Mission: Killfast seems like Ted V. Mikels’ answer to the Andy Sidaris series of spies, lies and exposed thighs (and then some), yet the result is so bad, Sidaris looks like a Cahiers du Cinéma-lauded auteur in comparison. That’s bound to happen when your sections of principal photography are separated by nine years.

The plot, as it is, revolves around missing detonators, which pass through the hands of the characters as if water. Should said detonators fall into the mitts of someone who also possesses “the components,” kablooey: nuclear bomb. Called in to prevent this global catastrophe from occurring is martial-arts master Tiger Yang (Game of Death II), playing himself and fresh off “a world tour.” His first order of business once in town? Appearing in the local parade as its “grand marshall” [sic]; certainly there are better ways to keep a low profile when on a life-or-death mission, but how could Mikels justify so many minutes of parade footage otherwise?

The director/writer/producer uses it in the same way Mission: Killfast‘s villains do their “skin mag” empire: as a front to keep people distracted. The would-be Playboy Mansion, largely a pool adjacent to a neighborhood golf course, allows for some skanky ladies with rockin’ bods to cavort about in swimwear apparently swiped from Star Search‘s spokesmodel wardrobe. For whatever reason, the woman Mikels’ camera chooses to focus on has a shaved head, as if she stopped by after chemo.

Elsewhere, there’s ’80s B-movie starlet Jewel Shepard (Hollywood Hot Tubs), eschewing thread. Appearing in a see-through mesh shirt to accentuate the bare nipples, Mikels himself. Later, he appears with novelty eyebrows, which is something to see, even if the movie is not. Coming out between his War Cat and the drama (allegedly) Female Slaves’ Revenge, it’s an incomprehensible mess of polka dots and mullets, of Canon fax machines and Casio scores. —Rod Lott

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Anthology films largely reside in the realm of horror, only occasionally landing in comedy and science fiction. But spy movies? It happened — in Italy, of course — in Spies Against the World, aka Killer’s Carnival and, seriously, Where Are You Taking That Woman. In the wraparound tale, a wanted and armed murderer (Peter Vogel, The Black Cobra) of “four young and beautiful girls” breaks into the study of a professor (Patton’s Richard Münch), who warns his captor what a life of crime will get him by telling him three tales. Each conveniently takes place in a renowned locale across the globe — lavish spots to which I cannot afford to travel.

In the first segment, in Vienna, a woman insists on seeing David Porter (Stewart Granger, 1950’s King Solomon’s Mines), because the crab apple is the only one who can find the men responsible for killing her knew-too-much journalist brother.

Rome if you want to for Spies’ inventive middle section, which sees a secret agent (Pierre Brice, Apache Gold) receive his orders Mission: Impossible-style, on vinyl made of spaghetti. He’s to track down some material from a gang, but story is secondary; goofy comedy is the main course as crosses and double-crosses are held together with thick layers of slapstick.

Finally, detective Glenn Cassidy (Lex Barker, The Torture Chamber of Dr. Sadism) finds his investigation of beached corpses in San Francisco takes him to Rio de Janeiro during its Carnival celebration, where the president is the target of an assassination plot. Yes, the two are connected, and it all leads to an electrifying finale on a merry-go-round. Eagle eyes should watch for the future Nosferatu himself, Klaus Kinski, wiping his sweaty face in the background of this one.

Spies Against the World deserves exploring for being such an obscurity, but the puffery is also tremendous fun for those with an affection for ’60s swinging spies that proliferated in James Bond’s wake. Naturally, the scenery is terrific — both the destinations and the delightful beauties who grace them, including Karin Dor (You Only Live Twice) and Margaret Lee (Venus in Furs), whose passports beg for stamping. —Rod Lott

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Like a girl playing dress-up, ’50s teen idol Connie Stevens, Grease 2) makes for one unconvincing undercover cop in the less-than-scorching Scorchy. The film also is known as Race with Death, a generic title that’s actually more appropriate, since there is racing and death, yet no one by the name of Scorchy.

Instead, Stevens plays Sgt. Jackie Parker, a federal agent who’s been working for years under the credible guise of a freelance airplane pilot to squash the drug-smuggling ring run by Philip Bianco (Cesare Danova, National Lampoon’s Animal House). Bianco imports antiques stuffed with heroin, and from Rome to Seattle, Jackie’s being tracking a butt-ugly dog statue containing 10 kilos. Her boss gives her one week to make the necessary arrests.

From Mortuary writer/director Howard Avedis, the movie errs from the start simply by asking Stevens to carry a feature, especially one that’s not a bubbly comedy. Although sexy, she is hampered by a helium voice and squeals of delight that make it impossible to take her seriously. She’s a human squeak toy.

While the poster suggests bedroom antics, Scorchy‘s action largely takes place on the Emerald City streets. One chase scene is so long that it veers from ripping off The French Connection to ripping off Bullitt, with Jackie in pursuit after commandeering a one-man buggy conveniently for sale on a sidewalk. The climax puts her at the controls of a helicopter, but the highlight is when she gets horizontal — not because of any nudity on Stevens’ part, but because her one-night stand pays for his orgasm by getting harpooned in the back!

Throughout, the music sounds suspiciously close to Lalo Schifrin’s iconic Mission: Impossible theme, but Scorchy must be an original in one department: having its leading lady costumed by Pleasure Dome Boutique of Hollywood. Sounds rather space-hookery, no? —Rod Lott

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What to do if you can’t get the rights to turn Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code into a movie? If you’re Walt Disney Pictures, you strip it of religious concepts and make a Da Vinci Code knockoff in National Treasure, which doesn’t work hard enough with a wide-open premise.

Teaming with Con Air producer Jerry Bruckheimer for the fourth time, Nicolas Cage stars as Benjamin Gates, a third-generation treasure hunter, hopping the globe in search of a rumored bounty o’ historical booty buried by the nation’s founding fathers that his ancestors failed to find. When we meet him, he’s unearthing a pirate ship in the Arctic Circle. The boat doesn’t contain the goods, but merely another clue — one that, as he deciphers, suggests the map to said loot is printed in invisible ink on the back of the Declaration of Independence.

Upon this discovery, Gates is double-crossed by his partner, Howe (GoldenEye villain Sean Bean), who leaves him and wisecracking sidekick (Justin Bartha, The Hangover) for dead. Knowing that Howe will steal the priceless document and destroy it, Gates has no choice but to steal it in order to preserve it. In the film’s best set piece, he does, but unwittingly pulls National Archives hottie Abigail Chase (Diane Kruger, Inglourious Basterds) into the dangerous cat-and-mouse pursuit that results.

The hunt takes Gates and company clue by clue to all sorts of touristy stops in Washington, D.C. Somehow, despite having the FBI after him for the theft of the Declaration, he’s able to hang out at all these unguarded public places with ease. It’s a reminder of the pre-9/11 glory days when people could shoot guns at each other on the city streets and no one would bat an eye.

Although overlong, National Treasure somehow feels underwritten, partly because it tries to be too many things — heist, adventure, chase, action — doing better in some areas than others, yet not outright succeeding in any. It’s by no means bad; it just is. You may be entertained without being fully engaged. Director Jon Turteltaub (3 Ninjas) doesn’t do the enough with the clues and the codes, wasting too much of 131 minutes on repetitive getaways and close calls. This one squeaks by much the same.

In the end, Abigail presents Gates with a map to her vagina. —Rod Lott

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How appropriate for Frank Miller’s The Spirit to open with the image of a flatlining heart monitor, as his film is dead on arrival — an utterly lifeless, hollow shell. If Miller wanted to endear a whole new generation to Will Eisner’s comic creation, this $60 million feature was not the way to do it. Instead, this all but assures those unfamiliar with the source material that they will remain that way, that the original comics shall never touch their hands.

Too bad, because the virtually unknown Gabriel Macht (Behind Enemy Lines) is not a bad choice to fill the role and red tie of The Spirit, the masked-and-suited crimefighter formerly known as slain cop Denny Colt. He has the right look, the right attitude; he’s just in the wrong movie.

Tonally, The Spirit is an absolute misfire. Eisner’s comics had a slight streak of goofiness running through them, often with a sense of humor as sharp as the overall material often was dark, but never on the level of Three Stooges slapstick comedy, complete with cartoon sound effects lathered on with a dozen too many punches of the button. Miller even includes the dreaded “scratched record” effect, as if demonstrating in one misbegotten move how out-of-touch he is for such material.

The inert narrative involves the retrieval of a vase of the blood of Hercules, which supposedly will grant immortality to whomever partakes of its drops. Archenemy The Octopus (Samuel L. Jackson, Marvel’s The Avengers) wants it; diamond thief Sand Serif (a stunningly sexy Eva Mendes, The Other Guys) has it. The Spirit chases both, while he also chases skirts. Nothing ever really happens to advance a plot, as if the entire thing were a MacGuffin; characters are abruptly introduced and given little to do beyond blighting the résumés of their actors. Macht is the only one who doesn’t embarrass himself (or us), whereas Jackson’s entire performance hinges on yelling and talking about how much he hates eggs.

You know what The Spirit needs? Well, a frickin’ grocery list of items, but color would have been nice. Eisner’s world popped with blues and reds and greens; Miller’s largely exists in shades of gray. Did Miller’s divorce from a colorist make him detest primary swatches? More or less co-opting the black-and-white-with-a-smidge-of-red palette from his own Sin City was not a wise decision. For one thing, this ain’t Sin City. For another, it makes Miller look like a one-trick pony, and one who’s already three hooves over the threshold of the glue factory at that.

As The Spirit not-so-memorably informs us in his opening monologue, his city screams. And boy, did I scream right along with it, in cinematic pain. —Rod Lott

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