When you take your act from the big screen to the small one, you have to shout to get noticed. That could be why producer Irwin Allen’s made-for-TV movie Cave In! arrived in NBC prime time with an exclamation point intact.

At Yellowstone’s Five Mile Caverns, the north fork of the grounds undergoes a smidge of a rock collapse. Rather than close the tourist destination until the situation is fixed, the rangers on duty decide just to keep the tour groups away from that part. After all, a couple of bigwigs are on their way: a state senator (Susan Sullivan, TV’s Castle) and a crotchety professor (Ray Milland, Frogs). Ranger Gene (Dennis Cole, Death House) even was supposed to marry one of them; you guess whom. Among the few others along for the stroll are a sad-sack cop (Leslie Nielsen, just before Airplane! sent his career soaring in a different direction) and a short-fused fugitive (James Olson, Amityville II: The Possession). Wouldn’t you know it, that group gets trapped when boulders fall all around them and block off the obvious paths.

From there, it’s all about the saintly Gene leading them to safety … just as another saintly Gene (Hackman, that is) did the same in Allen’s The Poseidon Adventure. If director Georg Fenady (Terror in the Wax Museum) had excised his characters’ flashbacks to recent points in life when they weren’t stuck in a cave — each the stuff of soap operas — then Cave In! would look brazenly more like a drier remake of Poseidon, as Gene takes the men and women through nature’s obstacle course: tight crevasses, gaps over perilous heights, a rock path through a geothermal pit, underneath a submerged rock wall and across a rickety bridge made of wood and rope, neither to be trusted.

But Allen’s brand name can be, provided an undiscriminating, no-brainer disaster fix is all you seek. Compared to his blockbuster movies, Cave In! has less money and lower star power to work with, but does hold one unique advantage: getting the job done in about half the time. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Presumably without knowing, the sheer campiness of the beloved Batman live-action TV series of 1966-68 helped perpetuate the myth of Batman and Robin being homosexual lovers. Fifty years later, this animated feature spin-off has no designs on setting the record, er, straight; it opens in Wayne Manor, with young Dick Grayson practicing ballet moves in front of a roaring fire. Holy pas de deux, Batman!

Reuniting Adam West and Burt Ward — if only their voices — as the respective cowled detective and his Boy Wonder sidekick, Batman: Return of the Caped Crusaders pits Gotham City’s finest crimefighting duo against a foursome of their most fearsome foes: The Joker, The Riddler, The Penguin and “that dominatrix of deviltry,” Catwoman. The latter is voiced by Julie Newmar, one of three actresses to have filled that catsuit opposite West in the show and its 1966 big-screen adventure — a fact this film acknowledges with a wink as a noggin-conked not-so-Dark Knight sees her in triple vision, yet two of them look remarkably like Lee Meriwether and Eartha Kitt. The movie is full of kitschy digs like that, such as commenting on why everything in the Batcave is labeled.

And yet, for how purposely and appropriately silly it all is, it left me cold. Wally Wingert may have Frank Gorshin’s Riddler laugh down pat (assuming it’s not sampled straight from the old show), but Return of the Caped Crusaders feels more like a fan film than a real-deal reunion, as if it exists purely to wring dollars from nostalgia rather than because there was a new story to be told. It’s not bad — it’s certainly not drawn that way — but I quickly grew tired of its unrelenting need to poke me in the ribs. To be reminded of the TV series this much, I’d rather just watch the TV series. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Imagine Speed with a lazy mechanic in place of a mad bomber, and congrats! You’ve got yourself a pretty good grasp of what the made-for-TV movie Runaway Car is all about.

As nurse-in-training Jenny, Nina Siemaszko (Airheads) takes over the spunky Sandra Bullock role when her clunker of a Sedan — fresh from a half-assed lube — won’t quit accelerating as it glides down the highway. Beverly Hills Cop sidekick Judge Reinhold is Ed, the simpering computer nerd of a passenger, to whom Jenny has offered a ride. Children are put into mortal danger and Jenny even has to deal with a section of missing road.

For all its cinematic theft, Runaway Car is damned entertaining. More telefilms should be like this, and being steered by Jack Sholder (The Hidden) sure helps. See if you don’t feel a slight case of frazzled nerves as they try to remove an infant from the titular vehicle by hooking the tot to a rope dangling from a news helicopter! And then try not to laugh when said chopper nearly swings the baby into a highway overpass! By balancing dangerous situations with altogether ridiculous ones, this Fox network flick keeps your interest cruisin’ right along. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

As Col. John Hogan barks to his recruits, “I ain’t the Army, ain’t the Navy, ain’t the Marine Corps! … I’m meaner than all of ’em!” While that is debatable, it is clear he is training the men to be the highest-paid mercenaries in the people-killing field. Hogan’s methods — effective, yet unorthodox — go something like this:
1. Abduct guys off the streets.
2. Drive them to the base, some 75 miles outside Los Angeles.
3. Steal their shoes.
4. Make them literally run for their lives into the woods.
5. Give chase and shoot freely until the poor saps are dead.

Footing the bill for this Most Dangerous Game is a steely-eyed suit (Troy Donahue, The Phantom Gunslinger) who shows up to deliver Hogan a one-month-or-else ultimatum: “Get this bunch of misfit mercenaries ready for action.” Perhaps so desperate as to be sloppy, the Hogan Squad kidnaps the wrong guy to become the latest Deadly Prey: Vietnam vet Mike Danton (Ted Prior, Sledgehammer), he of the big pecs and bigger blonde poodle mullet.

Shirtless and in cutoffs, Danton looks like Magic Mike meets M*A*S*H. Almost just as quickly as he’s given a running head start, our himbo hero turns the tables on Hogan’s zeroes. Camouflaging himself with a twig and a handful of brush, Danton aims to beat his captors on their home turf by Rambo-ing some shit up. An awful lot of bodies hit the floor before one of the gunmen notices: “Christ, we’re not huntin’ him! He’s huntin’ us!” Later surveying the swift reduction of his workforce with his own eyes triggers a tinge of recognition in Col. Hogan (David Campbell, Twisted Justice) …

Hogan: “This style! I know this style! It’s my style! … Danton? Mike Danton?”
Random Armed Lackey in Sunglasses: “Yeah, that was the name on the mailbox. You know him?”
Hogan: “Know him? I trained him.”

If I had written and directed this, I would have instructed Campbell to face the camera on those last three words as I zoomed in, all tight and dramatic and prepping my DGA acceptance speech.

But I didn’t; David A. Prior (Killer Workout) did. He may have missed that golden opportunity, but give the man this: Deadly Prey is nothing if not action-packed and then vacuum-sealed, so as not to let a single drop of testosterone leak out. It’s never boring.

Supposed grenades explode with all the impact of whatever a magician throws to the ground to create an instant smoke screen, but give the man this: He shoehorned in a meaningless role for B-movie legend Cameron Mitchell (Kill Squad), so your grandpa would have reason to rent the tape.

And Prior ends his movie abruptly, with highly questionable closure that left the plot open for his overdue sequel in 2013’s Deadliest Prey, but give the man this: He defied the odds and did what they said couldn’t be done. In essence, he filmed the unfilmable: the Cabela’s catalog. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

For City on Fire, Canada took The Towering Inferno, knocked it on its side, reduced its running time by an hour, then plucked a few supporting players from The Poseidon Adventure, Earthquake and The Swarm. Ta-dah! Instant disaster movie! (Half a decade too late to capitalize on the craze, but still: “A” for effort.)

Directed by Death Ship cap’n Alvin Rakoff, the fiery film quickly introduces the characters we theoretically are supposed to care about — a tall order when one of them is Shelley Winters. We have a fire chief two months from retirement (Henry Fonda, Meteor), a vodka-pickled newswoman (Ava Gardner, 1977’s The Sentinel), a wealthy widow who donated $3 million for the new downtown hospital (Susan Clark, Porky’s), that hospital’s numero uno surgeon (Barry Newman, Vanishing Point) and the city’s corrupt mayor (Leslie Nielsen, in his creepy Creepshow mode) with eyes on being governor and being atop Clark’s character.

Meanwhile, over at the world’s ninth-largest oil refinery — which the mayor allowed to be built right next to waterways, all the better to Irwin Allen this here shit up — a beady-eyed, longtime maintenance worker named, of course, Herman (Jonathan Welsh, Starship Invasions) is shown the door and retaliates by punching timecards that aren’t his and causing a big explosion. And that big explosion results in more big explosions. And those big explosions travel down that flammable river like one long wick and set off even bigger explosions, all over town! Why, one might go so far as to say the city is on fire.

Indeed it is, all to show that the film’s appetizer sequence of an apartment building going up in flames — thanks to some pesky kids trying to smoke cigs — was like an hour of TV’s Emergency! by comparison. Please note there is nothing wrong with Emergency!, but is there an episode where a VW Bug flips in the air from the sheer force of a kablooey? Where quake-style rumbling causes some old dude to fall into a swimming pool? Where walls collapse around some poor young guy just trying to get in some reading while taking a dump? Where a Hollywood legend like Gardner says “fuck”? Hell, did Julie London ever go the extra mile like Clark, and give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a stranger whose face is caked with yellow vomit?

Look, Rakoff may have had to resort to the ol’ shake-the-camera trick and leaned too hard on one terrible matte painting, but cut him some serious slack: He shows a crazy woman from the hospital purposely walk toward the raging fires, seemingly oblivious that the skin on her face is peeling like an onion. Hell, Rakoff’s concluding set piece puts Nielsen in control of a fire hose, and he turns the throng of exiting patients into his own personal wet T-shirt contest! Something tells me Emergency! creator/producer/goody-two-shoes Jack Webb wouldn’t go for those shenanigans.

But I sure as hell did. City on Fire earns its R rating, because it wanted to. It’s surprisingly gory and, therefore, surprisingly good. Not even Fonda’s ending sermon could temper my enthusiasm. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.