As World War II comes to a close, three Japanese soldiers — aka the losing side — hide a bunch of gold in a cave in the Philippines. Thirty-six years later — round numbers, phooey! — some honkies go a-hunting for it, in an expedition so dangerous, one of them remarks, “I knew this was going to be difficult.”

Viewers of this truly terrible film, Invaders of the Lost Gold, no doubt will agree at the outset.

Staying in what appear to be tents purloined from a traveling circus and/or an annual Renaissance fair, the members of this Horror Safari (the movie’s alternate, better, yet still deceitful title) include:
• the presumed leader (Stuart Whitman, Guyana: Cult of the Damned), eternally grouchy and quick to call someone a “bastard”;
• his former partner (Edmund Purdom, Don’t Open Till Christmas), now a cut-and-dry conniving villain;
• in his final film role, Harold Sakata (Goldfinger’s Oddjob) as the sole surviving point of the aforementioned Japanese triangle, thereby making him the only person who knows where the loot is, thereby making that Lost Gold portion of the title entirely irrelevant;
• the safari funder’s “confounding daughter” (Glynis Barber, Edge of Sanity), because every he-man needs a love interest, even in a movie bereft of affection;
• a second woman (Black Emanuelle herself, Laura Gemser), because every Z-grade adventure needs an actress willing to provide nudity;
• and poor Woody Strode (Sam Raimi’s The Quick and the Dead), Invaders’ only African-American not part of the demeaning ooga-booga tribes.

Strode has so little to do (which may have been for the best) that all I remember his character doing is scratching his head. I’m sure it had to do with the jungle heat, but one can’t help but think the man’s mind was processing some cosmic question like, “How in the hell did I go from John Ford and Stanley Kubrick … to this?”

By “this,” we mean the work of Killer’s Moon director Alan Birkinshaw, working from a screenplay he co-wrote, from a story dreamt up by his producer, exploitation legend Dick Randall (Pieces). While I admire a great deal of Randall’s vast filmography, Invaders of the Lost Gold is the rare entry that doesn’t cut it. Ostensibly a Raiders of the Lost Ark-style adventure of Eastern Hemisphere exploits, the flick cuts its own throat — with a dull machete, fittingly — by being excessively lazy and shoddy, even by Randall’s low standards.

Merely one example: One unnamed character unclothes to starkers — oh, did I just give her identity away? — and takes a dip in the river, only to scream in mortal terror at … well, something. She’s dead, Jim — yet we never find out how or why! That’s just how Birkinshaw rolls: with patches of mold. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Held every seven years in some unsuspecting town, The Tournament is a numbers game. For 24 hours, 30 of the world’s best assassins compete for a $10 million prize in a competition with only one rule: Kill or die. What more setup does an action-craving viewer need?

With tracking devices implanted in their tummies, contestants worthy of note include a parkouring Frenchman (Sebastien Foucan, who performed similar duties against 007 in 2006’s Casino Royale), a crazy-ass Texan (a miscast Ian Somerhalder, TV’s Lost), a Russian special forces member (Undisputed series badass Scott Adkins), a Triad vet (Kelly Hu, X-Men 2’s Lady Deathstrike) and the returning champion (Ving Rhames, Pulp Fiction). The latter is only in it to avenge the recent death of his wife by the trigger-happy hands of a fellow contestant — he just doesn’t know which one. Blah, details.

This particular do-or-die tourney takes place in Middlesbrough, a British town boasting more public surveillance cameras than anywhere on the globe — fortuitous for the assembled high-rollers hoping to make a mint off the blood of 29 hired guns. They are as unapologetic about their gambling as director Scott Mann (2015’s Heist) is about depicting irredeemably graphic acts of violence; let’s just say more than one human head explodes.

Accidentally caught in the crossfire of the shoot-’em-up (by events so unbelievable, explanation is futile) is a hooch-sloshing priest (Robert Carlyle, Trainspotting) and, one assumes, the audience surrogate. Yet you need not be inebriated to feel The Tournament’s juice kick in; Mann and company take care of providing the rush on their own. Virtually unseen, the film deserves better — not pantheon placement, but some sort of regard among fans of swiftly and slickly executed set pieces of undiluted action. Mann does that so well and so often, it seems as if the flick weren’t scripted so much as improvised, taking suggestions from audience members into what situations he should throw his players and their weapons: “In a slaughterhouse!” “At a strip club!” “On a moving bus! You know, the double-decker kind!” —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.