The nurse will see you now.
Jodie Foster, the best actress of my lifetime, sinks deep under old-age makeup to play a woman with a past, and a certain set of skills.
Belong to her super-secret underground club for career criminals, she’ll patch up your bullet holes, fix all your boo-boos big and small, and do so discretely and efficiently.
But if you don’t have the magical passport, you’re out of luck, and man-mountain Dave Bautista hovers nearby to enforce the no interlopers policy.
“His name is Everest. Do you know why?”
No worries, you’ll figure it out soon enough.
All guns blazing.
Rough and ready, Sam Peckinpah’s bullet-riddled tale of bank robbers remains a sterling example of tough guy (and gal) cinema.
Steve McQueen tops the cast as “Doc” McCoy, fresh out of the joint and eager to grab revenge and a few piles of sweet, sweet cash.
Uneasily working with his estranged wife and hampered by sleaze-balls to the left and cold-blooded killers to the right, our anti-hero isn’t exactly a sweetheart.
But then again, who is among this film’s motley collection of no-good-niks?
It was the ’70s man. Dark and devious was the flavor of the day.
Words fail me.
The year of my birth, 1971, gave us all-timers like The French Connection, Fiddler on the Roof, and Get Carter.
It also gave us this cracked “classic,” perfect for watching at 2 AM in as crummy a format as possible.
The tale of crooks on the lam who head for Miami’s sunny sands, it quickly takes a detour, when one miscreant opts to hide in drag.
Dressed up like a middle-aged housewife, our grubby hero lounges around the house, drinking beer, doing some light house cleaning, and, too often, getting super jealous and all stabby.
As you do.