Parky at the Pictures (DVD 26/1/2012)

Hamstrung by a combination of dismal script, hackneyed direction, inept or disconnected performances and crassly frenzied photography, editing and/or score, these pictures are so dire they almost defy criticism. Indeed, one sometimes suspects they are either in-jokes whose humour eludes everyone but the makers or deliberately slipshod efforts cynically cobbled together for tax purposes.

Not all of the movies under consideration this week fall into this Z grade category, but it's not difficult to spot the ones that do.

BLITZ.

Even before John Thaw and Dennis Waterman headlined a couple of big-screen spin-offs from the cult 1970s TV series The Sweeney, Britain had a decent reputation for maverick cop movies. Elliott Lester's Blitz may not be the most original contribution to the sub-genre, but this adaptation of a Ken Bruen novel packs a punch and even boasts solid turns by the likes of Aiden Gillen, Paddy Considine and David Morrissey to compensate for the typically inert performance of star Jason Statham.

From the moment he's seen thrashing a trio of car thieves, it's clear that Detective Sergeant Statham is a loose cannon. Superior Nicky Henson has forced him to attend counselling sessions with a police psychologist and even paired him with the openly gay Paddy Considine in the hope of curtailing his unPC antics. But, while he can sympathise with black PC Zawe Ashton, who has become addicted to drugs during an undercover operation, and Chief Inspector Mark Rylance, who is mourning the loss of his wife, Statham cannot hide his contempt for serial killer Aiden Gillen, whose exploits are being splashed across the front page of a tabloid rag by unscrupulous hack David Morrissey.

Somewhat echoing the disdain for a possibly homosexual villain exhibited in Dirty Harry (1971) and The Silence of the Lambs (1991), this uncomplicated actioner contains an eminently resistible macho streak that is compounded by the condemnation of Morrissey's methods while Statham's infinitely more reprehensible tactics are bullishly condoned. Yet, while John Gilbert's thudding editing and Ilan Eshkeri's thumping score reinforce the unsubtlety of Nathan Parker's disappointingly formulaic script, Lester points Rob Hardy's camera at some evocative London locations stages the action sequences with brusque efficiency. He also gets better performances than he perhaps deserves from Ashton, as the pitiable casualty of institutional chauvinism, and Gillen as the baddie who takes genuine delight in his crimes and Statham's growing realisation that they have a personal motive.

BLOOD OUT.

Looking at the portly figure sporting a risible barnet in Blood Out, it's hard to remember that Val Kilmer was once on the Hollywood A list. The days of Top Gun (1986), The Doors (1991), Batman Forever (1995) and even Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005) seem a long way away in this tiresome vigilante tosh, which lurches between clichés and caricatures with an ungainliness that suggests director Jason Hewitt either lacks a sense of style or realised at the outset that there was nothing he could do to save this thick ear of a picture.

When ne'er-do-well brother Ryan Donowho is killed and city cop Curtis '50 Cent' Jackson shows a distinct disinterest in investigating, small-town sheriff Luke Goss hands in his badge, covers his torso in tattoos and joins the gang led by Tamer Hassan to find the culprit. In the process, he befriends thug with a heart Ed Quinn and discovers that his sister, Stephanie Honore, is carrying Donowho's child. He also takes time out from his inquiries to engage in some energetic sex with amazonian dominatrix AnnaLynne McCord. Eventually, however, Goss twigs that Hassan is small fry compared to bosses Val Kilmer and Vinnie Jones, who have big plans for their criminal network.

Kilmer, Jones and Jackson phone in what are essentially cameos. But, to give him his due, Goss (who was once part of the short-lived British pop combo, Bros) tries to take this shoddy farrago seriously. He's on a hiding to nothing, though, as the screenplay by Hewitt and John A. O'Connell is risibly riddled with implausibilities and dismal dialogue that is only surpassed in ineptitude by the lyrics of the rap tunes on the soundtrack. In all, 17 people are credited as producers here. Surely one of them had enough movie nous to recognise that this was in serious need of a rewrite or six?

DEATH BELL.

The concept of trapped victims needing to collaborate to survive has already been explored by Spaniards Luis Piedrahita and Rodrigo Sopeña in Fermat's Room (2007) and reworked by Stuart Hazeldine for the 2009 British thriller Exam. However, the debuting South Korean director Yoon Hong-Seung (aka Chang) laces the action of his school shocker Death Bell (2008) with plenty of gore and a supernatural subtext that adds intrigue to its devilish, if not always entirely plausible ingenuity.

The top 20 students at Chang-in High have been asked to stay behind by principal Lee Beom-su and English teacher Yun Jeong-hee to prepare for the visit of a class from a rival institution. However, no sooner do they realise that they have been cut off from the outside world than they are confronted with the first of six questions and witness a classmate drown in a glass tank when they fail to solve a mathematical problem. As students are successively plunged to their death from the gym ceiling, slashed and suffocated with flower petals, wedged into a dryer and frenziedly stabbed, bright spark Nam Gyu-ri realises that the cleverest kids are being butchered in class rank and she is next.

Troublemaker Kim Beom vows to protect Nam. But, by this point, Yoon has already lost interest in (and, to a large extent control of) the plotline and jettisons any pretence that the killings may be the work of a female student who died in mysterious circumstances a couple of years earlier to reveal the real reason for the slaughter and the identity of its prime target. The questions posed are hardly taxing, but the kids prove dismayingly dim in tackling them. Moreover, the killer rarely plays by the rules and this arbitrary attitude vitiates the suspense. The cast tries hard and, as befits a pop video veteran, Yoon has an eye for an image. But, while this is undemanding, it's also something of a let down.

JUICE.

Following the example of John Singleton's Boyz N the Hood and Matty Rich's Straight Out of Brooklyn (both 1991), Ernest R. Dickerson's Juice (1992) seeks to dispel some of the myths about the urban violence that had been glamorised in the blaxploitation pictures of the 1970s. Marking the directorial debut of Spike Lee's onetime cinematographer, this remains one of the more significant entries in the New Black Cinema boom that raised such high hopes for an honest and influential screen discussion of African-American issues.

Despite taking the nickname `The Wrecking Crew', Harlem buddies Omar Epps, Tupac Shakur, Khalil Kain and Jermaine `Huggy' Hopkins are content to bunk off school and steal LPs from the local record shop. However, when Shakur feels slighted by Puerto Rican gang leader Vincent Laresca, he talks his crewmates into holding up a convenience store and cold bloodedly shoots owner Victor Campos during the robbery.

Fleeing to an abandoned building, Epps, Kain and Hopkins remonstrate with Shakur for his recklessness and he guns down Kain during the altercation. Dismayed by Shakur's cynical funeral promise to Kain's mother, Lauren Jones, that he will hunt down the killer, Epps and Hopkins decide to give him a wide berth. But the increasingly unhinged Shakur will attempt to frame his friends and take another life before his rampage is ended.

Any appreciation of a film about the toll taken on the African-American community of gun crime has begin with mention of the fact that Shakur was the victim of a drive-by shooting in 1996. But even though he remains a hip hop icon, this well-meaning saga very much belongs to its own era and it would be fascinating to know how much it resonates with black youth of the post-gangsta rap generation.

Shakur delivers an edgy, but not always controlled performance, while Epps always seems too squeakily idealised as the wannabe DJ who comes to regret succumbing to peer pressure. Initially allowing himself a few debutorial flourishes, Dickerson wisely decides to focus on everyday detail to give the action a ring of authenticity. But the denouement is decidedly melodramatic and, even though the moral of the story is entirely laudable, it feels somewhat archly sincere.

THE RIG.

Taking cheap shots at terrible movies is a lazy form of criticism that should be left to the denizens of the DIY blogosphere. But it is tempting to launch into a picture when it's as badly made as Peter Atencio's The Rig. Excuses can always be found for penurious projects that demonstrate a modicum of honest enthusiasm and budget-defying ingenuity. However, it's not easy to find much to commend grudgingly let alone enthuse about in this offshore Alien rip-off.

The plot couldn't be more threadbare. A storm strands a crew stationed on a remote rig, thus, leaving them defenceless against the voracious monsters they have awoken with their drilling. The quartet of scenarists start off trying to involve us in the lives of company owner Art LaFleur, rig boss William Forsythe, his rebellious daughter Serah D'Laine, her hunky beau Scott Martin and siblings Stacey Hinnen and Dan Benson. But they quickly abandon any pretence at storytelling or character development and concentrate instead on finding new ways to isolate individuals so they can be ripped apart by a creature whose origins and motives are roundly ignored.

Production designer Robert W. Savina merits mention for creating sets that emphasise the isolation and helplessness of the occupants. Veterans Forsythe and LaFleur also put in a shift against the tide. But the other cast members are largely inanimate and seem as incapable of disguising the woefulness of the dialogue as Atencio's inexpert efforts to cut the attacks in a manner that withholds the fact the monster is an actor in a rubber suit. With Bruce Fowler's irksomely insistent score and the stereotypical depiction of the African-American (Marcus T. Paulk) and Puerto Rican (Carmen Perez) characters adding insult to injury, this is pretty desperate stuff that will only interest connoisseurs of trash.

SETUP.

Bruce Willis surely has better things to do than guest in clunkers like Mike Gunther's revenge thriller, Setup? He may no longer be one of the biggest draws at the American box-office, but Willis always seemed to invest vehicles with more knowing wit than fellow action men Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Steven Seagal and Jean-Claude Van Damme. Yet, here he is, going through the motions for a paycheck like any other jobbing actor in a movie that is whoppingly unworthy of his talents.

The opening segment concerns Ryan Phillippe visiting father James Remar in prison and promising to do the right thing by him in planning a diamond heist with Curtis '50 Cent' Jackson and Brett Granstaff. However, no sooner has the trio committed the crime than Phillippe guns down Granstaff and disappears with the gems, having carelessly failed to ensure Jackson's demise. Unsurprisingly, he is mightily peeved by the betrayal and enlists the help of gang boss Willis, his perky daughter Jenna Dewan and his psychotic sidekick Randy Couture to teach Phillippe a terminal lesson about honour among thieves.

Naturally, Willis wants a favour in return and Jackson is forced to tackle some Russian mobsters and dispose of an inconvenient corpse. But such is the sloppiness of the screenplay that his problems vanish almost as soon as they arise and, consequently, Gunther fails to generate any sense of tension or excitement. As though cognisant of the film's mediocrity, Willis keeps his tongue firmly in his cheek. But Phillippe takes it all desperately seriously, while Jackson confirms again that, if he has a forte, it is more likely to be musical than cinematic.

SHIVER.

Since making a decent debut with Fausto 5.0 (2001), Isidro Ortiz has rather lost his way. He stuffed Somnia, his 2005 investigation into nightmares, with mediocre special effects, and, in 2008, he settled for a lacklustre script about the unexplained occurrences in a remote northern village in Shiver. Spanish horror has a thing about juveniles in rustic settings, with Montxo Armendáriz's Obaba (2005), Jorge Sanchez-Cabezudo's The Night of the Sunflowers, Guillermo del Toro's Pan's Labyrinth (both 2006) and Fernando Barreda Luna's Atrocious (2010) all exploiting the disquieting tranquility of the countryside. But Ortiz and his quartet of screenwriters seem more interested in gently guying generic convention than creating and sustaining suspense.

Relocated to the Pyrenees because teenage son Junio Valverde suffers from photophobia, single mom Mar Sodupe hopes for a little normalcy in the old house rented from eccentric Francesc Orella. However, with livestock and then one of Valverde's classmates being slaughtered, suspicion falls upon the hoodied newcomer with a fear of sunlight. Indeed, when shepherd Andrés Herrera is found with his throat tattered, even detective Roberto Enríquez's daughter Blanca Suárez contemplates the awful truth that the boy on whom she has a crush may well be a vampire.

Having neatly set up this scenario, Ortiz abruptly changes tack and, as a consequence, a promising picture rapidly descends into formulaic nonsense about an unseen monster in the woods. He also abandons any discussion of parochial prejudice and insularity to focus on putting Josep M. Civit's camera through its shakicam paces. Even more fatally, he reveals the culprit far too early before asking the audience to accept an explanation that is beyond far fetched. Thus, while this has its amusing moments, it hardly redefines either the creature feature or psycho-horror.

SOUTH CENTRAL.

Based on the novel Crips by Los Angeles teacher Donald Bakeer, Stephen Milburn Anderson's South Central (1992) remains among the least vaunted titles of the New Black Cinema wave that erupted in the wake of Spike Lee's breakthrough in the mid-1980s. Urging African-American to be better fathers to their sons, it couldn't be better intentioned. But such is the emphasis on plot that there is little room for nuanced characterisation. Thus, while the ghetto ambience feels authentic, this lacks the socio-political heft to prevent the action drifting into melodrama.

On being released from prison, twentysomething Glenn Plummer hooks up with homeboys Byron Minns, Vincent Craig Dupree and Lexie Bigham in the Hoover Street Deuces. Despite learning that girlfriend LaRita Shelby gave birth while he's been inside, Plummer is less concerned with bonding with his baby than in exacting his revenge on Kevin Best, the pimp-cum-dealer who got Shelby hooked on crack while she was working for him.

He gets a decade behind bars for his crime. But, while Plummer learns about Islam and black consciousness from fellow inmate Carl Lumbly, his now 10 year-old son (Christian Coleman) has started stealing car radios for Minns. Moreover, when his father finishes his sentence, the boy fully expects him to dispatch Ivory Ocean, the man who shot him in the back and caused him to be incarcerated in a juvenile facility.

Making a credible transition from gangsta to responsible parent, Plummer holds the picture together with aplomb. But Anderson struggles to make the audience care as much for Coleman, who is something of a cipher as he all-too-quickly forgets the lessons learned from kindly nurse Starletta Dupois and falls in with the manipulative Minns. Furthermore, he fails to explore the social, cultural and economic reasons for South Central becoming a war zone and, thus, the screenplay often feels preachy - when it's not being unregenerately sexist or trading in designer violence. Artistically, this is a flawed, but fascinating snapshot of its times. What is so depressing is that little seems to have changed in the intervening 20 years since it was first released.

THIS BOY'S LIFE.

Seen at a remove of some two decades, the signs are readily evident in Michael Caton-Jones's This Boy's Life (1993). Just as it's clear that 19 year-old Leonardo DiCaprio is a talent in the making, so this adaptation of Tobias Wolff's autobiographical novel betrays the fact that Robert De Niro is about to cease being the leading Method actor of his generation and become a talent for hire, who is as prone to cartoonish caricature as his contemporary, Al Pacino. Consequently, while this 1950s saga offers a fascinating flashback to the moment a thesping torch was passed, it proves deeply disappointing in both dramatic and cinematic terms.

Frustrated by her inability to settle down, Ellen Barkin heads west to Washington state in the hope of finding a man to share her life. She meets seemingly solid citizen Robert De Niro in the town of Concrete and feels sure that his experience as a father of three will enable him to tame her increasingly detached son, Leonardo DiCaprio. However, the teenager takes an instant dislike to De Niro and tries to convince Barkin that his parenting skills are dependent upon emotional and physical intimidation.

Ignoring the boy's misgivings, Barkin marries De Niro. But he soon reveals his true colours as a homophobic and latently violent control freak and DiCaprio conspires with gay classmate Jonah Blechman to forge improved grades to secure a scholarship at a prestigious school back east. However, De Niro refuses to take such an affront to his authority lying down.

Capably designed by Stephen J. Lineweaver, costumed by Richard Hornung and photographed by David Watkin, this looks more feels like a 1950s movie. Neither De Niro nor DiCaprio seem to inhabit the decade and this jarring sense of modernity undermines both the former's Eisenhowerian conservatism and the latter's rebel with a cause petulance. Robert Getchell's screenplay also reduces Barkin to the role of deus ex machina, while similarly marginalising De Niro's children (Eliza Dushku, Carla Gugino and Zack Ansley), who could surely have given DiCaprio an insight into their father's behaviour. Consequently, this winds up being a melodramatic stand-off between a bully and a conniver, whose significance lies primarily in the status (both then and now) of the two stars.