanently crawlspaced man, I can numbly watch cheaply voyeuristic trash like this, and if you extracted the slasher elements, you'd barely notice, but sans T&A, the lurid entertainment quotient would drop well below watchability. Regarding as to any artistic merit Ultimate Desire, may, or may not have, Kate Hodge is absolutely charming, undeniably beautiful and really rather good. I've always thought the prosaic cop backstory needs to be gussied up, the slow-motion/rain/partner/death/guilt is limper than Madolf's dead noodle. Ultimate Desire is ultimately a bit niffy, but features some appealing shots of L.A., and McDonald delivers an unexpectedly satisfying climax.

 All-American Murder (1991) – Anson Williams.

Normally I would rather incubate mosquito larva in my eye ducts than rewatch anything starring Charlie Schlatter, but I hold Christopher Walken in such high esteem, I stoically overlooked my prejudice. Coolly enigmatic detective Walken attempts to solve the brutal murder of high echelon WASP Tally (Josie Bisset), while all circumstantial evidence points glaringly at ex-pyromaniac loner Artie (Charlie Schlatter), the sordid reality of this crime proves far more unsettling. Disturbingly, I didn't dislike Schlatter's tousled, love-struck tearaway Artie, I sympathized with the beleaguered misfit as he desperately tried to clear his name.

All-American Murder is a sardonic, splendidly engaging admixture of angsty Brat-packer melodramatics, and zesty high school slasher. The showy introduction of detective P.J Decker (Walken) is utterly delicious film-making, wholly meritorious of an immediate rewind! Decker's wry sleuthing skills are consistently joyous to behold, frequently expressing empathy with the younger, snarkier Schlatter. As a collegiate murder mystery, it still has much to offer thriller addicts, and the oafish panty-huffing caretaker Forbes (J.C. Quinn) raising that especially beloved slasher archetype to a giddy level of purest kitsch, and the frantic final act proves thrillingly mayhemic, boasting a number of juicy kills! It wouldn't be entirely preposterous to suggest that All-American Murder might be labelled as 'A John Hughes version of an All-American Giallo'.

 South Beach (1992) – Fred Williamson.

Rough-housin', private dick DTV shoot 'em up South Beach had me at Fred Williamson, and then the additional shock treatment of Gary Busey produced all the bonnie babies! Having TWO bona fide cult figures in one film is not absolutely unprecedented, but certainly not of the breathlessly winning stature of these two charismatic Alpha gods! For a slender narrative, no less pulpy than the beer mat it was speedily conceived upon, the gravitational allure of Mr. Williamson attracted an exemplary supporting cast: Peter Fonda, Vanity, Robert Forster, Stella Stevens, and a tasty cameo from Euro-cult icon Henry Silva.

An obsessive redneck psycho (Sam Jones) wants to permanently disconnect phone fantasy siren (Vanity), and her loyal ex's (Williamson) courageous attempts to prevent this prove increasingly deleterious to his continued well being. The vibes are pretty positive throughout, as the main actors share a natural rapport, all apparently enjoying themselves, with much of that playful energy transferable to the audience, well, the appreciative audience of me, myself and I had no complaints! The Pm Entertainment-esque South Beach remains an easy, fun watch, with handsome icon Williamson being on especially magnetic form, but I simply CONNOT believe our beloved Flash Gordon would have done any of those wicked things, this certainly must be one of Ming the merciless's more insidiously concocted plans!