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While I wouldn't describe John Ridley's "Stray Dogs," the source novel for "U Turn," as a noir classic -- or wildly original -- it is a fast-paced, pulpy thriller with lots of darkly comic moments, making it a fun read. It's not at all surprising that the movie rights were snatched up so readily, before the book was even in print. Unfortunately for Ridley, Oliver Stone was the buyer. Stone is a talented director, but he's not exactly known for his restraint. Consequently, Ridley's fast-paced, pulpy thriller became the leaden, over-done and over-long "U Turn," a movie that's a chore to watch.

Yet Ridley is credited as the screenwriter of this thing. How could he have done this to his own book? According to this site, while he wrote the initial treatment for "U Turn," Stone and producer Richard Rutowski adapted it. Since they did not contribute at least 60 percent new material per Writers Guild guidelines, only Ridley is entitled to the screenwriter credit. This isn't surprising news. Ridley isn't blameless (he's also listed as an executive producer, so it's not like he was uninvolved in the movie's production), but it's a pretty safe bet whose idea it was to include all the Native American imagery.

Though "U Turn" is populated with more caricatures than characters, most of the performances are engaging, with Billy Bob Thornton, as the greasy mechanic Darrel, stealing the show -- the parts not stolen by Nick Nolte, that is. Sean Penn is fine as Bobby Cooper, a sleazy-but-sane man stuck in a town full of lunatics, yet try as he might, Penn can't make his character interesting. The same goes for Jennifer Lopez as the femme fatale Grace, a role that asks little of her beyond looking hot.

There are few actors in "U Turn" who can't resist snacking on the scenery -- Jon Voight as a blind, homeless Vietnam vet; Joaquin Phoenix as a hot-headed punk eager to defend his dimwit girlfriend's honor -- but it's Oliver Stone who gorges on it, smothering every other scene with undercranking, rapid-fire cutaways, different film stocks, and jarring camera angles, all set to Ennio Morricone's overbearing score. What ends up on screen is the end result of Stone's digestive process.

I learned of "3 a.m." from the documentary "They'll Love Me When I'm Dead," during which it was revealed Orson Welles assisted Gary Graver -- Welles' cinematographer for "The Other Side of the Wind" as well as directing "3 a.m." under his Robert McCallum moniker -- in editing one of its sex scenes so Graver could get back to work on "Wind."

That the director of "Citizen Kane" helped edit a hardcore movie is a juicy morsel of gossip, but it's not the sole reason to see this movie. Made at the height of the porno chic era, "3 a.m." plays more like a domestic drama than a sex film, which is to say it's more of an adult film than a trashy porno movie. The axis on which the movie's story turns is Kate (Georgina Spelvin), a spinster living with her sister Elaine (Rhonda Gellard) and who's been carrying on a 15-year affair with Elaine's husband, Mark (Frank Mauro, who resembles a more attractive Jamie Gillis). Then Mark is accidentally killed, leaving Kate trying to keep the surviving family -- including Elaine's "teen" kids Stacey (freckle-faced Clair Dia) and Ronnie (Charles Hopper) -- together and her secrets hidden. And also have sex in the shower with a random hippie chick (Judith Hamilton), who otherwise has nothing to do with the story.

I wasn't surprised to find out that the screenwriter of "3 a.m.," hiding behind the name Tony Trelos, was actually Tony Crechales, who also wrote the lurid drive-in thrillers "Blood Mania" and "Point of Terror" ("Tony Trelos" was even the name of Peter Carpenter's character in "Point of Terror"). Chances are "3 a.m." would've descended into camp, as "Blood Mania" and "Point of Terror" did, had Graver not had such a strong cast. While I wouldn't call a lot of the performers in "3 a.m." actors, most everyone involved delivers an effective performance. The one exception is Spelvin, who turns in a performance worthy of a mainstream movie. She may not have been the prettiest woman in adult film, but Spelvin is far and away its best actress, adept at drama and comedy, as well as being an energetic sexual performer. I can't imagine anyone else in the role of Kate and delivering as nuanced a performance as Spelvin gives here. A special mention should also be made of Sharon Thorpe as Vicki, the sexy neighbor who seduces Ronnie. Though Thorpe's role doesn't require much dramatic range, she's got a natural acting style and ably conveys sexual confidence. Her solo performance, as it were, for Ronnie's benefit is easily one of the movie's best sex scenes -- and I make that observation as a gay man.

But as good as "3 a.m." is, it can't fully overcome the constraints of its genre. There were several instances where I wished the non-sexual scenes were allowed to play out rather than abruptly ending in an effort to get to the next sex scene. Likewise, some of those sex scenes, like Spelvin and Hamilton going at in in the shower, seemed only to exist to fulfill a quota (girl-on-girl scene, check). It is an adult movie after all, so sex scenes for the sake of sex scenes are to be expected, and Spelvin and Hamilton are a lively pairing, but I wish Crechales or Graver could've found a cleverer way to introduce Hamilton other than resorting to a porn cliche. Conversely, enough attention is paid to storytelling that the sex scenes, many of which are either too brief or too repetitive to make much of an impression, get a short shrift. The movie's tagline should be amended to, "A film that will only intermittently turn you on." By the way, that Spelvin-Hamilton shower scene is reportedly the scene Welles helped Graver cut together. To be a fly on the wall during *that* editing session!

Ultimately, with all "3 a.m." has going for it -- strong acting, artful cinematography, a meatier if somewhat soapy story line -- it's only good enough to make you wish it were better. This is no forgotten porn classic, just a better-than-average adult film. Still, I'd seek out "3 a.m." before watching some of Graver's R-rated exploitation trash. Compared to "Texas Lightning," "3 a.m." is "Citizen Kane."

This movie opens with a couple in a bathroom. A man stands at the sink, towel around his waist, touching up his beard with a straight razor. His wife is in the shower, appearing to be in some private reverie as she bathes, director Domiziano Cristopharo capturing this act from all angles. This scene has little bearing on the story other than to establish that the woman is generously endowed and has a well-groomed pubic region. (It should be mentioned here that she's played by former adult movie star Roberta Gemma.) It also gives a clue that she's supposed to be blind, but chances are that detail won't be noticed as Cristopharo is more concerned with capturing the water cascading over her ample bosom.

The opening scene is also something of a misdirect, suggesting this is going to be little more than a spooky soft-core porn movie. If only that were so. After that thorough introduction of Gemma's bod and a cursory flash of her co-star Arian Levanael's butt, the couple -- Anna and Carlo -- move from the city to Carlo's childhood home in the country. While Carlo, a university professor (sure), is at work Anna tries to familiarize herself with her new surroundings with the aid of a phone app that audibly identifies items she photographs. Weird things begin to happen: the landline phones ring, but there is only static on the line when Anna picks up; she bumps into a figure that may or may not have been there; and there's a room that remains locked for some reason. And why is Carlo always getting up in the middle of the night?

Cristopharo is clearly aiming to make an atmospheric thriller with supernatural elements, but his movie can't quite overcome its "Skinemax" aesthetic. Though she's playing a professor's wife, Gemma's often costumed like she's appearing in one of her adult movies (I don't think women wear 6-inch spike heels in their leisure time as often as TV and movies want us to believe). There are a lot of bath and shower scenes to show off the leads' physical attributes, though, interestingly, not a whole lot of sex. The sex scenes we get -- one relatively explicit -- aren't particularly remarkable, which would be forgivable if "The Transparent Woman" otherwise had strong actors and solid script. As physically impressive as Gemma and Levanael are, they don't have the acting chops the story requires. Gemma is actually fairly convincing when she doesn't have to speak, but her line delivery has a third-grader-in-a-school-pageant quality. (Mitigating factor: the movie is in English but Italian is her native language.) Lavanael describes himself on Twitter as a "Yogi, Aerialist, 1000 RYT yoga teacher, photographer, life liver and gatekeeper to the temple of stars." Not included on that list is "actor," and there's a reason for that. As for the script, the dialogue is as stilted as Gemma and Lavanael's delivery of it.

Flawed though it is, I did find "The Transparent Woman" to be reasonably engaging, which is why I really wished it was better than it is. And when I gave up on it being a good movie, I began to hope it would be trashy fun -- there was still time for it to become spooky soft-core porn -- but was again let down. Those looking for an atmospheric thriller/ghost story would do better to instead watch Oz Perkins' "I Am the Pretty Thing that Lives in the House." Those drawn to "The Transparent Woman"'s leads would do better to seek out the movies Gemma made under the name Roberta Missoni and/or follow Levanael on Instagram.