Passengers plays like a mix of The Sixth Sense, Fearless (the airplane one, not the throat-kicking one) and all the bluish Crayons in the big box with the built-in sharpener. After a commercial jet crashes, grief counselor Claire (Anne Hathaway) is called in to talk to the passengers — hence the title!
They seem to differ on whether there was an explosion and other details. They also seem to disappear one by one, which may have something to do with the shadowy man who stalks them and appears outside the window. But, hey, what’s with the looniest of the bunch, this Eric fellow (Patrick Wilson)? He acts like he just stubbed his toe, not survived the opening of Lost!
Rodrigo García directs with a gloomy crispness that makes all of Canada look like an Architectural Digest spread, but the limp screenplay by Ronnie Christensen jumps from drama to mystery to romance to “how much longer does this have?” It’s not a thriller, as it’s generally classified.
The film is yet another that introduces a lazy twist ending, presented so shoddily it holds no surprise. García doesn’t so much build up to it as he does stumble into it. The actors are passable, but why does Hathaway always look like she just drank cherry Kool-Aid? And is it in Wilson’s contract to show his bare ass in every movie? —Rod Lott
They’re sent to investigate a radioactive crater in Nicholson Canyon, only to find a horde of star creatures (men with burlap sacks over their heads, ping-pong balls for eyes and twigs and leaves placed randomly about their tights) and, better yet, two bra-busting honeys named Poona (!) and Tanga (!!) from 60 million light years away who want to take over Earth and who wear skintight space suits that can’t quite contain their ass cheeks. They’re played by Gloria Victor and Dolores Reed — or, as the credits refer to them, “Wow!” and “Wow! Wow!”
It ain’t 
Director/co-writer Michael Neel gets an A for effort, but a C+ for execution, as the segments run a little longer than needed and are need of cutting to accelerate the pace. None are scary, unless you’re … oh, let’s say 10 or under, but will appeal to fans of DIY horror. It sure doesn’t skimp on the gore. Its end credits, however, assault your ears with horrible, terrible music. —Rod Lott
But then the games begin, and Deathsport kicks into higher gear, as our two heroes are given swords and forced to participate in a gladiatorial-style showdown wherein they’re pursued by souped-up-with-welded-metal motorcycles that make the same cartoony sound each and every time they swoop by.