While the cover of Synapse Films’ recently-issued Special Edition DVD of Syngenor reminded me of Alien, the first half of the movie itself reminded me of my pre-Internet days. I’d randomly grab 3-4 videos to rent from the 99-cent shelves—one from the science fiction section, one from the horror section, one from the action section—and pop each one into my trusty VCR, watching on my 13-inch TV until I got bored and then popping the next one in.

With that mindset, I had Syngenor on auto-pilot ... it seemed like a fairly typical late 80s/early 90s “evil corporation exploits science for profit, creating monster soldiers that run amuck killing people,” kind of a riff on Robo-Cop and what have you ... and then David Gale (the older evil doctor in Re-Animator, here playing the corporation’s CEO) gave a really twisted line reading that sounded like it didn’t belong in that scene, and I started to wake up, and then he did something completely different but just as bizarre in the next scene he was in, and I was fully awake ... and then Gale was completely, brilliantly demented—but insane in a different way—in each of his remaining scenes, and the rest of the movie got kick-started to another level with jokes and blood and a more self-mocking attitude ...

And I had to watch it again.

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Molly Hartley suffers from hallucinations, headaches, nightmares, bad cell phone reception, an overly-protective father, an insane mother, and a director who loves SHOCK cuts.

Mickey Liddell’s The Haunting of Molly Hartley is too timid to dig into the deeper issues it eventually raises, so instead much of the running time is devoted to a surfeit of SURPRISE “scares,” accompanied, of course, by SLAMMIN’ sound effects and/or a random discordant musical chord. When the movie isn’t trying to FRIGHTEN you with an unexpected finger on the shoulder or the unexpected THUMP of the daily mail as it COLLIDES with the wooden floor, it THREATENS to bore you to tears with mind-numbingly banal parental conflicts and/or tired HIGH school anti-dramatics.

It’s not much of a SPOILER to reveal that Molly Hartley is a watered-down SPAWN of Rosemary’s Baby and any one of a hundred semi-religious horror flicks about an unholy deal made at birth. (Take one look at the poster.) A preamble set in 1997 shows a father killing his daughter just days before she turns 18, muttering “I don’t blame you, I blame myself ... I’m so sorry ... I have to save you ... I can’t let you become one of them” (or words to that effect).

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Superbly modulated and thrilling in its subtle intensity, Pride and Glory admittedly doesn’t break any new ground. The elements are almost numbingly familiar: a family of cops, New York’s mean streets, loyalty, brotherhood, and corruption. Yet director Gavin O’Connor and a top-notch cast led by Edward Norton, Colin Farrell, Jon Voight, and Noah Emmerich transform what could have been a routine story into a transfixing piece of darkly brooding literature.

Four police officers are killed in the line of duty, prompting the formation of a special task force to quickly find the culprit. The murders were committed in Washington Heights, a rough neighborhood at the northern edge of Manhattan, falling under the jurisdiction of Precinct Commander Franny Tierney (Emmerich). Tierney’s father Francis (Voight) is a high-ranking police official, his brother Ray (Norton) is a detective in Missing Persons, and his brother-in-law Jimmy Egan (Farrell) is a cop on the beat under his command.

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Not as bad as might have been feared, American remake Quarantine delivers on the blood and guts while falling short on the nerve-jangling tension served up by [REC], the Spanish original. Given the current US theatrical horror climate, though, it’s refreshing to see a genuine R-rated thriller that goes for the jugular, even if it doesn’t entirely succeed.

The premise remains the same: television reporter Angela Vidal (Jennifer Carpenter) and her cameraman Scott (Steve Harris) plan to spend a normal shift with a firefighting crew for a feature story. After observing the men in the fire station, they accompany the crew on what should be a routine call to an apartment building. The call quickly turns into a night of deadly terror. The entire story is told from the point of view of the cameraman.

If you haven’t seen the original, Quarantine offers several sharp jolts and creates an atmosphere with a fair amount of dread. The opening scenes establish Angela as a perky, good-natured, down to earth young woman. She jokes easily with the all-male crew, goes along when they invite her into the steamy locker room, and joins in when they play basketball. Once they’ve on the scene and all hell starts to break loose, she demonstrates a great—though not unlimited—amount of steely resolve in the face of grave obstacles.

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Do these five movies have anything in common?

5. Jersey Girl (2004)

The most damning praise that can be heaped upon Kevin Smith’s Jersey Girl is to call it “sweet” and nothing else.

All his movies have a core of sickly sweetness, but his other movies—including his upcoming Zack and Miri Make a Porno —masquerade the sentimentality beneath a blisteringly outrageous stream of obscenities and sex talk. If he were born 70 years earlier, he could have become a perfectly competent scriptwriter, perhaps following in the wake of Preston Sturges and becoming a writer/director of tart-tongued witfests that pushed the boundaries of the time. But he was fortunate enough to be born in 1970, coming of age in the early 90s when technology had advanced sufficiently to allow him to make a movie that showcased a sense of humor itching to push the boundaries of his time.

Despite the occasional salty/sexy dialogue, Jersey Girl could have been made in the 1940s. It would have worked better if it had been set in that era, substituting straightforward sudsy melodrama for the profanities and diaper jokes. George Carlin still would have given the best performance.

After the jump: Spoilers for Atonement, plus: what the movies have in common.

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Post-apocalyptic children’s fantasy City of Ember, which ‘secret screened’ as the closing night presentation of Fantastic Fest, is not my cup of tea, either thematically or otherwise, but if I was 14 again it might hit me dead center. As a much older, oft-befuddled middle-aged man, I could appreciate the production design and the generally handsome look of the film, though I lost interest in the proceedings from time to time. I didn’t think it was terribly compelling for anyone outside of the target audience.

Bill Murray plays the major of the titular underground city, and was the surprise guest star of the evening. (No disrespect to director Gil Kenan, who was also present for the intro and post-screening Q&A.) I think it’s safe to say that Murray is one of the greatest comic influences of the past 30 years. I wish he had more to do in the movie, but, as Kenan hoped for, he lent gravity and a twinkle in the eye to his small supporting role.

I only thought to take notes on the last two questions in the Q&A: “Will you do another Ghostbusters?” Murray said, “Now that the wounds have healed from Ghostbusters 2 ... That could work.” He’d heard the recent news about the screenwriters hired, and thought they might bring fresh ideas.

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Listen, all I’m doing is sitting at the Alamo here at Fantastic Fest, checking my e-mail, and Todd leans over and says Johnny Depp is playing an inconic character in Tim Burton’s new film. I haven’t the faintest idea what this is all about—I barely know about the US financial system failing, evidently while I was watching movies this week. But this is exciting news nonetheless, according to my Lord and Master Todd, so I am passing on the news to the faithful. Evidently we’re the last site in the universe to announce it, but we like to keep all the munchkins fully informed.

Hit the link to read all the Depp casting news and notes, and to see which of the roles in the headline will not, alas, come to pass.

Before it crashes and burns in an extended heap of steaming, stinking pretentious crap, Martyrs amply demonstrates that Pascal Laugier is a very talented director. As a writer, not so much.

Up until that point, Martyrs precariously teeters on the edge of insanity, a pile-driver of stomach-cramping tension and hair-raising, incredibly bloody violence and despair. Morjana Alaoui and Mylène Jampanoï star as two young women who were imprisoned and tortured as children. One of them breaks into a home where a happy family is enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning breakfast. The calm morning is transformed into a hellish nightmare of screaming shotgun blasts and punishment appears to have been meted out today for the terrifying sins of yesterday. But from somewhere in the country house an animalistic cry emerges, and the two young women have miles to go before they sleep.

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Fantastic Fest completed its first weekend with a fulsillade of sell-outs, outrageous all-night parties, and a mixed bag of films. Mack has been churning out great reviews, in between dispensing nuggets of personal wisdom as we travel together each day, Swarez pumps out great reviews and then turns around and sings a priceless karaoke version of “Rhinestone Cowboy” at five in the morning, and I am happy to be a designated driver and thus promote the virtues of sobriety.

But what you really care about are the films. By general agreement, the intelligent, moving Swedish vampire flick Let the Right One In lives up to expectations, the Jean-Claude Van Damme reinvention piece JVCD has jazzed everybody (I’m evidently only in feeling only fizzed rather than jazzed), and Nacho Vigalando was another huge hit with his outstanding shorts program, his spirited karaoke singing, and his incredibly contagious enthusiasm for, well, life.

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A supermodel walks into a nerd shop. Talk about your Hollywood high concept! Except that Astrópía hails from Iceland, the story takes unexpected turns, the characters prove to be as knowledgeable as geeks should be, and fantasy sequences break out at random moments.

Originally burdened with the English-language title Dorks and Damsels, which may sound immediately self-explanatory but is not, Astrópía takes (maybe too much) time to set up its killer premise. Hildur (Ragnhildur Steinunn Jónsdóttir), the aforementioned supermodel, works with her boyfriend at an auto dealership. Her life quickly goes south when the police show up and toss her scheming boyfriend in jail. Hildur takes refuge with her friend Björt and her son Snorri. She takes Snorri shopping one day at a nerd shop, where chaos ensues among the shocked customers. Seeing a “help wanted” sign, she inquires and is promptly hired.

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I’ve been anticipating Fantastic Fest for a year (!), ever since the last one concluded, and now that’s it’s underway my excitement can barely be contained. It’s an unreasonable excitement, of course, predicated more on emotion than reason, but that’s what produces the best kinds of films—or at least the ones that I’m most interesting in watching—so I feel justified.

The “unofficial” kick-off even was actually last Friday (an outdoor screening of Mad Max). Last night felt like the beginning, as the Alamo Drafthouse’s weekly “Weird Wednesday” program featured “Oz-ploitation” title Dark Age, one mean little giant croc movie, featuring John Jarrett (Wolf Creek) as a romantic leading man and would-be savior of all things natural and toothy. Lars (the man, the myth, the legend) presented an amazing introduction, joined by authentic Aussie director Mark Hartley (Not Quite Hollywood). A gorgeous, buzzy title that prized energy over exquisitely-rendered CGI (thank goodness), Dark Age jump-started the packed house with a pulpy edge.

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The Coen Brothers take a jaunty journey through spy territory to discover America’s dark secret: We’re all a bunch of morons.

Not that they’re letting themselves off the hook. By the very fact that they focus so intently and with such excitement on such a motley group of intense underachievers, they acknowledge their own unhealthy fixation on self, rather than the higher callings of civilization.

It’s very difficult to resist such lovably vain characters, though, especially when they’re locked inside a gently satirical and clever parody of a modern espionage thriller.

That much becomes apparent in the opening sequence, as the camera plunges from a satellite-eyed view of the world down, down, down to the running feet—clack, clack, clack—of a man in a hallway, helpfully identified as “The Pentagon” by the click click click of information typing on the screen.

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If for no other reason, The Rebel should be applauded for how tightly the fight scenes are integrated into the story. Superbly choreographed and executed, the eye-defying twists, turns, kicks, and punches are delivered with brutal force and deadly intent. The characters are literally fighting for their lives, and we can almost believe that they are reenactments of true events.

On second thought, belief would have to be stretched beyond credulity to think that any of the fight scenes could really have happened. But within the universe that has been created for the film, the action sequences feel authentic. Sure, the performers are glamorized and the choreography comes across very much as an extended showcase for them, but what a showcase!

What enables the film to transcend the appearance of a show reel? Clearly this was a passion project for everyone involved, but rather than be satisfied with churning out a modern action spectacle featuring Vietnamese talent, director Charlie Nguyen and his filmmaking partners decided to cast a spotlight on a lesser-known era in Vietnam’s history. So even though the film falls victim to most of the cliches associated with “war-torn action adventures,” the setting helps distinguish it, as does the filmmakers’ determination not to pull any punches with the vision they had for the project.

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Comedies inevitably lose some of their spark the second time around, so I was curious to see how Maiko Haaaan!!! would play for me when it screened at the Asian Film Festival of Dallas (AFFD) this weekend. I first encountered it at Fantastic Fest last year with zero expectations; I instantly connected with the zany sense of humor and broadly-played characters and had a blast, as did the audience.

Any concerns I had were laid to rest in the first scene. The Dallas audience was ready for a little craziness and responded enthusiastically. The contagious laughter made it easy to enjoy a second time through, and I also picked up on more of the subtle humor that I’d missed the first time.

As I wrote previously, Maiko Haaaan!!! lives up to expectations as a “crazy Japanese comedy,” but it actually has much more to offer.

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“Run for your life!” is still the most exciting sentence in the English language, isn’t it? Senses start working overtime, adrenaline pumps freely, fingertips tingle.

While that sentence is never uttered in Tell No One, the idea is the film’s secret weaspon, ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice. The story has a continental sense of quiet foreboding; tension slowly and subtly builds until, as surely as if Tom Cruise’s name were attached, the hero must flee on foot.

The French thriller, based on a novel by American author Harlan Coben first published in 2001, has earned terrific reviews and plenty of positive word of mouth since it opened in the US three weeks ago. The film (original title: Ne le dis à personne) opened in its native land away back in November 2006, subsequently winning several César Awards. Happily, Tell No One, while not a perfect film, pretty much lives up to the advance word.

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