Rushes

PINK FLOYD THE WALL

Maggots! Corpses! Brutal cops! Fascist regalia! Devouring moms! Faithless wives! And on every possible occasion blood spurting and puddling. At the center of the chaos an innocent everyboy (Bob Geldof, lead singer with those punkers' punkers, the Boomtown Rats) broods about how iniquitous life is driving him crazy. It is a story so familiar that it requires almost no dialogue to tell. Simple-minded songs from the Pink Floyd's 1979 five-time platinum seller do the job, along with banal, if sometimes lively, imagery supplied by Director Alan Parker (Fame, Midnight Express). He has warmed over and slicked up an anthology of '60s cliches, which may engender a certain nostalgia for the drear old days in those who endured them. Today's adolescents sit gap-mouthed and squirmless through them, mistaking them, it would seem, for profundities. Not to worry, though; the movie is more irrelevant than incendiary and often just a hoot.

SUMMER LOVERS

Writer-Director Randal Kleiser demonstrated in Blue Lagoon that an air of innocent wonder can disarm all parental harrumphing about a movie that is essentially wall-to-wall sex and nudity. Now he has moved his operation from the Pacific to the Greek islands. Instead of titillating his young audience with a little sanitized incest, he offers them a genial disquisition on the joys of the menage a trois. Visually, however, the formula is as before--plenty of skin displayed before Arcadian scenery. The boy (Peter Gallagher) has a male-model pout for all emotions, and his American girlfriend (Daryl Hannah) obviously flunked elocution in high school, but their mutual friend from France (Valerie Quennessen) carries a nicely knowing quality about her. The writing and direction are appropriate to the setting: simple and primitive.

FRIDAY THE 13TH PART 3 IN 3-D

Maybe all sequels should be made in 3-D. Imagine how tiresome it would be to see Jason, the monster in the hockey mask, polish off another group of dumb teenagers in an ordinary print. But this time, as they gambol through the woods whose mean paths he endlessly stalks, the sundry sharp and blunt instruments that are always ready to his hand come at them and the audience with a certain vivid super-reality. It is all so gruesome that horror turns to humor and the fun comes from the appreciation of being cleverly conned by Director Steve Miner. The way the eyeball of one of Jason's victims pops out of his skull and seems to sail out over the audience's head is alone worth buying a ticket and putting on the funny glasses.

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