Film Reviews

PSYCHOPATHIA SEXUALIS The faint whiff of bad-adult-film humor wafts off the credits for Psychopathia Sexualis. That this sometimes graphic look into the world of deviant sexuality is written and directed by Bret Wood stokes groaning suspicion before the film even starts. Based on Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing’s controversial 19th-century medical text of the same name, Psychopathia re-enacts several case studies in which the good doctor tackled a host of “abnormal” manifestations of human sexuality and tried to get at their root causes. (He’s credited with coining the term “sadism,” from the exploits of the Marquis de Sade.) Where the original text was crafted so as not to titillate thrill seekers, the film comes off like an artsy, tarted-up segment from the History Channel, filled with candle-thrown shadows, period costumes and vintage photographs. While a cool, soothing voice-over recites philosophical and analytical passages from the book, actors and actresses (many hamming it up) are put through paces of water sports, blood play and S/M rituals, just for starters. Wood welds prurient interest to intellectual pursuit, tipping the scales heavily in favor of the former while claiming to be about the latter. The light hypocrisy doesn’t matter. It’s a mildly enjoyable romp. (Naz 8) (Ernest Hardy)

PULSE The J-horror remake wheel spins again, spitting out this pathetic Americanization of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s apocalyptic fable about a literal ghost in the machine. In Kurosawa’s version (released briefly in the U.S. last fall and recently issued on DVD), a mysterious Web site functioned as a portal by which the dead could re-enter the world of the living, with unsavory consequences for all who logged on. In director Jim Sonzero’s update (from a script cowritten by Wes Craven), more or less the same thing happens — only, instead of a band of smart, resourceful computer geeks, the victims are an assortment of vacant boy- and girl-toys (including Veronica Mars’ Kristen Bell and actor-model Ian Somerhalder) who spend most of the film lounging about in skimpy attire and looking ready for their close-ups, Mr. Weber. Kurosawa’s Pulse was as terrifying for its sense of loneliness and communication breakdown in the technology age as for any ectoplasmic apparitions. Here, the CG effects are plentiful, but the scare factor rarely rises above the level of a viral e-mail, and the desaturated color scheme of Sonzero and cinematographer Mark Plummer makes every frame look as though it were developed in a solution of vomit and ash. The spirits in Pulse don’t kill you outright; they drain you of your life-giving energy first. So does the movie. (Citywide) (Scott Foundas)

PUSH After coming across a gallon-size zip-lock bag of ecstasy while partying at a Miami nightclub, childhood friends Joe (Chad Lindberg), Mickey (William DePaolo) and Kevin (Pierce Forsythe) are faced with the ultimate moral question: return said drugs to the local Puerto Rican cartel or make some cash? These cats aren’t pariahs like Al Pacino in Scarface; they’ve got metro hair and air-conditioned cubicles. This is about cash-money, son, and beyond that the motivation is sparse. The characters’ naiveté blinds them to all they have to lose while illuminating all they hope to gain. The best performances come from the sidelines: Michael Rapaport as Kevin’s boss, Tommy G, a coke-snorting, stockbroking shyster whose NYC twang enhances his rapid-fire retorts; and Chazz Palminteri as Joe’s father figure, an Italian, balls-no-bullshit bar owner who champions respect above all else. First-time director Dave Rodriguez navigates the pitfalls and possibilities of those big-city Miami nights, his hand-held camera conveying the rush of neon-yellow-green-sprinkled dance floors and the instability of chemical highs. The dialogue — “I got involved in selling ecstasy, Vince!” — fluctuates from believable to laughable, resulting in a narrative that never fully hooks you, though at times it comes close. (Fairfax) (Gavin Williamson)

ZOOM A sick feeling starts to set in the moment the opening credits announce “Songs by Smash Mouth,” and it doesn’t ease up much during the subsuperheroic antics that follow. Sky High already used the principal idea from Jason Lethcoe’s Zoom’s Academy books — a Harry Potter–like school for superheroes located above the clouds — so the movie proceeds to ignore the source material almost completely, relocating the action to a secret military installation known as Area 52 (that’s about as funny as it gets, folks). Tim Allen gamely brings some humanity to the role of the retired, powerless hero Captain Zoom, but is thwarted at every turn by bad special effects, slapdash editing, interminable pop-song montages and a goofy performance by Courteney Cox. Zoom’s goal is to train four kids (Spencer Breslin, Kate Mara, Michael Cassidy and Ryan Newman) to develop their powers in time to fight an oncoming supervillain, but the bad guy doesn’t even show up until the very end. Meanwhile, there’s product placement so egregious that one of the characters is actually named Mr. Pibb. (Citywide) (Luke Y. Thompson)