Movie Nation

Life would be tough enough for Mallory, a pale freckled redhead in boarding school in Bangkok.

She crossed the Russian Mean Girl at school, the sort who cracks her knuckles after bloodying Mallory’s nose, hits her with “Hey, Snitch, I swear to God I will KILL you” in her best adolescent Bond Villain voice, and is the Queen of Victimhood when she gets clocked in the way she so richly deserves.

Unfortunately, Mallory (Kelly Ann McCart) used a weapon. And that’s how she ends up “Locked Up.”

Guardian Uncle Tommy (Jared Cohn, also the writer/director) isn’t all that sympathetic.

“Congratulations,” he says between pills and belts of the local booze. That’s Mallory’s next misstep, an overdose.

“Locked Up” is a little “Locked Up Abroad,” a little less “Orange is the New Black” with a hint of “Brokedown Palace.” If only this was “Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason,” just a lock up, a song and let’s move on. Nope.

It’s a laughably bad teen-in-stir thriller set at swank, shiny Lattsan Correctional, an American coping with the pristine, orderly two years of Thai Law (corrupt), Thai mores (LOL!) and the cliques that are in reality “gangs” in this “reform school/prison.”

Head mistress Tuptim (Shades of “The King & I”) may try to “keep things informal,” to help “troubled young ladies.” But we know what’s coming. That’s why we tune in to “Bad Girls in Prison” pictures.

“Mmmmmm, fresh MEAT!”

The shiny admissions area and grounds are just a front. The prison is every Asian druggy dungeon we’ve ever seen in the movies. Spray painting “Hell” on the entrance just seems redundant.

The guards let every Euro-trash and Amazonian Asian in there do what they will. Miss “Gingerland” is in over her head.

“You look like a crier,” her cellmate (Kat Grey) taunts. “Are you?”

The sweating, the stripping, the hazing, the threats, the baggy prison fatigues, the rats.

“You will learn to think they’re cute!”

It’s a prison built for “sex, fighting and gambling,” not for rehabilitation, where silence is guaranteed by death threats, mean that the bullied redhead must adapt, toughen up or die. Whatever the officials are having her sign away, whatever the future holds, this is an adapt or die situation.

The decision to have everybody communicate in English is both inaccurate and painful to listen to — labored, unnatural inflections sounded out by non-English speakers.

It’s a film of mopey, tentative acting (especially Cohn), arch villains and “types” — the “inmates” must have emptied out modeling school during the casting call.

And worst of all, they make us wait for the “catfight.”

“You can only hide behind Kat so long. And then you’re MINE!”

From the strip-down scene to the first loving slow-mo of shower time, this is straight-up old school exploitation. Nudity abounds. Rape. Inmate-on-inmate sex. More showers. This is as demeaning as movies get for young actresses.

The sinister warden (Maythavee Weiss) lets her monstrous side show, in the most labored English this side of Melania. 

“Bring them to the CAGE! Fight now. I say FIGHT!”

Train, toughen up, get your head right. Strip on command.

The fights? No wonder they made us wait. Meh.

MPAA Rating: TV-MA, violence, nudity, explicit sex, profanity, substance abuse

Cast: Kelly Ann McCart, Kat Grey, Jared Cohn, Katrina Ingkarat

Credits: Written and directed by Jared Cohn. Aan Asylum release.

Running time: 1:25

It’s hard to know what to make of “Path of Blood.”

The documentary begins with Islamic fanatics and narration underscoring efforts to create, or recreate “a global Muslim empire,” of making war on “the Crusaders.”

That would be us.

And then we meet the footsoldiers in this jihad/Holy War. They’re interviewed by their comrades for the online obituary/recruitment videos posted by Al qaeda.

They’re giggling and laughing, and a little confused.

“I don’t understand the question,” Brother Ali complains. Stop using such “big words,” he suggests.

Training videos include jihadists competing in human wheel-barrow races, their baggy pants falling down. “Delete that,” one boy, barely in his teens, laughs.

Coming back to camp in a driving rain, they’re singing and laughing hysterically.

“This is MARTYRDOM,” one bellows as the torrent threatens to wash their tents, bedrolls, what have you, away.

Thoughts of Albert Brooks’ “Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World” pop up. Are they, is this movie, having us on? Is this a mockumentary?

Glance back over the credits. Mark Boal, journalist turned screenwriter of “The Hurt Locker,” “Zero Dark Thirty” is a producer. Director Jonathan Hacker is a British documentarian specializing in spy documentaries and a film about “Britain’s First Suicide Bombers.”

No. This isn’t a joke. And as the young, the faithful, the fanatical and plainly gullible clean and brandish their AK47s, we get the gallows humor. They’re as serious as young men advising, “KEEP the bandana! Your hair looks AMAZING!” can be.

But Hacker’s film, basically video underscoring the book, “Path of Blood: The Story of Al Qaeda’s War on the House of Saud” (Saudi Arabia’s rulers) he co-wrote with Thomas Small, then suggests more troubling motives.

Jihadists declare “Join the religion of god or be killed” and “I bring you SLAUGHTER,” as “Voice of Jihad” online videos document “missions” to attack “infidels,” “Crusaders,” “Hindu dogs” and “foreign scum.” It’s all footage from the early to mid-2000s — dated, historical at this stage. Why revisit it now?

And the subtext? Saudi Arabia bore the brunt of the fight with this terrorist organization, suffered most of the attacks and did the most to destroy it. Saudis and the House of Saud are “victims” of this fanaticism, running the in-country man-hunts, tracking down and killing off cells of Al Qaeda — usually AFTER another deadly attack, often playing catch-up to the Bin Laden organization.

In simply presenting this mass of captured jihadist video, mixed with official Saudi security forces raid footage, firefight video and odd snippets of Al Aribiya (Saudi owned-state TV) coverage of the conflict, is Hacker cashing Saudi checks for a little House of Saud image polishing?

We see victims of the violence, foreign workers, children killed in bombings. Propagandists refer to this as “The Bloody Shirt” persuasion — wave the victims in our faces to prompt some reaction.

There are bloodied, bullet-riddled corpses of Al Qaeda fighters, and almost comically gruesome scenes of the jihadists elaborate Saudi funerals.

An outsider might well ask, why is this oppressive, religion-controlling state allowing these mass murderers, with their “72 Virgins” vanity plates on their truck bombs, to even BE buried? Wouldn’t the best Islamic deterrent to recruitment and martyrdom be to deny them that superstitious comfort, and let the Islamic world see their corpses dumped in the sea?

There’s nothing in the narration, and there are no expert witnesses interviewed on camera to provide context to all this. No, the world doesn’t need another Complete History of Modern Radical Islam, its offshoots and inspirations. But we don’t hear the word “Wahhabism” once. This 18th century fundamentalist sect is widely considered to be the wellspring of current jihadist thought. And the House of Saud has spent billions embracing it, twisting it to its purposes and coddling it as long as the terrorism it spread was abroad.

There is no mention of 9/11, and while that “behind the scenes” footage is better known — bin Laden’s cruel, insulting laughs at the gullible, “martyred brothers” he paid to train and send to America sticks in the mind — that allows “Path of Blood” to conveniently leave out that most of the 9/11 hijackers were Saudi.

“Blood” narrows its focus to Saudi and foreign victims and Saudi fights — mostly from 2003-2005 — against the beast the House of Saud financed and created, Americans tortured and (off camera) beheaded, Brits and Americans in “soft target” businesses in Saudi Arabia murdered in their offices (on camera).

It makes for a chilling portrait of fanaticism at work, even if it is more historical than anything worthy of “let’s feel that fear again” topicality. Even if we suspect its designed to gin up more support for our Islamic ally in the Middle East.

Because “Path of Blood” is just as chilling as pay-for-play Saudi image polishing, selectively editing that history in a “Hey, look, OUR PRINCES were victims, too” effort.

MPAA Rating: unrated, bloody, explicit scenes of death and dismemberment

Cast: Narrated by Samuel West

Credits:Directed by Jonathan Hacker. A Paladin release.

Running time: 1:29

What do the stars of the “Universal Soldier” film series have in common with “Brokeback Mountain” cowboys?

Jean-Claude Van Damme, the onetime “Muscles from Brussels,” and Dolph Lundgren, the “Siberian (Stockholm, actually) Express,” just can’t quit each other.

They reunite yet again for “Black Water,” an oddly over-plotted and implausible action pic starring a couple of wizened action stars who peaked in the ’90s.

The intervening years have seen not just Z-movies, but something resembling “comebacks” for these two — “JVCD” and reality TV for Van Damme,  “Expendables” and “Sharknado” outings for Lundgren.

Like their contemporaries, Sly, Arnold, Bruce and Mel, they’re beating back Father Time, or trying to. Their head-busting’s been replaced by gunfighting.  The scripts they’re forced to shoot? As awful as ever.

Van Damme plays Scott Wheeler, a spy or agent of some sort who wakes in a featureless prison cell. He shouts into the void, “Where the Hell AM I?”

A voice, a fellow “inmate,” we come to understand, replies that “officially, it doesn’t exist…Neither do you.”

That would be Marco (Lundgren), a man of certain skills with “a terminal case of ‘I know too much,” similarly “disappeared” into the void.

Wheeler, at the urging of Marco, thinks back to the “last thing” he remembers. Flashbacks take us to New Orleans, an assignment of some sort gone wrong, the dishy contact (Courtney B. Turk) half his age who Bond Babed her way into his bed right before everything went wrong.

Now, mysterious competing government agencies, repped by Ferris (Patrick Kilpatrick) and Rhodes (Al Sapienza) are competing to see who gets to torture our hard target.

“Guys like him have an infinite threshold for pain,” Ferris growls, upping the ante. “You want a man to tell the truth? Put a needle in his eye.”

That’s kind of twisted, if you know JCVD’s history. He was successfully sued in the ’90s for half-blinding a stunt man in a fight scene gone wrong in “Cyborg.” Penance?

Somehow, Wheeler’s got to get the drop on his captors and start the long process of a prison break — one complicated by the film’s title. No “Black Water” isn’t a play on a former U.S. government contractor, but the conditions of their imprisonment.

Much of the movie, our two heroes are separated — one, making new allies, killing old enemies, working his way through this “facility” until, of course, he gets back tto the long-absent Marco.

Because of that whole “can’t quit you” thing.

Part of Van Damme’s appeal has always been the mismatch of seeing someone his height fight a world of villains and evil minions, always much larger. A little of the fun of pairing him with Lundgren once was that height mismatch, a sight gag that many a comic duo have exploited. Nothing is made of that here.

There is a Van Damme offspring in the supporting cast. See if you can spot him.

The most interesting scenes in “Black Water” are those first moments of mystery, harking back to Pirandello or that classic “Twilight Zone” episode, “Five Characters in Search of an Exit.” The mystery is far more interesting than its solution. The actors, with their gruff history — more history than real chemistry — less interesting than their confused characters.

Letting Wheeler and Marco reason out their plight, with less specific flashbacks not ALL focusing on Van Damme’s Wheeler, would have heightened the mystery, still leaving time for the two or three memorable one-liners, and time for shooting butts and taking names.

What all involved, including cinematographer-turned-director Pasha Patriki, settle for is easier, dumber and far less interesting, a movie that lives down to its vague, murky title with endless shootouts through sets that don’t remotely resemble what this prison is supposed to be.

As for the performances, Van Damme and Lundgren may not be able to quit allowing producers to pair them up. But they should. Movies like this and their work in them isn’t doing either of them any favors.

MPAA Rating: R for violence and language

Cast: Jean Claude Van Damme, Dolph Lundgren, Jasmine Waltz, Patrick Kilpatrick, Al Sapienza

Credits: Directed by Pasha Patriki, script by Chad Law. A Saban Films release.

Running time: 1:44

Jesse Plemons is that fleshy redhead who shows up in a movie and makes you go, “Oh, it’s that GUY.” He was the scary square cop from “Game Night,” the square too-young lawyer in “The Post,” a green cavalry trooper in “Hostiles,” the clueless sheriff in “American Made.”

See a pattern here?

But “Saturday Night Live” writer Chris Kelly looked outside the box Hollywood has painted Plemons in and builds his dramedy “Other People,” around him. And if Plemons isn’t up to carrying the “comedy” part of this, he’s quite sharp in dramatic scenes as he plays a struggling New York comedy writer (ahem) who comes home to Sacramento to help care for his dying mother (Molly Shannon).

David never imagined his homecoming would be like this. He left college to local newspaper acclaim as a writer headed to New York to seek fame and fortune. Updates on his getting a shot at this series pilot, or that one, filled the family scrapbook.

Seven years in New York, and his latest pilot has been dismissed. A relative mentions looking for him on “Saturday Night Live.” Not his employer. Besides, he’s a writer, not a performer.

“Only a matter of time before we see you on there.” Encouraging. He just needs some material.

“I’ve got material RIGHT here,” his grandpa (the great Paul Dooley) cracks.

Topping all his personal disappointment? Mom’s been diagnosed with leiomyosarcoma.  As the movie opens with a tearful deathbed scene, we know how that’s going to turn out.

What “Other People” is about is how this family gets to that point, a year of treatment, despair, collapse and coming to terms with how these people relate to each other, but mainly how David struggles to look outside of himself and overcome both the external forces beating him down, but his own self-absorption and limitations.

Dad (Bradley Whitford of “Get Out”) never got over David coming out. Their time with his mother is an uneasy truce.

David’s sisters (Maud Apatow and Madison Beaty) are hurting, too. But he’s too into his own head to see it.

And then there’s his relationship with Sacramento, which, as “Lady Bird” and other films have taught us, is the squarest corner of California.

Shannon is the heart of “Other People,” bucking up and dissolving into tears, riven by grief and regret on bad days, stiffening her upper lip on good ones. One moment, she’s apologizing “for all the bad things I said when you came out,” another, she’s getting a mom massage, morbidly curious if her son can “see it,” “it” being the cancer that’s all inside her with little physical manifestation on her exterior.

Whitford’s a good actor, but Kelly does nothing to expand, justify or make us believe his character’s homophobia. He’s constantly encouraging his son to hit the gym, take some “boxing classes,” as if he believes it. Nobody, including Whitford, does.

The film’s stand-out funny moments are provided by the grandparents (Dooley and Jude Squibb), and by John Early, playing Gabe, a gay friend who also moved away and is home on occasion, and especially by J.J. Totah, playing Justin, Gabe’s flaming — only word for it — much younger adopted brother.

Justin is the gayest middle schooler the movies have ever seen, embracing the stereotypes long before he embraces his sexuality — obsessive about his room decor, cross-dressing and carrying himself with a confidence that David or Gabe never would have when they were his age. He’s so hilarious he stops the movie, which isn’t exactly sprinting along.

One reason to include those Justin moments — making a perhaps stereotypical point about gay narcissism?

Plemons has a few almost-comic moments, a drunk scene, and a couple of big speeches, none of which lift “Other People” out of the dragging, month-by-month (intertitles tell us which month it is) march toward the inevitable.

What is Kelly saying here, that David has to get past the “It’s all about me” thing? That’s a serious hole in the film — sweet speeches about a dying woman telling her son how much she loves birch trees, and how he (Gabe) will think of her every time he sees one — mixed with blase OKCupid hook-ups, interludes of watching gay exibitionism online, Justin, mixed with Mom failing, Dad trying to talk David through a Living Will and the like.

It’s worthwhile enough to justify the film being made, but just barely. Kelly’s made a self-absorbed dramedy about a character not-quite-making-his-mom’s-cancer-about him, but close, one that never comes to grips with more than random observations about this life, this world and how it isn’t really changed by this character’s mother’s death.

MPAA Rating: unrated, sexual situations, profanity, marijuana use

Cast: Jesse Plemons, Molly Shannon, Bradley Whitford, Maud Apatow, June Squibb, Paul Dooley

Credits: Written and directed by Chris Kelly. A Vertical/Netflix release.

Running time: 1:36

“Deadpool 2” is closing in on $300 million, “Avengers: Infinity War” is within range of $675.

And “Solo” is sinking faster than you can say “familiarity breeds contempt.”

But the big news of the weekend is the distaff “Ocean’s 11” riff, “Ocean’s 8,” which managed to clear $41 million, below its projected $45 million best case scenario, but not by much. (Pay no attention to Box Office Mojo claiming it was the only site to have this sort of confidence in the Warners release. EVERYbody figured $45 was the target.

The reviews didn’t sizzle, a CinemaScore of B something or other is weak tea (people are reviewing a movie they were dying to see on opening weekend). But good on them. Sequels?

“Hereditary” had a shot at coming in second, but “Solo” and “Deadpool 2” edged it. It earned $13 million, not great for a horror film, especially one with good reviews and a lot of screens. Not a brand name franchise, and heaven help us if A24 decides that “The Witch” and “Hereditary” is where the money is, and not “Ex Machina,” “While We’re Young,” “Green Room,” “Moonlight,” “The Florida Project” and “A Ghost Story” and the other daring fare they’ve become known for.

“Hotel Artemis,” starring “Old Lady” Jodie Foster — bombed. $3.15 million.

I think it’s safe to say that Netflix has found itself a niche, teen comedies with a sexual edge, “raw dog” high school sex farces.

“The Kissing Booth” too demure for you kids? “F*&% the Prom” too subtle? Are they both too straight?

“Alex Strangelove” is a coming out comedy with all the trappings of “Let’s lose our virginity prom night” romps, sort of an “In & Out” for teens.

As in Alex Truelove, our hero (Daniel Doheny of “Adventures in Public School”) falls for the first girl to share his love for octopi and set off sparks with him on a gossipy, snarky school video project — “Savage Kingdom High.”

He’s a smart, kind, organized type — class president, sweet — with a solid grounding in common sense. “We are NOT licking this frog!” His girlfriend Claire is a classic Girl Next Door.

But while Alex and Claire (Madeleine Weinstein), “my official girlfriend,” are becoming a couple, they’re spending all senior year putting off that Big Night. Or Alex is.

“Oh my God, dude, you’re gay,” BFF Dell (Daniel Zolghadri) declares. “It’s totally cool. It’s the 21st century. Everybody’s gay!”

That ups the pressure on Alex to step up his game, think about condoms, practice his explicit sex talk with his stuffed monkey and work on logistics. What will change his mind? The Drama Geeks Party, with more sexually advanced kids in “Cabaret” wear?

“I think we’re here to corrupt you, Alex.”

That’s Elliott (Antonio Marziale). First give-away he might swing that way? He’s at a Drama Geeks party. Second? He’s got a plus-sized BFF, Gretchen, who pines for him. 

As Dell experiences drug induced hallucinations -don’t lick frogs, kids — Alex and Elliott talk and make a lot of eye contact. Claire may butt in, but Elliott knows. 

Writer-director Craig Johnson (“The Skeleton Twins,” “Wilson”) doesn’t try to reinvent the teen sex comedy here. He barely escapes “Love, Simon” territory.

For a picture that would cross the R-line (close) on the big screen, “Alex Strangelove” has a chaste innocence about it, sweet with a naive hero practicing his dirty talk.

“Let’s get a hotel room! I’m gonna sex you…like a tornado on fire!”

Elliott doesn’t respect the “girlfriend” claims. He’s a year or so older. He’s got all the gay psychoanalysis skills when it comes to Alex’s favorite animals and favorite toys — penile resemblance.

There’s frank, flippant talk about how girls are more sexually aware than boys, “They watch ‘GAME OF THRONES!'” And the heart to heart between the gay guy and the not-close-to-certain guy is poignant and charming, pained but not strained — easy.

“How romantic?”
“Not really.”

Alex isn’t the only one confused. Claire — “My mom made me watch this old movie the other day, ‘Sixteen Candles.'” It doesn’t help.

Kathryn Erbe plays the mom, by the way.

In creating this freshly-scrubbed teen romantic fantasy, Johnson goes for sensitivity, which this picture has in surplus, and laughs — which he doesn’t often find. It’s less ambitious than his homosexuality/depression/underage abuse “comedy” “The Skeleton Twins,” which was more adult, and lifted considerably by Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig. Here, the leads and supporting players are a pretty bland bunch, no matter what Johnson gives them to say. Nobody is that interesting, no one is particularly funny.

The tropes of the “coming out” genre will be familiar to anybody not in the film’s target audience, and as such, have a clinical sterility about them. “Confused” and “conflicted” and inept at the whole sex-with-girls-because-maybe-I’m-not-into-them doesn’t play as touching or funny at this stage.

Stilll, the teens have a tolerance you hope high schoolers — at least in the cities — have acquired. Boys share confidences we’ve never seen boys share in a teen movie, friends intervene to help arrange a hotel room “for you love birds,” boys go condom shopping  together after getting initiated to the B-52s.

But we lose track of the potential First Gay Crush for most of the movie.

The funniest character is Hillary, Dell’s older-sister played with profane coed sass by Ayden Mayeri. Her exchanges with Marziale have the sting of sibling sass, no holds barred and unprintable.

The big scenes are explicit enough to titillate teens, predictable enough to bore anybody older, even if there are touchingly familiar moments here and there.

A memory of homophobic harassment feels real. And that contributes to the sense that  a gay teen could take to heart a lot of affirmation out of a movie like this, even though it plays kind of limp and stale. It panders to one righteous practice of Generation Over-Share — owning one’s sexuality in a Youtube declaration of “It Gets Better.”

Johnson may have a character quote and interpret that “old film” “Sixteen Candles.” But whatever he hoped to crib that from minor classic, he missed the spark, the warmth, the rude wit and the simple romance. “Strangelove” is merely instructional, sprinkled with profanity and macking and frog-licking to give it “edge.”

This is closer to an “After School Special,” and yes — that’s an even older reference than “Sixteen Candles” — an R-rated “After School Special.”

MPAA Rating: TV-MA, explicit sexual situations, substance abuse, profanity

Cast: Daniel Doheny, Madeleine Weinstein, Kathryn Erbe, Antonio Marziale

Credits: Written and directed by Craig Johnson. A Netflix/Red Hour release.

Running time: 1:38

Fans of serious cinema do not give a rat’s left bum cheek about “Predator,” in any incarnation.

With good reason. The hilariously arch original produced two delusionally macho and feckless governors, and a slew of Godawful sequels.

A new reboot? Meh. Wait, Shane Black directed it? Ever see “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang?”

The idol of generations of Hollywood hacks, machismo with a cool John Milius never quite managed. He’s got Olivia Munn and Boyd Holbrook and Sterling K. Brown, Thomas Jane and Jacob Tremblay to slaughter.

And in September, we’ll see what he has in mind for “The Predator.”

“Whiplash” and “La La Land” director Damien Chazelle’s take on the intensely private, brave and astrophysicist-smart First Man on the Moon promises something more than nostalgia for the age when America was Truly Great.

When we did Great Things, took Giant Leaps.

Will it have modern day resonance, anything topical to say about a country that shrank away from Big Endeavors and focused on the “practical” and the “commercial,” a national present that is forced to dream its big dreams in escapist sci-fi fantasy on TV or the big screen?

Gosh, I hope so. For our sake. “First Man,” “First Man,” co-starring Claire Foy, Kyle Chandler and as fellow astronaut Pete Conrad, Ethan Embry (Corey Stoll is Buzz Aldrin) opens Oct. 12.

All those Clooney, Pitt, Damon et al “Oceans 11” remakes.

And all it took to best their best opening weekend was Sandra Bullock, Anne Hathaway, Cate Blanchett and Rihanna — and Helena Bonham Carter, Mindy Kaling, Awkwafina and Sarah Paulson.

A $4 million Thursday night — I was at one of the busiest cinemas in the country that night, and management was a bit underwhelmed by the turnout at that point — led into a huge Friday and what looks like a $42 million opening, per Deadline.com.

That’s in line with pre-release projections — all that star power, Year of the Woman hype, etc.

Good on them. The movie’s reviews weren’t stellar. In thinking about it further after writing my review, I wonder if Bullock didn’t exercise too much control and set the tone. She’s not as funny as she used to be, tried too hard to play it Clooney cool and that put a damper on any hopes of snappy banter, wisecracking chemistry among the rest.

A good actress, paired with a great one (Blanchett), but the players who make the funniest impressions — Helena Bonham Carter (best player in this cast), Anne Hathaway, Awkwafina and Sarah Paulson — have fewer scenes with Bullock. No, the script doesn’t pop — you’ve got to give the chemistry and comic tension among the leads as much emphasis as the caper — and NOBODY wanted to be the villain. Spend some money on that role — create something for the likes of say Alan Cumming — and the movie works. Better, anyway. The direction, at least, was OK.

Bullock, and this is mean but I am dead serious about this theory, is incapable of cracking a smile or cracking up. Too much “work done.” Collagen kills your twinkle.

Sequels? Almost certainly. Less Sandy next time, amp up the others.

“Hereditary,” the best horror movie in ages, is fighting neck and neck with the fading “Solo” for second place. It looks to hit the $14 million mark or so. The horror crowd should be showing up in much larger numbers for this one, but they gravitate toward proven “brands.” Maybe it’s just too sophisticated for them.

“Hotel Artemis” is a watchable dog, and as such is bombing at the box office. Under $4 million? I hope Jodie Foster got more than that, just in her salary. Because this could have been hipper, meaner, smarter and funnier, and is just unworthy of her.

Shailene Woodley’s sailing tour de force “Adrift” is having another decent weekend and will be over $20 million by Sunday night.

“Upgrade,” sci-fi smart enough and horrific enough to pack a late matinee Thursday when I caught it (late) is fading away without catching fire. Disappointing.

Saw this as a preview for “Hotel Artemis” last night and was at least a little intrigued.

A Golden Age of Reno/Vegas period piece with Jeff Bridges as a preacher, Chris Hemsworth as someone straight outta Hell, just two of “seven strangers with secrets to bury” at a state-line hotel with a weird, twisted vibe.

“Martian” and “The Good Place” screenwriter Drew Goddard wrote and directed this, Nick Offerman is in it. Feels like an over-reach, reads like a glossy period piece version of this one (So many movies about secretive strangers in hotels, pick your own.)/

“Bad Times at the El Royale” opens Oct. 5.