From one Maniac to another — a Maniac Cop this time! — trash director William Lustig is back in the dirtiest of NYC surroundings with this sequel to his 1988 police exploitationer, made only more relevant after 30 or so years of constant brutality from the force. Sometimes art imitates life, I guess.

For those not following along, while the previous entry had Bruce Campbell and Laurene Landon taking down the hulking behemoth known as the Maniac Cop (Robert Z’Dar), they’re both quickly dispatched within the first half-hour by said insane officer, only to quickly be replaced by Robert Davi and Claudia Christian, both one step ahead on the pay scale.

As the Maniac Cop — now with far more reptilian facial features — randomly kills cops and other citizens desperately in need of help around the Big Apple, he eventually makes a bestest friend in the form of a crazy rapist. While I’m glad the Maniac Cop is putting himself out there and making pals, I have to admit I’m a little bit worried about his new friends.

After the Maniac Cop and his bros commandeer a bus headed to Sing Sing, the Deputy Commissioner (Michael Lerner) is forced via bullhorn to admit he’s the reason the Maniac Cop bought it in the prison showers lo those many years ago. After the Maniac Cop is promised a funeral with full honors, he finishes business the only way he knows how: by jumping out of a window while covered in flames, into a prison bus that quickly explodes, killing him.

Until, of course, Maniac Cop III: Badge of Silence.

As much as I liked the original Maniac Cop — and, really, who didn’t? — I truly enjoyed this next chapter in the trilogy, written by trash screenwriter Larry Cohen, keeping every beat filled with scummy action and tawdry suspense. It’s really hard to find a boring moment in this flick and, believe me, I looked for one.

Forever an unheralded cinematic trio of trash films, Maniac Cop 2 is definitely the best one of the bunch, a movie that thankfully gives a nightstick of spills across the knees and a taser of thrills right in the center of the chest. —Louis Fowler

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In the first 15 minutes of this Asian actioner, a suicide bomber takes out a government office; two apartment residents are tied to synchronized, booby-trapped explosives; a jewelry store robber threatens hostages with live grenades; and Hong Kong International Airport is absolutely decimated, melting travelers and all.

Shock Wave 2, you have my full attention.

The country cowers in the face of danger as trust-fund terrorist Ma Sai Kwan (Kwan-Ho Tse, Nude Fear) masterminds Resurrection Day, a large-scale nuclear attack against Hong Kong. Sounds like a job for Explosive Ordinance Disposal Bureau Officer Poon Shing Fung (Andy Lau, The Great Wall) … except he no longer works for the police, having been booted from the force after losing a leg in the line of duty.

After a explosion rips through a hotel, Fung is not only found unconscious in the rubble, but accused of planting the C-4. Is he working undercover or has he gone rogue? Awaking from his coma with a concussion and post-trauma amnesia, Fung has no answers; he literally can’t remember, but he’s determined to find out and, if needed, clear his name.

You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a one-legged, wheelchair-bound Lau escape a hospital siege in his PJs — a blazingly choreographed sequence that gives Shock Wave 2 hard Fugitive vibes, but this time, the protagonist possesses the prosthetic. It pops off an alarming amount of times, too — not all for kicks, but because returning director Herman Yau (The Untold Story) injects the sequel with the message of disability not equalling dispensability.

Make no mistake: This is no sermon wrapped in Trojan-horse coating. It’s a monster of an action film that draws influence from America’s enormously popular mad-bomber blockbusters of the genre’s 1990s peak, primarily Speed and Die Hard with a Vengeance (with the EODB’s bubble-headed uniforms inspired by the science thrillers Outbreak and Sphere). While we have Die Hard sequels on the brain, it’s worth noting that while the forever-fantastic Lau also played the lead in 2017’s original Shock Wave, his character was different, as if Bruce Willis played cop John McClane just once, then was back as, oh, cop Lance Bloodstone or cop Chad Runyon. Either way, yippee-ki-yay. —Rod Lott

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In the opening moments of No Time to Die, Daniel Craig’s fifth and final time as James Bond, the iconic spy visits the grave of Vesper Lynd, the woman who died for his love. Because Eva Green’s Vesper had a hand in 2006’s Casino Royale, Craig’s 007 debut, the gesture feels like the finishing stroke of a full circle representing his 15-year run. That feeling only deepens when he faces the rock slab — and, by camera placement, the audience — and says in an earnest near-whisper, “I miss you.”

Then, just as Bond spots a business card emblazoned with the SPECTRE organization’s ominous octopus logo, Vesper’s resting place explodes into rubble. It’s the filmmakers’ way of saying, “Time to upend your expectations.” All things considered, they mostly make good on that unspoken mission statement. (On the negative side of that, Billie Eilish’s theme song is a tepid bore.)

Now retired and committed to Madeleine Swann (Léa Seydoux, returning from 2015’s Spectre), Bond is coaxed back into the field when an MI6-manufactured virus is stolen from the agency’s off-the-books lab. Dubbed “the Heracles Project,” the bioweapon is genetically engineered to impact only the DNA of its possessor’s choosing — peculiar functionality that means everything to its warped thief, Safin (Rami Malek, The Little Things), a terrorist with a taste for revenge and a burnt face. Safin initially hides behind a Japanese Noh mask — a chilling image and one of the movie’s most indelible. With stakes standing at an all-time high, 007 resorts to consulting ol’ archenemy Blofeld (Christoph Waltz, reprising his Spectre role in a Hannibal Lecter-style cameo).

While much hype surrounds No Time to Die being not only Craig’s last time in the tux, but the 25th official film in the series, I’ve seen no writing on the wall regarding its stature as the franchise’s longest entry, at an eon of 163 minutes. Truth be told, its machinations run a level or two too complex than necessary.

That said, what would I cut? Certainly not a second from the action set pièce de résistance: a chase through the cobblestone streets — and up the stairs — of Matera, Italy. Definitely not Bond’s firepower-packed pas de deux in a Cuban nightclub with cleavage-bearing CIA contact Paloma (Knives Out’s Ana de Armas, bringing a wonderfully disarming comedic presence). In both sequences (and more), director Cary Joji Fukunaga exhibits a control as comfortable as the series’ best, even if none quite approximates the blood-pumping tension of his CV’s highlight thus far: that six-minute tracking shot from True Detective season one, episode four.

I might be persuaded to cast my vote against a rather overstuffed ending that sucks all the fun out of the room … but not when we have Malek treating Safin like Shakespeare once No Time to Die says “yes” to cribbing from Dr. No by jetting to its villain’s island lair.

But I come to praise 007, not to bury him. Through more highs (Skyfall) than lows (Quantum of Solace), one thing remained consistent: Craig, cucumber-cool and captivating. Sean Connery aside, nobody did Bond better.

Already, I miss you. —Rod Lott

The Spanish word camino translates to “road” in English, which is a very apt title for this primo action flick, as it travels down many bloody South American streets, all of them barely lit by a flickering streetlight as stuntwoman extraordinaire Zoë Bell tries to make it out of a green inferno with her life.

Bell is prizewinning photojournalist Taggert, who is sent on assignment to follow a group of heavily armed missionaries through the dense jungle. At first glance, the team seems as nice as a group of guerillas possibly can be, with leader Guillermo (Oscar-nominated director Nacho Vigalondo) providing much of the group’s capable bluster as their likably annoying leader.

However, in a drug deal that is witnessed by Taggert — and photographed, no less — Guillermo slits the fucking neck of a small child for fun. Spotted, she goes on the run as the charismatic leader and his soldiers are after her, wherein she unleashes her masterfully choreographed martial arts capability on much of the offending party.

With Camino mixing important social critiques with blistering ass-kicking potential — the best way to get any kid to learn, if you ask me — Bell is at the top of her B-movie game, with a surprising turn from Vigalondo, helmer of films like Timecrimes and Colossal, portraying a truly despicable general who, at times, is kind of likable.

Camino is a road I’d definitely like to travel again, even if it means pulling over to get kicked a couple of times. —Louis Fowler

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If nothing else — and that’s indeed the case — shot-on-video titan J.R. Bookwalter’s production of Chickboxer resolves a question that has baffled mankind for decades: “How long is too long to lace a pair of shoes?” The answer, per the activity sloooooowly happening underneath the insufferable opening credits, is 4.5 minutes. Now you know.

In a needless fourth-wall demolition that’s like the Cryptkeeper in a Dress Barn sweater, a sour lemon wedge named Kathy (one-and-doner Julie Suscinski) intros her own small-town story and promises a real doozy: “You can keep your Knots Landing!” And in hindsight, you really should, because compared to this, the infamous High Kicks is Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

A good-girl student at an Ohio high school of maybe four or five people, Kathy enrolls in a $41 karate class after hearing about the video store’s recent stickup, in which Bookwalter cameos as the unfortunate clerk. Her tight-ass mother (Barbara Katz-Norrod, an on-the-reg Bookwalter player) is aghast at her daughter’s decision: “They karate people in there!” Uh, hardly. In a class of six, Kathy proves a natural in (this movie’s idea of) martial arts, despite participating in a Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirt — Chicago, in case you were wondering.

Meanwhile, the robbers (Maximum Impact’s Ken Jarosz and Ozone’s Tom Hoover) are actually full-blown criminals who blackmail Mayor Cornblatt (one-timer Dennis K. Murphy) into picking up a suitcase filled with $5 million in cocaine. In an imperfect storm of clubfooted plotting, their felonious follies tie into the disappearance of Kathy’s karate classmate (Melanie Todd, Robot Ninja) and the accidental overhearing of nefarious plans by Kathy’s effeminate BMOC crush (James L. Edwards, Her Name Was Christa).

Luckily, Kathy has the solution: Only Chickboxer can help!

Oh, looks like I failed to mention Chickboxer, the TV show within the movie. It’s Kathy’s fave; she’s obsessed with it to an unhealthy degree. So she calls Chickboxer actress Greta Holtz (scream queen Michelle Bauer, Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama, showing her comedic chops in the movie’s best scene and showing her other attributes on its cover art). Now, if Kathy isn’t supposed to be touched in the head, I’d like to know what frequent Bookwalter collaborator Scott P. Plummer, in his directorial debut and death, was thinking. Someone made a choice and committed to it; whether said someone told anyone else remains a mystery. (What’s not a mystery is why so many characters wear shirts emblazoned with the logos of various Bookwalter titles.)

With Greta too busy trying to keep her breasts contained within her skimpy outfit, it’s up to Kathy to become, in her own words, “a superhero.” Although her karate experience amounts to one class — and her kickboxing experience unquestionably nil — she nonetheless chickboxes murderous adults twice her size into submission. The end.

Shoelacing included, all this occurs within a pat 61 minutes. Also crammed into that hour is an unrelated coda with a fully nude Bauer — but not as Greta — in bed, grinding on some dude’s crotch as guest director David DeCoteau (who footed Chickboxer’s $2,500 budget) can be heard telling her to cover the lucky guy’s penis. She must not have heard — and DeCoteau must not have wanted to purchase another blank Maxell — because the unit is unobstructed and, befitting of everything else in the movie, limp. —Rod Lott

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