Movie Nation

What a difference a few days makes.

If they’d released “Last Resort,” a clumsily-copied “Die Hard” knockoff, by Dec. 31, it might have made a few critics’ “Worst of the Year” list.

It’s badly-written and amateurishly-acted, so amateurishly that one feels sorry for much of the cast. Carpetbagging French filmmaker Jean-Marc Minéo, who works out of Thailand and whose resume has a whiff of Steven Segal about it, convinced his backers that they should film this clunker in English.

On top of all the recycled “Die Hard” plot points, viewers are forced to listen to performers phonetically sound-out their dialogue in not-quite-funny fractured English. Yes, they manage it better than you or I would be at speaking Thai, but come on.

“Wot de Hell you doin dere?” is about as good as it gets.

It’s an action vehicle for London-born actor/stunt-man Jon Foo, aka Jonathon Patrick Foo, co-star of the “Rush Hour” TV series of a few years back. He plays an “ex special forces” super-soldier whose wife (Julaluck Ismalone) is about to leave him. She’s at the bank, trying to close joint accounts with her daughter (Angelina Ismalone) when it is robbed.

The attackers are “Middle Eastern” which is “unfortunate,” a laughably apologetic bit of screenwriting. What, worried this won’t play in Dubai? The terrorists are led by some generic big American (Clayton Norcross). And there’s something that they want from the vault.

Only they can’t get in right away. It’ll take time. It’s a pity writer-director Minéo didn’t set this over Christmas. Then “Die Hard” screenwriters Jeb Stuart and Steven E. de Souza could have sued him over it.

Our ex-special forces hero finally “gets up off the couch,” as his daughter puts it, turns off the public domain Popeye cartoons he’s watching, skips past police lines and starts interfering with the ninja-garbed villains’ evil plans in the banking high rise.

“My Dad is gonna come get me and you’re going to be in trouble!”

We’ve had months of hype for this AI robot doll turns murderous thriller.

Universal seems high on it. Let’s see what the deal is.

Legend has it that Clint Eastwood’s first move when accepting a script — as an actor or a director — is to go through it and slash extraneous dialogue, leaving just enough to have the story make sense.

It’s a simple vengeance quest, and aside from the Spirit Halloween store mustache he wears in the opening scene, Cage isn’t terrible in it. But. That. Script.

It’s as if screenwriter Carl. W. Lucas (“The Wave”) watched one Western, it was “True Grit,” and he decided everybody had to talk as much as Mattie Ross, but didn’t realize he’s no (novelist) Charles Portis.

This starts with the opening scene and carries on all the way to the epilogue, one character after another getting diarrhea of the mouth, monologuing, repeating himself or herself, as if the screenwriter was trying out lines that he was sure would mostly wind up on the cutting room floor — with the weakest words edited out. As they should have been.

“Your daddy about the meanest son of a bitch I ever met, pardon my language,” he declares. We get it. She gets it. But on he drones.

Lucas, who scripted a forgotten Justin Long action pic, “The Wave,” isn’t a screenwriter. He’s a Western cliche aggregator. And director Brett Donowho, who has been one of those trying to wring the last ounce of acting out of Bruce Willis (“Acts of Violence”), lets him get away with it.

That kid’s going to want revenge for that.

That simple quest, packaged in a 95 minute movie, takes forever to play out thanks to one eye-rolling Pause for a Monologue after another.

But next time, maybe he should take a little more responsibility for what’s being filmed. Maybe take on at least some semblance of Clint. Bring a Sharpie to that first read-through, and commence to editing right on the spot. Remind the lesser lights around you that the movie rule is, “Don’t tell us, SHOW us.”

Rating: R for violence

Cast: Nicolas Cage, Ryan Kiera Armstrong, Noah Le Gros, Kerry Knuppe, Nick Searcy, Abraham Benrubi and Clint Howard.

Credits: Directed by Brett Donowho, scripted by Carl W. Lucas. A Saban Films release.

Running time: 1:35

Every neighborhood has one, that perpetually prickly “You kids get off my lawn!” martinet. He lives, in his mind, in an ordered universe. And all the “idiots” around him, at work, at home and in life, are screwing that up.

“Codgers” is our most affectionate name for them.

Tom Hanks cannot help but play the soft side of just such a codger in “A Man Called Otto,” a maudlin, drawn-out to the point of “endless” remake of an Oscar-nominated international hit from Sweden a few years back.

Director Marc Forster eschews action (“World War Z”) for his “Kite Runner/Finding Neverland” sentimental side in a movie that is affecting, here and there, and resonates because sad, embittered loneliness is a universal curse of old age. As I pointed out in my review of the Swedish film, “A Man Called Ove, “the bitter have their reasons.”

But the previous film and the novel it is based on work in ways this sunnier, sappier Hollywood one simply can’t. The metaphor of a Swedish film about a lonely, suicidal widower who finds renewed purpose in the inept-at-home-ownership immigrants who move in across the street may translate. It’s the film’s suicide attempts that don’t land as dark comedy laughs this time.

The Swedes have a lot more experience with that sort of thing.

Otto is an exacting 60something who expects everybody to follow the rules, especially in the townhouse subdivision he’s lived much of his life. “Idiots” who can’t properly sort their recycling, won’t clean up after their dogs, who fling unwanted ad circulars on every lawn and treat this gated, parking-by-permit-only oasis the way people do these days — as if “rules” are for “other” people — get an earful from Otto.

We see him storm out of his retirement “send off” at the steel mill (Pittsburgh and Eastern Ohio were filming locations) in a huff and demand to “see the manager” at his local big box hardware store when they won’t sell him five feet of rope as “we sell it by the yard.”

The rope and the metal shackle he bought are needed at home. Otto testily shuts off his phone service and his electricity, bickers with the gas company, fetches his drill and mounts a hook on the ceiling of his living room. That’s where five feet of rope will become a noose.

He puts on his best suit, and…

As efficient and competent as he is about everything else, we’d expect this to go off without much of a hitch. But then these “idiots” who can’t back a U-Haul trailer into a parking space across the street distract him. And this kind of adult incompetence he cannot tolerate.

Marisol (Mariana Treviño) is pregnant, animated and Hispanic, chattering directions at hapless Tommy (Manuel Garcia-Rulfo). Before he knows it, Otto is intervening in their sloppy parking job. And thanks to everything else these new renters don’t know how to do, or have the tools to do, Otto is drawn into their lives.

Marisol’s “Are you always this unfriendly?” falls on deaf ears. But her proffered Tupperware tubs of assorted Central and South American delicacies (she grew up all over) might wear him down. His longtime neighbors might still get the curt growls, and the developers intent on buying out this subdivision his rage.

Bubbly, talks-with-her-mouth-and-hands Marisol is harder to resist. Even when it comes to the stray cat that shows up. Not that Otto has been completely distracted from his main objective — ending this misery of a life.

They seem like such a nice couple. He’s strolling around the grounds of their gated subdivision in his robe on a chilly winter’s morning. She’s sleeping in.

When she wakes, she wants him to repeat a “lost at sea/remember why we made the journey together” toast he once made to her. He’s got her first cocktail of the day in hand, a mimosa from the looks of it.

They are from different parts of the world. He’s Middle Eastern. She’s Eastern European, perhaps Russian, and English is their common language. But Nijm and Irina plainly communicate in more physical ways, with or without alcohol erasing any inhibitions.

But within a few minutes, we figure out that they don’t actually belong here. This McMansion in suburban Chicago (Palatine, Ill.)? This open bar? That mink stole? “Borrowed.”

They are “Grasshoppers,” just another word for squatters of the “locust” family. They have the run of almost this entire neighborhood of second homes whose wealthy owners winter in warmer climes.

Writer-director Brad Bischoff’s debut feature is a day-in-the-life riff on squatting, class and class resentment, aspirations, love and “family.” It makes a compelling, compact showcase for stars Iva Gocheva and Saleh Bakri. They play lovers who happen to be alcoholic outlaws.

Over the course of the day, they drink their way around their corner of the world, breaking into houses, crashing a realtor’s “open house” and invited in by the few neighbors still around, who accept their improvised lies and casual chutzpah as evidence that they “belong.”

This couple, whose refer to each other as “husband” and “wife,” are co-dependent co-conspirators. He is something of a revolutionary, rudely muttering resentful insults at the “haves” that have what he never will, and more than their share of it, to boot. He might be right, but he’s quite the jerk about it, even to a realtor, a restaurant’s sommelier, a friendly customer or neighbor who bends over backwards to “be nice” and never quite patronizing.

She is talking about “family” and “the future,” in the way women in societies all over the world do. She might be pregnant. But sure, a chocolate martini would be great! Because there couldn’t be a “future” in living like this, and with this guy.

Oh, and that open house? What better way to stick it to the man than having sex in these absentee landowners’ bathroom?

Bischoff has grafted a “Days of Wine and Roses” romantic bender onto what is normally a more fraught “Homeless in America” story, with the geopolitics of migration and the unseemly accumulation of wealth by the tax-privileged rich as subtexts.

Bischoff has created a bracing first feature in which society’s designated losers mask their bitterness in contempt and their desperation in alcohol.

Bakri and Gocheva let us see the flawed logic and painful realizations that this couple are not “really THESE people,” the sorts who own multiple McMansions and decorate in the “a bit gaudy” style. And whatever dreams they harbor, they never will be.

The cleverness in the performances is that they never wholly repel us, but never exactly invite our sympathy and let us root for them either. Older viewers will cringe a little at what they’re doing. Younger ones, facing economically-limited futures, might wonder if they’d have Irina and Nimj’s nerve.

Rating: unrated, sex, alcohol abuse, profanity

Cast: Saleh Bakri, Iva Gocheva

Credits: Scripted and directed by Brad Bischoff. A Gravitas release.

Running time: 1:20

It’s a menace the single woman thriller with gimmick casting fleshing out the ensemble.

Paris Hilton, Pamela Anderson, G-Easy, Winnie Harlowe, Deadass, Luis Guzman, Sky Ferreira, Jake Weary — a slasher thriller with laughs?

Jan. 20.

So Keaton and Richard Gere are a couple, and Sarandon and William H. Macy are a couple, only they’re cheating on each other with each other.

If you follow.

And one couple’s daughter (Roberts) is stuck with the commitment-phobic son (Luke Bracey) of the other.

Only they haven’t met until they do meet — at a meet-the-potential-in-laws get together.

Jan. 27 this pre-V-Day rom-com rolls out.

There’s something about the world’s first detective novelist that makes writers and filmmakers envision him as a gentleman sleuth.

A courtly, erudite romantic with morbid streak and a Virginia drawl, Edgar Allan Poe must have been one of the inspirations for “Glass Onion” peeler Benoit Blanc. That Poe himself is on the case in the period pieces “The Raven” and last summer’s “Raven’s Hollow,” a writer solving a mystery that directly implicates him, there is no doubt. That’s also the case in Louis Bayard’s novel “The Pale Blue Eye,” which shares its Poe-as-a-West-Point-cadet setting with “Raven’s Hollow,” on the page and now on the screen.

There could not be more compelling subject for a Virginia filmmaker like Scott Cooper to lure his “Hostiles” star Christian Bale to than Poe and a macabre murder mystery bathed in gloom, snow and unstinting period detail.

Bale stars as Augustus Landor, a retired New York police constable whose last years of highlands solitude are interrupted by a summons from the nearby U.S. Military Academy. A cadet has died by hanging, and the captain (Simon McBurney) sent to fetch Landor, and the school’s commanding officer Colonel Thayer (Timothy Spall) figure they could use the help of an investigator, expert code breaker and master of “gloveless interrogation” (no torture) to figure out what’s happened.

“Discretion” is called for. And sobriety. Yes, they’ve heard all about the widowed Landor, whose only daughter disappeared as well. If this matter isn’t tidied up, this still-new school could be defunded and shut down, Col. Thayer, the superintendent frets. So “no drinking” on the job.

Landor finds himself examining the body, correcting the school physician (Toby Jones), questioning witnesses, looking for clues and then abruptly offered help by this quirky uniformed weirdo with the big forehead and floridly poetic speech.

“It is incumbent upon me and the honor of this institution to share some of the conclusions which I have reached.”

Yes, we know who this oddball cadet is before Landor figures that out. It’s the already-published poet, drinking and gambling University of Virginia drop-out and future father of detective fiction Edgar Allan Poe. Perhaps he (Harry Melling) can be of some assistance?

As the dead man had his heart carved out, as mutilated animals have been found nearby and as a second cadet turns up hanged, Landor is going to need someone inside the institution to break down clues and sift through suspects.

It isn’t the black and white cinematography that gives away the fact that “Lenny,” Bob Fosse’s film about the life, career and decline of comedian Lenny Bruce, is of a different era. It’s the patience.

This 1974 film, based on a stage play by Julian Barry (who adapted it for the screen), almost does a disservice to one of the most influential stand-up comics of all time simply by taking forever to get going.

But cinema was a rarified entertainment back then. You couldn’t watch a movie, distracted by commercials or text messages on the cell phone or tablet you might now be watching it on. You had to sit in the dark and watch this dark movie slowly unfold. You had to pay attention.

“Lenny” introduces Bruce — real name Leonard Schneider — near the end of his career, in his bearded, hipster deep dives into the veneer of American culture, censorship and his own persecution for violating “decency” standards with the words he used in his act.

The structure portrays Lenny’s ex-stripper ex-wife (Valerie Perrine), his retired-comic mother (Jan Miner) and his agent (Stanley Beck) being interviewed about him, intercut with snippets of his act, at the end and at the very beginning of his stand-up life.

The long flashbacks that give us more of his story come later. But the film opens when Bruce had ceased being funny, literally reading his obscenity trial transcripts in his last years, and showing us what a terrible, derivative, worn-out-joke hack he was in his early days, following his mother’s career path into the Borscht Belt resorts and venues, the smoky strip clubs and and dives of the early 1950s.

The viewer can be tricked into thinking “What’s the big deal? This “nepo baby” wasn’t the least bit funny.” The film, shot in grainy, dark black and piercing white as an aesthetic choice, is arresting right from the start. Bruce, played by Dustin Hoffman in what could be his finest performance, is onstage in tiny pools of light amidst the inky darkness and general silence (there’s no laughter from the audiences), hunting for laughs or at least pithy observations.

But the lack of laughs and monochromatic film stock set a tone. This is a history lesson. This will document a performer and thinker who transcended punchlines and shtick and talked about sex, race, violence and the grim unspoken truths of The American Experience and The American Way. Even when Bruce hits his stride, becomes the hot and happening stand-up embraced by “the in-crowd, he’s going to be pointing his humor at the maladjusted psyche and arrested development of the land of his birth.

“Now dig,” he’d say, before zeroing in on some insight about “uptight” America’s prudishness about sex, sex acts, venereal disease, the Kennedy Assassination or racism. Our biggest hang-up, he said then in an opinion that resonates today, is our desire to “not start talking about it.”

He was the first mainstream comic to get into “doing it,” “the dirtiest thing we could do to each other.” Bruce was the original “f-bomber,” talking casually in a big city street argot that would shock “Ed Sullivan Show” America, even in San Francisco, where his act really found its improvisational groove and its most appreciative audience.

“What is dirty and what is clean?” he’d ask. And then he’d open up the Life Magazine issue that broke down the frame-by-frame analysis of The Zapruder Film on declare this these were the real “dirty pictures,” the gruesome violence of the assassination of President Kennedy captured on a home movie camera. And that would lead him into the country’s way of sanitizing its myths and hiding the truth.

No, the shocked Jacqueline Kennedy wasn’t trying to retrieve part of her husband’s head that had been shot off, the way “history” remembers it. She was “fleeing” a car being targeted by a murderous sniper.

The film’s most breathtaking stand-up sequence is Bruce going off on race by asking if there were any Black members of the audience. He used the N-word to make that query, and you could hear a pin drop. He singles out people here and there, and starts his head-count, identifying this Jewish patron by an ethnic slur and that Italian, Hispanic or Irish one similarly. He basically excuses generations of comics who followed by insisting that banning such utterances from the culture wouldn’t change hearts and minds. Only the appropriation and overuse of them would defang the slurs and rob them of their power.

That still hasn’t quite come to pass.