Paul Bartel’s sweet-spirited comedy of murder (1982) is almost literally a home movie, filmed on weekends when the cast and film stock were available. It isn’t completely successful, but it’s funny and personal enough—Bartel manages to open a niche between the esoterics of independent filmmaking and industrial Hollywood product. Bartel himself stars with his longtime cohort, the formidable Mary Woronov; they’re a square Los Angeles couple who raise the money to open the restaurant of their dreams by preying on swinging singles. The subject matter suggests John Waters or Andy Warhol, but Bartel declines campy outrageousness in favor of affectionately developed characters. Engendering warmth in a very cold context, it’s the most likable black comedy I know. With Robert Beltran.