In the spirit of the Transporter films, I’ll cut right to the chase: The onomatopoeic Ed Skrein (The Sweeney) is an odd choice to anchor this rebooted franchise, sans Jason Statham. He looks like Mad Max: Fury Road’s Nicholas Hoult, but more elfin and with impeccable dress. In my rough estimation, Skrein has maybe 18% to 23% of Statham’s charisma. Amazingly, that range of points is enough to keep The Transporter Refueled running on the plus side of watchability.

Fifteen years after being forced into prostitution in the French Riviera (could be worse!), the fetching Anna (Loan Chabanol, Third Person) finally hatches her long-gestating plan of revenge against Russkie superpimp Kasarov (Radivoje Bukvic, A Good Die to Die Hard). It entails a few fellow hookers, matching disguises, a bank robbery and — hired as the no-questions-asked getaway driver — special-ops vet turned professional transporter Frank Martin (Skrein). Oh, and for added stakes, the kidnapping of Frank’s newly retired tomcat pop (Ray Stevenson, Punisher: War Zone). Souped up with built-in gadgetry like rotating license plates, the Audi that Frank drives skirts 007 territory; it’s the Tonto to his Lone Ranger.

With the franchise co-creator Luc Besson aboard as a writer and producer, The Transporter Refueled feels very much like an extension of the previous films — far more than the rather meh cable-TV series does. While not as good as the 2002 original or 2005’s Transporter 2, this fourth film leaves 2008’s autopiloted Transporter 3 in the dust. It has to help that director Camille Delamarre is a protégé of Besson, having helmed 2014’s Brick Mansions (itself an English-language remake of 2004’s Besson-penned/produced parkour-packed District B13).

Statham’s loss excepted, this Refueled reboot ticks all the boxes it’s expected to: fast cars, hot women, Eurotrash villains, thrilling stunts and no brain. Fulfilling that last requirement is a third-act, physics-defying howler involving a Jet Ski and a car window. You’ll know it when you see it, because you’ll laugh aloud and replay it. —Rod Lott

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For legal reasons so tangled and tortured, they could make a book out of the copyright fight (and did, with Robert Sellers’ The Battle for Bond, recommended), Never Say Never Again is not considered part of the 007 canon, despite marking the return of Sean Connery to his iconic role after a 12-year absence.

Last seen doing Vegas in Diamonds Are Forever, James Bond is no longer the glistening gem that Britain’s MI6 requires of its secret agents, so he is shuttered off to a health club to adhere to a strict regimen of calories, chiropractic and colonics. I’d say this is the first sign that something about this adventure is a bit “off,” but it’s actually the third; first is the franchise’s signature gun-barrel POV sequence being MIA, while the second is Lani Hall’s rightly forgotten theme song, thoroughly unmemorable except for the cloying presence of cowbell.

Back in shape enough, Bond is thrown into a new mission as SPECTRE — headed by pussy-petting Blofeld (Max von Sydow, Flash Gordon) — hatches a scheme to steal two thermonuclear warheads from the U.S. Air Force, which it achieves by getting a USAF captain (Gavan O’Herlihy, Superman III) hooked on smack and then replacing his right eye with a replica of the American president’s. The plan is so crazy, it just … might … work …

In cahoots with Blofeld are the exotic and explosive Fatima Blush (Barbara Carrera, Condorman), who at one point wears what looks like an ensemble of Hefty bags and the see-through plastic tarp you put down before painting, and Largo (Klaus Maria Brandauer, Oscar nominee for Out of Africa), who is as slimy as he his wealthy. His girlfriend, Domino (Kim Basinger, in only her third film), is the sister of the USAF patsy, but really she’s around so Bond can have a fourth woman to fuck within two hours’ time.

Irvin Kershner’s follow-up to directing The Empire Strikes Back, this “unofficial” Bond entry is — again with the pesky laws! — technically a remake of 1965’s Thunderball, but doesn’t quite feel like it until the underwater sequences come into play. Then, shark excepted, Never Say Never Again becomes every bit of a plodding slog as that official fourth 007 film. Because this is the ’80s, Kershner’s take includes a scene built entirely on a video-game challenge between Bond and Largo, as well as a rather uncomfortable bit that more or less sees Domino being butt-molested for laughs, as our suave spy poses as a masseur. For pure action of a nonsexual nature, only the gadgetry-enhanced motorcycle chase wrings the kind of thrills we expect from 007 set pieces.

As if to acknowledge to the audience that Never Say Never Again is an overstuffed and undercooked turkey, Connery closes his reign in Her Majesty’s secret service by breaking the fourth wall to wink directly at us. Its meaning is unmistakable: “You’ve been had, but I made some serious bank.” At the time, nobody did Bond better, but never had Connery done it so flaccidly. —Rod Lott

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What I remember most about seeing Octopussy in the summer of 1983 is that my overprotective mother actually took me, then 12, and my 9-year-old brother to see a movie titled Octopussy. This was, after all, a woman who forbade us from rewatching Grease 2 because it was “too racy,” and yet here was a film more or less bearing the name Eight Vaginas. I guess because it was a 007 adventure, it was deemed okay.

The only other things I remember about it was that James Bond snuck through a lagoon in a tiny submersible disguised as a crocodile, which is pretty cool, and that James Bond dressed up as a goddamn circus clown, which is not. So how in the hell did I forget the most cringeworthy part: James Bond swinging on jungle vines as Johnny Weissmuller’s famous Tarzan yell yodel-ay-hee-hooed on the soundtrack?

I have a theory: Because Octopussy makes for a dreadfully dull picture. If it isn’t quite the single-worst entry of the franchise, it can take a quantum of solace that its Rita Coolidge theme song is.

Officially the 13th 007 installment — and the penultimate go-round for Roger Moore — the pic gets off to a good start as our secret-agent hero pilots a one-man plane out of a horse’s ass, but in this series, those pre-credit sequences — all part of the tried-and-true formula — have zip to do with the story that follows. That to-do involves Fabergé eggs, nuclear weapons and Maud Adams’ nether regions — a full seven uteri short than what’s promised.

The only Bond Girl to play two leads, having brightened The Man with the Golden Gun, Adams fills the role of villainess and, of course, but one of Bond’s conquests; every woman with whom he comes in contact wants to bed him — even the menopausal ones. (Yes, you, Miss Moneypenny.) How did 007 not contract the AIDS virus?

Because he’s a master of escape, duh. Those chase scenes are when John Glen (in his second of five turns as 007 director, from For Your Eyes Only to A View to a Kill) seems to wake up and rouse the film along with him. Standing out is the sequence in which Bond, in a three-wheeled taxi, is pursued through a crowded marketplace in India and utilizes the stereotypical sword swallowers and fire walkers to best his enemies. Those bits are intentionally amusing, but shoved among them is a supremely silly sight gag on tennis that has no business being here; I suspect producer Albert “Cubby” Broccoli stuck it in just to nudge and wink at his buddies back at the club. —Rod Lott

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Despite toiling as a sexy spy, the comic-strip character Modesty Blaise never quite caught on in America. A 1966 movie based on Peter O’Donnell’s creation, Modesty Blaise, was made anyway, with Monica Vetti and Terence Stamp. It tanked.

A few decades later, Miramax had the great idea of reviving Blaise for an intended series of action-packed films; arbiter of pop-culture taste Quentin Tarantino agreed, hopping aboard as a producer. Whereas Natasha Henstridge and Reese Witherspoon were mentioned for the role, no one was cast until Miramax’s rights were due to expire. Only then did the indie studio rush a Romanian-lensed prequel into production. Shot in 18 days by Tarantino pal Scott Spiegel (From Dusk Till Dawn 2: Texas Blood Money), it stars neither Henstridge nor Witherspoon, but the unknown (and, looking malnourished, unsexy) Alexandra Staden (Alexandra Staden, The Task). Is this any way to start a franchise?

The answer is, as My Name Is Modesty makes painfully clear, no. The string-beaned Modesty pulls double duty as a casino card dealer and bodyguard. When its owner is brutally murdered and the joint’s fully vested employees taken hostage by the killer Miklos (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Mama), Modesty keeps her cool and makes a wager with him. They play roulette, and whoever wins the round earns a reward: she, a released hostage; he, personal intel about Modesty.

This being fiction, Miklos has absolutely incredible luck at the wheel, as he wins nearly every spin. Thus, Modesty fills him in on her upbringing — cue the flashbacks! — as a filthy orphan saved by a kindly old professor (Fred Pearson, 1994’s Priest) who taught her reading and kung fuing.

Modesty and Miklos talk and talk and talk and talk. And talk! Then, at the movie’s tail end, some half-assed gunfire and utterly weak martial arts erupt. Sad to say, but this tiny film — one that, at just 78 minutes, barely qualifies as one — takes place in one room and sorely lacks action, suspense, espionage or intrigue. And yet the powers that be at Miramax still had the gall to subtitle it A Modesty Blaise Adventure. (To be fair, that four-word subtitle is 75 percent representative of the flick’s contents.)

The one-room set isn’t the only tip-off that Miramax didn’t shell out more than a pittance for this sluggish mess. Another big one is its look, bearing the drab visage of a syndicated TV action hour. Worse, with the generic music, the chintzy title sequence that incorporates scenes we’ll soon see, the questionably attractive actresses and the swarthy-looking muscular males, the secret-agent origin story threatens to turn into softcore Cinemax fare at any moment.

But don’t go looking for flesh. Her name is, after all, Modesty. —Rod Lott

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When Dwayne Johnson (né The Rock) is introduced to San Andreas’ watchers, he’s done so with a literal beam of sunlight encircling his bald noggin like a halo, as if to say, “Here is our hero, our savior. He will save us all.” Was there ever any doubt?

Fresh off Furious 7, Johnson plays Ray, a Los Angeles Fire Department rescuer loaded with all-American character traits: military service and more than 600 saves under his utility belt. Where are this do-gooder’s wings? They’re the blades of the helicopter he pilots above the City of Angels, plucking texting teen girls from their precarious cliffside perches.

So heroic is Ray, it’s somewhat of a surprise that when a good chunk of California succumbs to a totally bitchin’ earthquake, the script by Carlton Cuse (TV’s Bates Motel) is unconcerned with seeing how many more dozens he can add to his 600 record; instead, his focus narrows to only two people among the affected millions: his estranged wife, Emma (Carla Gugino, Sucker Punch), and their well-developed daughter (Alexandria Daddario, Texas Chainsaw). If you weren’t married to Ray or a product of that union … sorry to say, but fuck all y’all.

And you know what? That’s really all San Andreas needs. Effects-driven spectacles such as this often are criticized for being soulless; in (perhaps overcorrecting and) confining the emotional scope to the family unit, however fractured, Brad Peyton (who directed Johnson in 2012’s better-than-you’d-think “kidventure” Journey 2: The Mysterious Island) at least attempts to show that feelings can bloom while stuff goes boom. Now, it still comes off as manufactured schmaltz, but again, a solid try is a solid try; the film’s $155 million take is Peyton’s participation trophy.

But let’s get real: Who sees an action movie — particularly one constructed around what insurance companies love to term “an act of God” — with family values in mind? Disaster flicks are brain-off excuses to see buildings crumble and cities fall. The effects of L.A. and San Francisco tumbling to dust are so incredible, you may wish Peyton offered frame-by-frame footage to allow your eyes to soak in the detail. (He certainly does when Gugino and Daddario run, for those men on the fence about purchasing the Blu-ray.) This damage — coupled with an earlier sequence of the Hoover Dam getting decimated — outdoes Roland Emmerich’s globally apocalyptic 2012 on the only point that matters: destructoporn.

The dam’s demise gives college professor Paul Giamatti (Straight Outta Compton) something to do besides showing off his mad Richter-lecturin’ skillz. San Andreas reveres his science as much it despises the greed of Ioan Gruffudd (2005’s Fantastic Four) as Emma’s über-wealthy beau; notice how much the movie delights in causing the cad misery.

As for Johnson, he emerges from the rubble like the Son of God, life-reviving powers and all. This is his show, after all, and he more than makes good on his he-man promise, carrying San Andreas on his big, buff, broad shoulders and past a point where you might hate yourself for hanging on so long. —Rod Lott

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