Movie Nation

Jon Hamm makes it look too damned easy in “Confess, Fletch,” a LONG awaited reboot of a franchise that gave Chevy Chase more credit than he deserved for its appeal. Hamm never hits the laughs too hard, lies on the fly like he learned it at birth and leans into the working-hard/hardly working Fletch way of “investigating” in a lightweight comedy that has no guffaws, but a steady stream of chuckles from beginning to end.

Gregory McDonald’s “former investigative journalist of some repute,” a wordsmith always-ready with a comeback, a sly slacker who can’t throw a punch, or take one, fits Hamm like the battered and much-loved Lakers hat that he wears everywhere, with sportscoat and sneakers, no matter what the dress code. He’s white and handsome, so he fits in without fitting in. At a snooty yacht club, for instance, whose commodore regales him on some long ago felony that the old gent brushes off as a lark.

“Nothing like a little consequence-free fun for the idle rich.”

“Confess, Fletch” is a caper comedy/murder mystery that concerns stolen paintings, a kidnapped Italian count, a clever frame-up and a Boston cop hellbent — but also in a laid-back way — on pinning a murder on the insufferable Lakers fan disturbing his piece of Celtic Nation.

Greg Mottola’s film follows Fletch all around Beantown, without voice-over narration, without any overt explanation of what he’s cannily plotting out, what Fletch suspects, or when Fletch first gets in over his head. And Hamm sets the tone with his unconcerned, make-myself-a-drink call to the police when the townhouse his rich girlfriend (Lorenza Izzo) has rented for him to track down her family’s missing paintings turns out to have a dead woman in it.

The precinct insists Fletch call 911. Fletch cannot make the effort.

“Can you just tell homicide? It’s at 5 Union Park. They like murders!”

When it becomes obvious that Fletch is the one and only real suspect of “Detective Inspector Monroe,” aka “Slo Mo Monroe” (Roy Wood Jr., superb), our hero has one more thing to add to his “to do” list. Find missing painting or paintings, return one so that rich girlfriend’s dad can be ransomed free of his kidnappers, figure out who the REAL killer is and charming, offhandedly throwing the cops off the trail so that he’s free to dig and plot and banter with his old L.A. newspaper editor (John Slattery, Hamm’s “Mad Men” mate) now struggling to keep a Boston rag from going under.

Hey, “The police are following me around!”

“Oh good. I hope it’s for something serious. I need a pick-me-up!”

Kyle MacLachlan plays a variation of his “How I Met Your Mother” character, a sketchy, patrician art-dealing yachtsman (and germophobe).

Lucy Punch is tagged as a dizzy “lifestyle curator” (interior decorator) for the well-heeled. Marcia Gay Harden slings an Italo-Portuguese goulash accent as the “countess” to the kidnapped count.

Nobody knocks anything out of the park, but this “Fletch” piles up the singles and doubles, an endless parade of funny lines almost always just thrown away, casually.

“My pen name is Ralph Locke.”

“Sounds made up.”

“It’s…a pen name.”

Words of comfort for the grieving Italian daughter?

“I’m sure the Italian police are working around the clock on his case…or at least near a clock.”

Fletch uses a LOT of ride shares, “FIVE stars” he quips as he gets out of every car.

“Person of interest LEAVING the building,” he announces to the cops as he makes an exit, a muttered “I am an idiot” aside makes Det. Inspector Monroe’s day.

“Finally, a consensus,” Wood’s Monroe half-whispers on our behalf.

“Fletch” was such an attractive character that many have tried to reboot this potential franchise. These aren’t deep mysteries or comic thrillers sure to guarantee an all-star supporting cast, although Harden is an Oscar winner, and MacLachlan, Wood, Punch and Slattery are no slouches.

Is this franchise “renewed” with “Confess, Fletch?” Sure. I could totally see more of these if Hamm is game, but probably directed straight to Paramount+.

Rating:  R for language, some sexual content and drug use.

Cast: Jon Hamm, Lorenza Izzo, Roy Wood, Jr., Marcia Gay Harden, Ayden Mayeri, Kyle MacLachlan, and John Slattery

Credits: Directed by Greg Mottola, scripted by Zev Borow and Greg Mottola, based on the Gregory McDonald novel. A Paramount release of a Miramax film.

Running time: 1:38

France’s once and forever cinematic “enfant terrible” has died.

The often controversial, always “revolutionary” director of “Breathless” and “Contempt,” “Weekend,” “Alphaville,” “Bande a part,” “Hail Mary” and “Bridges of Sarajevo” was 91, and got “Sarajevo” onto screens at 83.

Godard was in the vanguard of the French New Wave in the ’50s, the cinema’s embodiment of Marxist chic in the ’60s and a provocateur to the very end.

His films weren’t always the easiest to embrace, but he challenged the art form, the cultural and social norms, himself and the viewer almost every time out. I remember the outrage he stirred up with “Hail Mary” back in the ’80s and the way his films turned up as cutting edge examples of experiments in narrative, camera storytelling technique and the like in every film class I ever took.

Fascinating guy. RIP.

With Godard as my witness, I swear I remember Roger Corman’s “The Raven” being more subtle than this. And funnier.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s still amusing — here and there — and a treat for classic horror fans seeing Vincent Price, Boris Karloff and Peter Lorre in the same movie.

The future star of “The Shining” “Wolf” is here, stifling a grin as he got to share scenes with guys whose glories dated back to the silent film era. Jack Nicholson had to play the straight man here, pretty much, saving his loonier turns for “Batman” and “The Witches of Eastwick.”

Indie icon Corman, who gave so many future filmmakers their start, knew that having Vincent Price recite the Edgar Allan Poe poem “The Raven” was practically a movie all by itself (James Mason had narrated a classic animated short, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” a decade before). He had novelist and “Twilight Zone” veteran Richard Matheson vamp up a story that has Price play a sorcerer grieving over his lost “Lenore,” longing for her return when a raven comes tapping, gently rapping at his chamber door.

“Are you some dark-winged messenger from beyond?  Shall I ever hold again that radiant maiden whom the angels call Lenore?”

Turns out, the raven talks.

“How the hell should I know? What am I, a fortune teller?”

The raven has clues about what happened to Lenore, and Dr. Erasmus Craven first has to be persuaded to help the bird transform into Peter Lorre, then round up his daughter (Olive Sturgess) and the beautifully chapeau’d son (Nicholson) of Dr. Bedlo (Lorre) to seek answers from the sinister-sounding Dr. Scarabus (Karloff) in his castle.

Lenore’s got to be around this dank dungeon somewhere, you figure.

Legend has it that John Waters saw this film as a young Baltimorean and said, “Well, the only word for this is ‘camp.'” True? Who’s to say?

This was one of eight films Corman made from the works of Poe, and it is far and away the silliest. Truth be told, the “Treehouse of Horror” episode of “The Simpsons” that had James Earl Jones reciting the poem while Bart and Homer acted it out was scarier. And funnier.

As a “romp,” this classic isn’t really holding up. Whatever glory it enjoyed in its initial run, its peak era was during the college film society days when tipsy coeds could hoot and holler at its dated jokes and its soundstage bound goofy gloom.

“I am Doctor Bedlo’s son!” Rexford (Jack) declares.

“I am sorry,” Lorre’s Doctor Bedlo apologizes…to Dr. Craven, Rexford, the audience. Who knows?

The effects are adorably cheesy, but the performances are muted. Only Price is truly up to snuff, as Karloff settled into the grandfatherliness that made him the perfect narrator for “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” a couple of years later. Watch the way the camera regards Karloff as he keeps his robe from tripping him as he descends a steep flight of stairs. It’s as if Corman was waiting for something dangerous to happen.

Scary? Not a bit. And camp value only takes it so far, these days.

Even Price was far better in “Tales of Terror” and “The Pit and the Pendulum.” But watch how delighted he is interacting with that real, live bird.

At this stage, if you want to see “The Raven,” make it a Halloween party activity. Watching it cold, and sober and alone robs it of whatever communal glee it once had.

Rating: G, of course

Cast: Vincent Price, Peter Lorre, Boris Karloff, Hazel Court, Olive Sturgess and Jack Nicholson.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Roger Corman. An American International release on Tubi and many other streaming platforms.

Running time: 1:26

Was there a groundswell of support welling up for a sequel to 2017’s D-movie slasher pic, ”The Wicked One?” Asking for a friend.

Still, here it is, “Wicked Ones.” Hell, it’s not like these nice folks had better things to do in the interim, is there? And there’s always an audience for the “so bad it’s a good…or a potential drinking game” horror movie. It’s a genre where the cheese never spoils. Apparently.

So here we go, back to Carpenter Falls where our “Wicked One” masked serial killer is apparently not dead, and apparently played by Richard Leon Hunt this time.

Years have passed, and now he’s not just back, he’s got masked cosplayer killers (Roni Jonah and Jason Crowe) emulating his butchery.

A survivor (Katie Stewart) from the killing spree years ago accompanies her husband and kids back to town. Her son’s in a band, her daughter’s a groupie for another member of the band. But the place has bad memories for her.

A local cop (James Tackett) never let go of the old “Colin Miller” case.

Let the sad, seriously over-acted slaughter start.

The actors often sound off mike, which does really bad performances no favors. The killings are drably set-up and staged and the script sounds like an incel’s idea of how horny teenagers about to be stabbed talk dirty to each other. I’d quote from it but it’s utterly unquotable.

Director and co-writer Tory Jones opens his picture with a painfully inept podcast interview, setting an amateurish tone that the picture never shakes.

If indeed anybody “demanded” this sequel, leave it to them, I say. Life is too short to watch awful movies not awful enough to be laughed at.

Rating: unrated, graphic violence, sexual situations, profanity

Cast: Katie Stewart, Richard Leo Hunt, Skyler Guthrie, Dale Miller, James Tackett, Brandi Botkin, Roni Jonah and Jason Crowe.

Credits: Directed by Tory Jones, scripted by Tory Jones and Nathan Thomas Milliner. A WildEye release.

Running time: 1:44

“Gratitude Revealed” is a feel-good documentary from the director of “Fantastic Fungi,” a broad, random collection of “grateful” people ranging from the somewhat famous to the not-really-famous stringing together empty platitudes about appreciating what you have, the miracle of life, and how the good vibes you send out shine back in your direction.

It made my eyes roll. It made my teeth ache. It made me remember the most productive place to grow fungi — a mountain of BS.

Too harsh? Let’s sample some of what piles up in Louie Schwartzberg’s squishy, insipid TED Talk on the “feels.”

Here’s Jason Silva, “storyteller, “futurist,” TV presenter and double-talker par excellence.

“When I think about connections, I think about intersubjectivity, I think about the human capacity to pierce beyond the veil of individuation and to enter the ‘holy other,’ to blast new tunnels between the mind and ‘the other!.”

No, Jason. For the last time, I don’t WANT the extended warranty.

Then there’s pastor and author Michael Beckwith — “Gratitude is an attitude and a vibrated altitude that we live in.”

Philanthropist (“rich”) and activist Lynne Twist breaks down “gratefulness” as “the great FULLness of our lives.”

Schwartzberg’s movie is 81 minutes of pretty pictures, precocious kids, bits of gorgeous scenery and all sorts of folk talking all the way around that American Thanksgiving table staple, “What’re we grateful for.” A few centerpiece interviews try to zero in on the nebulous nature of gratitude, wandering off into all sorts of detours (“community,” “beauty” etc.) because once somebody’s printed the fortune cookie and then the T-shirt “The Great FULLness of our lives,” what else is there to say?

Schwartzberg appears in his film a lot, beginning with a ritualistic (not really) making of “tea with lemon” so he can point out that his parents survived the Holocaust. He transitions into interviews with TV legend Norman Lear, film producer Brian Grazer, author Jack Kornfield, blind mountain climber Erik Weihenmayer and Silva, and finally Deepak Choprah shows up, right on cue.

Because what onanistic film flitting through “mindfulness” would be complete without the gibbering DC? And even the filmmaker, who normally works in time-lapse photography taking extreme-closeups of the wonders of nature, had to realize, “Wait, I’m talking to a lot of rich white guys and gurus, and most of them are Jewish.”

Schwartzberg goes on to hang with dancing cliff aerialists and track skateboarders thrill-racing down mountains. We meet this Louisiana bluesman and that African American preacher, author Luisah Teish and chef Rick Bayless, grateful to have come along during the foodie epoch among the well-heeled.

And what emerges is more a “feeling” than a narrative, more a sensation (irritation, in my case) than cinema, and more BS than your average performative, bubbly and empty TED talk held in a stockyard.

At least the fungi will feel at home.

Rating: unrated

Cast: Norman Lear, Jason Silva, Deepak Choprah, Jack Kornfield, Brian Grazer, Lynne Twist, Rick Bayless, Christine Carter, Erik Weihenmayer, Luisah Teish, and Louie Schwartzberg.

Credits: Scripted and directed by Louie Schwartzberg. An Area 23a release.

Running time: 1:21

“The Alternate” shows us how “special” a special effects movie’s effects can be, even on the cheap, and how that’s still no substitute for a sharp, tight and original script or good acting.

A frustrated corporate video director and editor finds a glitch on his monitor, copies and expands it and realizes it’s a portal to another reality. Damned if the Jake in this other reality hasn’t gotten his first script, “Space Drive,” on the screen. He’s a workaholic success and he and his wife got around to finally having that child they’ve long wanted.

Seeing as how the “real” Jake (Ed Gonzalez Moreno) is stymied, not-quite-broke but stuck in a dead end job with his marriage to Kris (Natalia Dominguez) showing the strain, he’s got some thinking to do, once he figures how what this “portal” is. Life’s a struggle, but everything he wants is just on the other side of that swirling vortex screen saver. There might be a short cut. If only he could switch places with clean-shaven Jake over there.

“It this what you dreamed about in film school?” is a question this portal might answer.

There’s promise in this set-up, and the effect — a character stepping through a “Poltergeist” black hole into another dimension — is convincing enough.

But the screenplay doesn’t see anything comic in Jake trying to have it both ways, “cheating” with his happier (Future?) wife, scheming to replace “himself” on the other side. The scheming itself is lame. We’re forced to sit through script-dictated delays in Jake showing Kris this “great discovery” he’s stumbled into.

And the leads are seriously bland and somewhat less subtle at showing us confusion, anger, pain and resentment than we’d like.

“Primer” is the benchmark I’ve long used when considering how good a sci-fi film with almost no budget can be. Time travel or alternate universes can be faked with similar cheap effects. What matters is the sharp focus of the screenplay, witty dialogue, cleverly-set-up moments of suspense, and execution.

“The Alternate” has the effects and a plot that could work, but falls short in pretty much every other regard.

Rating: unrated, violence, nudity, some profanity

Cast: Ed Gonzalez Moreno, Natalia Dominguez

Credits: Scripted and directed by Alrik Bursell. An Uncork’d release.

Running time: 1:28

A little power pop from 1981 is the big musical moment in Kevin Smith’s farewell to the 1994 movie and characters that made him famous.

The song’s messaging fits into the film’s sentimentality. But it’s not exactly hip or cutting edge. Jay would have bitch-slapped Silent Bob for hauling out the boom box for this golden oldie, back in the day.

A real dance challenge for a couple of 50 year olds channeling their trip hop past. But it’s the upbeat highlight of the film, a song Smith might’ve loved as a tween. Maybe he just liked the lyrics as they pertain to the film. Or maybe it’s all he could afford, rights wise.

One sobering piece of knowledge worth considering every time you hear the “official” version of something deadly involving a police officer is the one thing almost every cop is a genuine expert in.

They know just what they can get away with, and how to get away with it.

That truism hangs over “Unidentified,” the first film in a planned “Romanian Trilogy” by “Miracle” (the second film) filmmaker Bogdan George Apetri. Because from the minute we meet detective/inspector Florin Iespas (Brogdan Farcas), he seems off.

Florin is haggard and unshaved, like a young Liam Neeson staggering through a long bout of insomnia. He’s bickering his his chatty boss (Vasile Muraru) about a case he wants to take from another cop. A couple of hotels have burned down. The same guy owned them. Florin in sure he can “close this case in two days.”

The first thing that strikes you about his chief is how much he loves hearing himself talk. He’s got all these jokes he likes to trot out to the never-laughing Florin. The second thing is how unconcerned he is over justice, whether or not someone getting away with murder (two cleaning women died in the hotel fires).

So what if the detective on the case is on vacation? He’s not reassigning it. If it’s “cleared,” or not, so what? Go get some sleep, and put in a good word for my niece who wants to attend your fiance’s music conservatory.

“Unidentified” is a thin mystery barely concealed by a character study of a cop’s obsession. Florin copies the file on the sly and starts sweating the “Gypsy” he’s fingered as a suspect (Dragos Dumitru). Florin trots out his “theory” about what’s happened, makes threats and “sweats” the guy — breaking all sorts of protocols in addition to violating the guy’s civil rights.

When we see Florin visiting the service station where this suspect works, and then staking out the last hotel in the chain that had two other properties catch fire, we start to ask questions. When we see him hit himself in the face with his gun butt, we have our first answer.

Somebody’s in for a railroading. But to what end?

Apetri takes into a corner of never-filmed Romania (Piatra Neamt, his hometown) for a story of a man unraveling right before our eyes. Farcas gives Florin a sort of sedated mania, a tall man capable of things, dodging calls by creditors, ignoring orders and off on a vendetta with his own agenda.

We hear him ask if the lives of those killed were worth nothing, and the emotion feels forced, manipulative. The clever conceit of this character and Farcas’ performance of him is the viewer suspects things even as the grounds for those suspicions comes at us unexplained and piecemeal. Florin seems sketchy from the get-go.

Apetri shows us plenty of actions that aren’t explained, that keep the viewer wondering “What’s this guy’s game?” But we have enough to piece it together, and pretty early on.

As a mystery thriller, “Unidentified” plays a tad draggy and sluggish. Apetri, working in the style of those old “Columbo” TV movies, squeezes a simple, obscure whodunit/who’s doing it with 90 minutes worth of incidents into a slack two hour movie.

We have the clues. We’ve even got a hint of how everything will turn out based on the laissez faire attitudes, prejudices and tribalism of the police we meet.

Apetri still does a good job of not letting the obviousness weigh his story down.

Rating: unrated, violence

Cast: Brogdan Farcas, Dragos Dumitru and Vasile Muraru

Credits: Directed by Bogdan George Apetri, scripted by Bogdan George Apetri and Iulian Postelnicu. A Film Movement release.

Running time: 2:03

The whiff of fall sends a movie critic into reveries of Toronto, where the annual film festival (TIFF) is underway again. It’s a lovely city that hosts a first rate festival. Is the shoe museum still open?

A movie like Mercedes Bryce Morgan’s “Fixation” triggers other memories, of the oddities one finds in that festival’s eclectic-by-design/serious and yet eccentric-by season-of-the-year programming.

Fall is when the weirder works of Canadians Guy Maddin and Atom Egoyan make their appearance, movies previewed pre-fall at TIFF. Many’s the early morning when I gave myself over to the onanistic excesses of whatever Lars von Trier or his ilk was trotting out this year, staring at my watch as I wondered where this was going and how much longer it would go on.

“Fixation” is a psychological thriller and murder mystery by genre. What it turns out to be is a bizarre burlesque of mental illness, memory and psychotherapy.

Hell, it even has Stephen McHattie, who played a self-serious but comically unethical psychotherapist on “Seinfeld,” as a possibly ingenious, probably demented head-shrinker.

Remember the simplistic dream interpretations of Hitchcock’s “Spellbound?” It’s a bit like that, with a touch of “Truman Show” and hints of Von Trier, et al in its elaborate fever-dream cure.

Maddie Hasson of “Malignant” and TV’s “Mr. Mercedes” stars as Dora, a young patient at a peculiarly designed, oddly-staffed mental hospital. She’s there under court order, we gather. She’s under the care of Dr. Clark (McHattie) and his colleague, who likes to go by “Doctor Melanie” (Genesis Rodriguez).

Something about the questions Dr. Melanie asks, the tests Dr. Melanie administers and the peculiar, severe hair and makeup (think Tim Burton’s mates) she exhibits makes one wonder what Dr. Mel is all about.

Something awful happened between Dora and her brother. Just mentioning the name “Griffin” triggers her. We hear he was a taxidermist, and the mind reels at what might have transpired thanks to that detail.

Dora? She seems rational and patient right up to the moment she isn’t. She wants her freedom, can’t figure out how long she’s been there and is starting to have trouble distinguishing her reality from whatever the hell her mind takes her.

But the solution may be simple, Doctor Melanie insists. Just stick to Dr. Clark’s program. “Step One: Submission,” Step Two: Immersion with the Past,” “Step Three: Integration with the Present,” and so on.

“He’s chosen you,” she’s assured. Only she isn’t “assured.” We figure that out when she bites a nurse’s ear off to get out.

Morgan and her co-writers put Dora through a memory play of her life — recreating her past, confronting her present, reckoning with what happened and what she’s accused of.

It’s a vamp of what real therapy looks and feels like.

Hasson plays a reluctant participant in this “play acting” cure, befuddled and outraged, crushed and defiant. She’s an arresting presence, and the sparring scenes with Rodriguez and later McHattie have the feel of something with heft, even if the substance isn’t there to back that up.

With extreme close-ups, creative “stage” lighting that takes us through sets that look like sets (on purpose), Morgan’s made a flashy, technically-interesting but shallow pirouette through paranoia.

It’s got a certain promise to it, with the viewer and Maddie straining to determine which threats are real, which are in her head and which are thrown at her to put them in her head. But once the third act “explaining” begins, we and our heroine realize just how far in advance we saw all this coming even as we sneak another glance at our timepieces, wondering when and if this will ever end.

Rating: unrated, graphic violence, profanity

Cast: Maddie Hasson, Genesis Rodriguez, Atticus Mitchell, Gita Miller and Stephen McHattie

Credits: Directed by Mercedes Bryce Morgan, scripted by William Day, Mercedes Bryce Morgan and Katrina Kudlick. (No Distributor Yet).

Running time: 1:39

“Steal from one,” the old saying goes, “and you’re a plagiarist. Steal from many, you’re a bloody genius.”

Something like that.

Writer-director Steve Stone almost makes a sci-fi fan viewing party game out of the antecedents for his thriller “Deus,” which is about a spacecraft sent to investigate a freshly-arrived “sphere” in orbit around Mars.

There’s a hint of “Contact” and a movie that Carl Sagan must have seen before writing it, “When Worlds Collide,” in its uber-rich oligarch (veteran character actor Phil Davis) who is writing the checks.

The ship’s design mimics “2001” and “2010” and “Alien,” which also provide generous inspirations for portions of the plot. That can be summed up by a line a character says in response to the single word the “sphere” transmits as its identification — “Deus.”

“How do we know it isn’t what it says it is?”

I caught elements of “The Black Hole,” “Event Horizon,” “Dark Star” and a movie that predates even that one, “Satellite in the Sky,” whose penultimate image haunts me, even though I only saw it once on TV as a child.

But after all that borrowing, and after rounding up “Pitch Black” and “Stargate” alumna Claudia Black, “Eastenders” veteran Richard Blackwood, the always-working Scot David O’Hara (“Braveheart” to “Agents of S’H.I.E.L.D”) and Davis (“Vera Drake,” “Nicholas Nickleby,” “Cassandra’s Dream”), Stone fails to get his players to perform the urgency and shock of this “discovering, ” ofand fails to convey any sense of the momentous event he’s showing us.

The oligarch may tell the crew of the good ship “Achilles” — yes, the engine-bearing pod of the structure is called “The Heel” — that they’ve been sent to solve “the greatest mystery ever encountered by the human race.” But damned if any of these astronauts act like it. Just another day, another punch of the timeclock.

Talk about “quiet quitting.”

Black plays the scientist on board the girder-linked ship, with Blackwood the skipper, and O’Hara, Charlie MacGechan, Crystal Yu and Branko Tomovic as the crew.

They’ve left an Earth in mid-environmental collapse to go check out this thing that’s parked itself in orbit around Mars.

It is what is says it is? And even if it is, should they, as Ulph (O’Hara) suggests, “blow the f—er up?”

The ultimate question in a sci-fi movie, really.

Predictably, somebody on the crew goes all messianic and crazy upon encountering the god sphere. People die. And dead people park themselves in our heroine’s head when she gets nearer my deus to thee.

The generally blase performances are a mild distraction from the parade of tropes — “hibernation” cryo-sleep pods, hexagonal halls and sliding doorways, a lot of darkness and few if any actual places to sit. Not much “strapping in for landing” here. And one crewmember is…a blogger? What, the podcasting fad is over in the near future?

The ideas the film wrestles with are more down to Earth than religious, and interesting enough. And the approach to the plot and the production design kind of hold your interest.

But the cast seems to have bee directed into narcolepsy. There’s nothing here that they’d care to wake up and get us involved with.

Rating: unrated, violence, profanity

Cast: Claudia Black, Richard Blackwood, David O’Hara,
Charlie MacGechan, Crystal Yu, Branko Tomovic, Lisa Eichorn and Phil Davis

Credits: Scripted and directed by Steve Stone. A Darkland Distribution release.

Running time: 1:30