Entry No. 7 in Hong Kong cinema’s unrelated Police Story franchise (if we count Michelle Yeoh’s Supercop 2 spin-off), Police Story: Lockdown again stars Jackie Chan, this time as Capt. Zhong, a middle-aged career cop and now a widower. He meets his emo-medical daughter, Miao (Jing Tian, Special ID), at a trendy, two-story nightclub complete with private rooms, go-go girls and frickin’ live piranha.

Resentful of her workaholic father’s years of absenteeism, Miao nonetheless makes an effort to reconnect, starting with introducing him to her new beau, Wu (Liu Ye, The Chef, the Actor and the Scoundrel), formerly a pugilist in an illegal boxing ring, currently owner of this very hot spot. Zhong immediately dislikes Wu and … well, father knows best, because Wu takes his whole bar hostage, plopping all patrons who weren’t able to flee during the melée into the dancing cages. (No word if such dual use was in mind when Wu designed the club, but the cages certainly came in handy, no?)

As villains go, Wu is pretty cardboard — or maybe candy glass is more apt here — and as heroes go, Chan is Jackie Chan, the ever-reliable, brand-name action star. From Little Big Soldier director Ding Sheng, Lockdown is middling fare at best — nowhere near Chan’s peak (which includes a handful of the Police Story stories), but equally distant from his more-recent nadir. It is what it is, which means that while the film is limited by its (mostly) single location, it’s worth tuning in just to watch the fight sequences (and usually the bloopers, although that’s not the case here). The 60-something Chan isn’t quite as fast on his feet these days, but like Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, he’s never going to lose all those moves. Aging suits him well, even when the scripts fall short. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

As World War II comes to a close, three Japanese soldiers — aka the losing side — hide a bunch of gold in a cave in the Philippines. Thirty-six years later — round numbers, phooey! — some honkies go a-hunting for it, in an expedition so dangerous, one of them remarks, “I knew this was going to be difficult.”

Viewers of this truly terrible film, Invaders of the Lost Gold, no doubt will agree at the outset.

Staying in what appear to be tents purloined from a traveling circus and/or an annual Renaissance fair, the members of this Horror Safari (the movie’s alternate, better, yet still deceitful title) include:
• the presumed leader (Stuart Whitman, Guyana: Cult of the Damned), eternally grouchy and quick to call someone a “bastard”;
• his former partner (Edmund Purdom, Don’t Open Till Christmas), now a cut-and-dry conniving villain;
• in his final film role, Harold Sakata (Goldfinger’s Oddjob) as the sole surviving point of the aforementioned Japanese triangle, thereby making him the only person who knows where the loot is, thereby making that Lost Gold portion of the title entirely irrelevant;
• the safari funder’s “confounding daughter” (Glynis Barber, Edge of Sanity), because every he-man needs a love interest, even in a movie bereft of affection;
• a second woman (Black Emanuelle herself, Laura Gemser), because every Z-grade adventure needs an actress willing to provide nudity;
• and poor Woody Strode (Sam Raimi’s The Quick and the Dead), Invaders’ only African-American not part of the demeaning ooga-booga tribes.

Strode has so little to do (which may have been for the best) that all I remember his character doing is scratching his head. I’m sure it had to do with the jungle heat, but one can’t help but think the man’s mind was processing some cosmic question like, “How in the hell did I go from John Ford and Stanley Kubrick … to this?”

By “this,” we mean the work of Killer’s Moon director Alan Birkinshaw, working from a screenplay he co-wrote, from a story dreamt up by his producer, exploitation legend Dick Randall (Pieces). While I admire a great deal of Randall’s vast filmography, Invaders of the Lost Gold is the rare entry that doesn’t cut it. Ostensibly a Raiders of the Lost Ark-style adventure of Eastern Hemisphere exploits, the flick cuts its own throat — with a dull machete, fittingly — by being excessively lazy and shoddy, even by Randall’s low standards.

Merely one example: One unnamed character unclothes to starkers — oh, did I just give her identity away? — and takes a dip in the river, only to scream in mortal terror at … well, something. She’s dead, Jim — yet we never find out how or why! That’s just how Birkinshaw rolls: with patches of mold. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Held every seven years in some unsuspecting town, The Tournament is a numbers game. For 24 hours, 30 of the world’s best assassins compete for a $10 million prize in a competition with only one rule: Kill or die. What more setup does an action-craving viewer need?

With tracking devices implanted in their tummies, contestants worthy of note include a parkouring Frenchman (Sebastien Foucan, who performed similar duties against 007 in 2006’s Casino Royale), a crazy-ass Texan (a miscast Ian Somerhalder, TV’s Lost), a Russian special forces member (Undisputed series badass Scott Adkins), a Triad vet (Kelly Hu, X-Men 2’s Lady Deathstrike) and the returning champion (Ving Rhames, Pulp Fiction). The latter is only in it to avenge the recent death of his wife by the trigger-happy hands of a fellow contestant — he just doesn’t know which one. Blah, details.

This particular do-or-die tourney takes place in Middlesbrough, a British town boasting more public surveillance cameras than anywhere on the globe — fortuitous for the assembled high-rollers hoping to make a mint off the blood of 29 hired guns. They are as unapologetic about their gambling as director Scott Mann (2015’s Heist) is about depicting irredeemably graphic acts of violence; let’s just say more than one human head explodes.

Accidentally caught in the crossfire of the shoot-’em-up (by events so unbelievable, explanation is futile) is a hooch-sloshing priest (Robert Carlyle, Trainspotting) and, one assumes, the audience surrogate. Yet you need not be inebriated to feel The Tournament’s juice kick in; Mann and company take care of providing the rush on their own. Virtually unseen, the film deserves better — not pantheon placement, but some sort of regard among fans of swiftly and slickly executed set pieces of undiluted action. Mann does that so well and so often, it seems as if the flick weren’t scripted so much as improvised, taking suggestions from audience members into what situations he should throw his players and their weapons: “In a slaughterhouse!” “At a strip club!” “On a moving bus! You know, the double-decker kind!” —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Having already taken over the iconic role of Capt. Kirk in the rebooted Star Trek, Chris Pine guns for another A-list franchise in Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit. It’s a prequel that serves as an origin story for the badass CIA analyst embodied originally by Alec Baldwin in The Hunt for Red October, most famously by Harrison Ford in Patriot Games and Clear and Present Danger, and forgettably by Ben Affleck in The Sum of All Fears. Fear not this belated fifth chapter.

Following the events of 9/11 — and thus messing with the series’ timeline, but get over it — Ryan trades studying economics for a stint in the Marines. Serving in Afghanistan, he endures a spinal injury in the process — an RPG-downed helicopter, to be precise — and while undergoing physical therapy is recruited by Thomas Harper (Kevin Costner, talking out one side of his mouth as if simultaneously storing nuts in his cheeks and packing sunflower seeds and Skoal in his bottom lip) to be a spy under the CIA’s employ. Ten years later, working undercover on Wall Street, Ryan notices something fishy in a Russian corporation’s books and is sent to Moscow to clean it up.

Using U.S./Russia pipeline talks as a MacGuffin, director Kenneth Branagh (Thor) casts himself as Viktor Cherevin, the cirrhotic head of the Russkie firm plotting America’s economic collapse … and only Jack Ryan can stop him! Well, with generous assistance from Ryan’s fiancée therapist (Keira Knightley, The Imitation Game) and Harper, in an elongated heist sequence that recalls the set pieces of Paramount’s tone-similar Mission: Impossible films. (Pine even adopts Tom Cruise’s famous palms-flat/fingers-out running stance.) Knightley’s convenient appearance in Moscow just in time for the operation is a contrivance, yes, but one that works.

Although the Cold War long has thawed, Shadow Recruit presses the “reheat” button to recall the ’80s-Reagan flavor of the previous installments, all based on Tom Clancy novels. Working from a script co-written by first-timer Adam Cozad and old pro David Koepp (Jurassic Park), Branagh all but dispenses with the Clancy touchstones of geopolitical rigamarole and overtly right-wing rah-rah hoohah that oftentimes crippled the pace of the predecessors, and focuses on action. In doing so — and in bathing the screen in gorgeous saturated colors during moments of inaction — he delivers a surprisingly engaging spy tale, fleet of foot. You can feel it dividing itself into traditional thirds, each clicking neatly into place. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Chris O’Donnell’s acting abilities have been in question ever since he transitioned from supporting parts to leading man, and his hot streak effectively ended — as did many — with 1995’s Batman & Robin. Five years later, the snowy mountain actioner Vertical Limit failed to reverse his career descent, but at least he emerged rosier than co-star Bill Paxton (Edge of Tomorrow), whose monosyllabic Texan routine already had worn thinner than his hair.

O’Donnell stars as a National Geographic photographer — no, really! — who must put away his fear of heights when his champion-climbing sister (Robin Tunney, Supernova) falls into an icy crevice with Paxton’s greasy, rich (redundant) scumbag villain. You really won’t believe the O’Donnell/Tunney pairing as brother-and-sister, because they totally play it like they’re firmly within week two of a couple’s “we’ve just begun fucking” phase.

Complete with the requisite spooky, local Native American hermit (played by a wackily miscast Scott Glenn of The Silence of the Lambs), members of the rescue team have the bright idea to strap nitroglycerin to their backs for the trek up the peak. Making up for such nonsense is GoldenEye girl Izabella Scorupco as the team’s all-important blonde hottie. I might have misspelled her name, but when you take a look at this frostbitten fox, vowels and consonants will be the furthest from your mind.

As directed by Martin Campbell (Green Lantern), the limited Limit does boast a couple of good, tense action sequences. However, like many other studio-spit-shined blockbusters, it grows excessive and doesn’t know when to quit. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.