It took South Korea to rejuvenate the American zombie film with 2016’s Train to Busan. With writer/director Yeon Sang-ho returning for the sequel, Train to Busan Presents: Peninsula, lightning strikes twice — albeit at a notably lower voltage.

Necessity gives us a new protagonist in Jung-seok (Gang Dong-won, 2010’s Haunters), a former soldier. After suffering a whopping double tragedy in the prologue, the more reckless Jung-seok joins what certainly seems like a suicide mission to the titular site. There, among hordes of the hungry undead, he and his team are to retrieve an armored truck containing $20 million in the back — and a desecrated corpse in the driver’s seat.

That setup marks a unique and exciting spin on the heist film, but Peninsula is not really about a heist. The crime merely serves as the backing for the first act’s big set piece. The second act delves into a tri-generation family Jung-seok meets and has a guilt-ridden connection to; here, the story bounces between the unconventional family’s unity under immense pressure — some real Omega Man stuff — and Jung-seok’s own brother-in-law unwittingly ushered into a sort of zombie fight club (which is more engaging than the actual, terrible Zombie Fight Club).

Finally, as everything comes to a head, the film palpably sweats an Escape from New York musk — by no means a negative. More action-oriented than its predecessor, the hard-charging Peninsula is what a sequel should be: an extension of the original, rather than a repeat. (World War Z, take note!) In doing so, that means this second round of the Train to Busan franchise doesn’t yank on the heartstrings to deliver a devastating, memorable end, so if you have tissues at the ready, save them for your brow. —Rod Lott

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Danger USA begins like no other action film, except Mind Trap, its alternate title: with a woman fighting off a burglar in her home, which is revealed to be built inside an 18-wheeler barreling down the freeway. I’m still trying to parse this problematic prologue, like how a house can be in broad daylight when it’s literally enclosed in a windowless semi.

I’ve already given this more thought than director Eames Demetrios, grandson of mid-century modern legends Charles and Ray Eames. Let’s just say the family’s creativity genes for designing furniture and architecture did not extend to fictional filmmaking — not even for insane and nonsensical VHS premieres with the budget of whatever Demetrios’ vowels could garner on Wheel of Fortune.

Attractive one-and-doner Martha Kincare plays Shana, an action-movie actress forced to become an action hero IRL when the KGB targets her for the whereabouts of her father’s invention, “the Dream Room,” which is just what it sounds like, plus operated by the Clapper. The Russkies on Shana’s tail include femme fatale Sonja (Maureen LaVette, Virgin High), she of the “moose and squirrel” accent, and Mojo (Frogtown II‘s Kelsey — just Kelsey, thanks), which he claims is short for “more johnson.”

Mojo delivers this nomenclature lesson while unzipping his pants to rape Shana’s sister, Ginger (Jacquie Banan, Desperation Rising). However, thanks to erectile dysfunction — thanks, erectile dysfunction! — he can’t carry out the dirty deed, leading to taunts from not only Ginger and Shana, but his teammates. Nonetheless, Sonja and the gang succeed at killing Shana and Ginger’s mother (Mary MacGyver, another one-and-doner); Shana tearlessly responds with a line of dialogue equally as lifeless: “Mom, you were great. Crazy, but great.”

Viewers are urged to keep their ears peeled for similar winning lines — e.g., “You know your father was an accomplished ventriloquist,” “You’re engaged to a tapeworm” and “You and your pussy are gonna pay for that one!”

In one of his post-coke-arrest roles, former Grizzly Adams star Dan Haggerty gets top billing as movie producer Sergei — repeat: Dan Haggerty is Sergei — and he’s as mumble-mouthed as he is corpulent. He and his exhausted suspenders have little to do in Danger USA, other than to use two breaths to inflate a single party balloon to a quarter than expected, and to get Shana an audition. I think the latter to-do item helps advance the plot, but when a third of the flick passes before Demetrios establishes Danger USA‘s who, what, where, when, why and how as properly as he’s able, it’s tough to know for sure.

Also caught up in the shapeless mass — the movie, that is, not Haggerty — are Shana’s air-horn-obsessed fiancé (Thomas Elliot, Year of the Gun), who goes clinically catatonic after losing a finger; a breast-milk-obsessed director (Sam Hill, what in the) who employs a topless secretary; and Lyle Waggoner (TV’s Wonder Woman) as the guy Shana throws onto the highway at high speed, right after throwing a cat at his face, followed by the Yellow Pages.

These narrative live wires converge as a captive Shana tricks one of the villains into having sex with her as the precious seconds of their time bomb tick by. All too trusting, the guy asks her how much longer they have left, rather than pause his humping to look at the timer his own damn self.

Movie, you were great. Crazy, but great. —Rod Lott

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Apparently, the rescuers arriving in the final frames of 1972’s The Poseidon Adventure stuck around for all of 15 minutes, because when Irwin Allen’s sequel begins the same day of the topsy-turvy event, the once-mighty ship and all its innards are up for grabs. This time around, our ostensible heroes are the aptly named Turner (Michael Caine, having learned nothing from The Swarm), captain of a mortgage-hilted tugboat; his salty right-hand man (Karl Malden, Meteor); and flibbertigibbet Celeste (Sally Field, Smokey and the Bandit), who might be a prostitute.

On New Year’s Day, Turner and crew arrive at Poseidon’s wreckage to salvage all the jewels and money. They’re not alone, either, because posing as medical rescue personnel are a terrorist (a super-suave, snot-slick Telly Savalas, Killer Force) and his goons, seeking barrels of plutonium. Everybody crawls inside, thus beginning what amounts to the Poseidon as haunted house and/or escape room, with each character taking turns climbing ladders, crossing makeshift bridges, dodging flames, leaping over holes and — in Turner’s case only — referring to Celeste as “Monkey.”

Members of the all-star cast balloon as the group goes further (and then decrease accordingly with each set piece). Among them are a mouthy bar owner (Young Frankenstein’s Peter Boyle in a pink puffy shirt), a blind man (Jack Warden, Used Cars), a farmer (Mark Harmon in a bowl cut) and, playing against type, White Line Fever’s Slim Pickens as a quantum physicist.

I’m totally kidding. Pickens plays a wino named Tex who says things like, “I smell grub! … All kinds of vittles!”

Beyond the Poseidon Adventure harbors a bad reputation, and while it’s not up to the excitement of the original, it’s not a waterlogged failure if judged on sheer spectacle. If Beyond is guilty of one thing above all else, it’s being late to the game; audiences were simply tired of the disaster movie by 1979, whereas seven years before, the first Poseidon Adventure garnered eight Oscar nominations. It’s not like Allen veered creatively from his bread-and-butter formula in this follow-up, sticking with the kablooey effects, obstacle-course sets and teeter-totter acting as the camera turns to and fro. Nevertheless, this sunk his career as director. —Rod Lott

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In the realm of Christploitation flicks, David A.R. White is, arguably, the cinematic king of kings in this straight-to-video subgenre. From racial comedies to post-apocalyptic road movies — and let’s not forget the immortal God’s Not Dead trilogy — White manages to take a popular film of the day, give it a Christian message and, believe it or not, make it incredibly entertaining.

And now, with John Wick being so well-liked among the secular tribes of America, in Beckman, he crafts quite possibly the world’s first Christian action flick two-fisting audiences with well-choreographed martial arts, downright bloody head shots and a whole lot of the Word of God.

A hitman is looking for a way out of his murderous life after an explosive opening. The contract killer is the titular Beckman (White), who wanders into a church run by former Vietnam doc Phillip (Jeff Fahey). Given grace by the embittered preacher, Beckman apparently earns a pastoral degree in a year’s time and becomes the rightful heir to the house of worship when Phillip dies.

As Beckman faces a crisis of conscience and a failing of faith, in comes Phillip’s teenage niece, Tabitha (Brighton Sharbino), looking for a port in the storm herself. Almost immediately, he starts calling her his “daughter” and asks nothing about her shady past until a gang of thugs bust into the church and kidnaps her, taking her to be sacrificed by cult leader William Baldwin.

Rightfully so, Beckman goes on a rage-fueled rampage across L.A. to find her, with some of the city’s hottest killers going on a tear to find him.

Beckman is, praise be, loaded with biblical messages and other righteous truths, but a devilish amount of it is gunplay and blood spray that, I’m presuming, might have some sort of spiritual credence to it as well. While your grandmother may not approve of it, it’s an inventive way to spread the message, with White never turning Beckman in a religious parody to be nailed to any cross.

Baldwin, on the other hand, is written as such a devious tool of Satan — mostly in a NXIVM mode, mind you — that, it might be somewhat unholy to say, you just can’t wait to see him get his in the end and, boy, does he. No cheek is left unturned and unkicked-in here, with every moment a ballistic blessing to watch. Amen. —Louis Fowler

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They say “Never say never,” but I’m saying “never”: Marvel or DC will never make a superhero flick that features a Latinx headliner — if they can even fucking find one, and I don’t mean as an alien, extraterrestrial or undocumented.

That means if we want a heroic avenger to cheer in an ongoing battle against evil, we’re going to have to create our own, typically to varying degrees of success. This is exemplified with the vigilante El Chicano, an original character conceived by Ben Hernandez Bray and Joe Carnahan, also to varying degrees of success.

In the film El Chicano, a dark knight has protected East L.A. and the surrounding areas since the 1940s, using his well-honed fighting skills, tricked-out cycle and skull-like visage to strike what I’m assuming is fear into the hearts of thugs and bangers, dealers and politicians.

While investigating a deadly cartel moving into his jurisdiction, LAPD Detective Diego Hernandez (Raul Castillo) discovers that his dead brother had taken on the mantle of El Chicano and now it’s his turn, using the mask and his muscle to disrupt the flow of drugs and the scourge of murders that, apparently, his childhood friend is woefully behind.

El Chicano picks and chooses what white-boy comic-book mythos to take from — a little Punisher here, a bit of Batman there — to become El Chicano. Despite an overly long origin, when he finally slips the half-mask on, it plays very much like the type of satisfying story superhero fans should crave, leading to a super-loco tacked-on coda for a sequel I wish were here right now. —Louis Fowler

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