The first of four low-budget vanity productions starring former pro football player Fred Williamson as alter ego Jesse Crowder, Death Journey was directed by Williamson as well. According to the credits, he also served as “producer and executive producer,” suggesting the Hammer’s ego was way out of control.

Crowder is an ex-cop hired to escort a mob-snitch accountant (Bernard Kirby) from Los Angeles to New York in 48 hours. Killers await at every turn; Crowder punches them out. In one instance, he throws a punch that clearly doesn’t even make contact, but the would-be recipient falls down anyway. The witness is a fat, perspiring slob who unwraps and eats four candy bars at once. Yes, this is a case of “laugh at the fat honky.” You just might.

Williamson spends the entire movie with his shirt unbuttoned (when he’s wearing one at all, that is), presumably for easy-on/easy-off access, as no fewer than four women throw themselves at Crowder for casual sex. One of them attempts a post-coital hit on Crowder’s tubby charge, and begs for her life when Crowder thwarts her plans.

“I’m not gonna kill you, lady. You’re too good in the sack for that. I’m just gonna bruise you up a little,” he says. So he throws her off a moving train with a toodeloo line of, “Happy landing, bitch!”

Williamson shows even less talent behind the camera as he does in front of it. Scenes go on and on (sometimes in excruciating slow-motion), as if he were determined to use every frame of film shot. And there are so many needless scenes of people driving cars, you’ll wonder, “Hey, where are Jim Nabors and Dom DeLuise?” —Rod Lott

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A nice, young black man is killed by a group of racist white bikers because he’s been dating the sister of one of the gang members. When his older brother, Bubba (Gene Washington), gets the news, he and his roving motorcycle posse of five other burly black guys roll into town for some payback. Together, they are … wait for it … The Black Six!

And they’re really nice, peaceful boys, first shown helping out an old widow on her farm, petting goats and sewing(!), but when pushed too far, they’re more than ready to stick it to The Man. And The Man deserves some sticking, especially when he’s represented by guys with names like Snake, Moose and Thor (yes, he’s the one with the Viking helmet). Moose rouses an army with such warnings as, “These ain’t your normal spooks!”

Indeed, all half-dozen of our heroes were NFL players, with the team association of each spelled out in the opening credits of the film by director Matt Cimber (Butterfly). Among them is “Mean” Joe Greene, who looks like he needed to be downing bottles of diet Coke instead of the straight stuff. Unique insults bandied about in this underrated blaxploitation effort include “mustard ass” and “porkchop lips.”

Sadly, there was no sequel for these African-American Avengers, although the end frame sure threatened one: “Honky … Look Out … Hassle a Brother …. and The Black 6 Will Return!!!” Oh, how one wishes they had! —Rod Lott

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Considering that whole moving-to-L.A. thing didn’t work out (see: Death Wish II), vigilante architect Paul Kersey (Charles Bronson) returns to the Big Apple — the very town he was told to skedaddle from — in Death Wish 3. Only the numbering system of the title has changed; trouble still follows Paul like his magnetic-filament mustache.

His first stop off the bus is the apartment of a Korean War buddy who’s just been fatally beaten by the neighborhood punks, and Paul is immediately pinned for the murder and tossed in jail. Lucky for him, Lt. Shriker (Ed Lauter, Cujo) knows how trigger-happy Paul is, and agrees to let him loose in exchange for helping NYPD squash the gang activity.

Their crime spree goes down in a six-block ‘hood that returning director Michael Winner depicts as comically dangerous. One of the most prolific gang members is called Giggler (Kirk Taylor, Full Metal Jacket), so named because he giggles when he runs — y’know, like a real tough guy. Paul won’t stand for it, setting booby traps in the apartments and pulling out his ol’ .475 Magnum, which he says, “makes a real mess.”

The same could be said of this sequel, except it is enjoyable trash cast in the unmistakable Cannon Films mold. Its reputation is sealed by the extraordinarily violent extended climax, in which the residents rise up against the bad guys, and everybody shoots everyone else, all to a terribly discordant score by Led Zeppelin’s Jimmy Page.

And as for Bronson, he is — once more — the man. —Rod Lott

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The Tuxedo is not the worst of Jackie Chan’s American movies — that’d be The Medallion and The Spy Next Door — but close enough.

Chan plays Tong … James Tong, a mild-mannered cabbie with a lead foot and a Hooters T-shirt who one day is hired as the driver for billionaire Clark Devlin (Harry Potter vet Jason Isaacs), a secret agent with a gadget-equipped and strength-empowering techno-tuxedo. When he’s nearly killed by a skateboard bomb, James takes it upon himself to don the tux and continue Clark’s espionage work.

Said work has something to do with the world’s water supply being threatened, but it’s so poorly explained that you won’t know what’s going on until the end. Pairing up with James is the wonderful pair of Jennifer Love Hewitt (Can’t Hardly Wait) as an agency chemist. Although she initially has the air of being miscast, she acquits herself fairly well; all the cleavage shots work toward that admirable goal.

Even if Jackie’s English were good (every time he said “Clark Devlin,” I thought he said “Cock Devlin”), The Tuxedo still would be a difficult movie to understand. I’m not sure it ever intended to tell a lucid story; rather, its aim seems to be to put him in one demonstration of physical prowess after another. The ones that are 100 percent Chan are fun; the ones that are 50 percent CGI, not so much.

And that’s the movie’s biggest problem: It doesn’t quite know how to use him, and when it does, it muddles it up with confusing editing and poor direction by first-timer Kevin Donovan. By not using its star’s massive physical potential, it might as well be, I dunno, Craig Sheffer in The Tuxedo. As with the Rush Hour franchise, the most enjoyable part comes with the end-credit outtakes. —Rod Lott

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Why was Action Jackson denied its own franchise? With such macho-flick pedigree — Lethal Weapon’s Joel Silver as producer, stunt man Craig R. Baxley as director and, of course, Apollo Creed himself in the starring role — it looked like Carl Weathers was poised to jump from the Rocky series to his own soon-to-wear-out-its-welcome character.

I blame The Pointer Sisters being on the soundtrack. But I also blame a stupid screenplay and Silver/Baxley for allowing it to dip itself into the pool of ’80s excess.

Weathers is Sgt. Jericho “Action” Jackson. This cat is so cool that the first words we hear out of his mouth are “Mellow out.” Plus, as we learn in the opening minutes, he can run as fast as a speeding taxi. Repeat: as fast as a speeding taxi. Because the boss’ wife has a Parcheesi game, Jackson is asked to attend a Man of the Year dinner for Peter Dellaplane (Poltergeist pops Craig T. Nelson), who happens to be the father of the sexual psychopath who got Jackson demoted, despite his ability to run as fast as a speeding taxi.

Jackson and Dellaplane naturally exchange words at the frou-frou event, as our Harvard-educated supercop sees right through the sleazy auto magnate’s do-gooder public persona. Sure enough, Dellaplane likes to deal with his competition by truly eliminating them. Catch my drift? (Murder, yo.)

For every kick-ass element to Action Jackson, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Example: Sharon Stone nude in a steam room; Herbie Hancock’s “wacky” sax licks. Another: Vanity; Vanity. But the worst of all is the dialogue, presumably written as a string of intended catchphrases, particularly in its third act. Following one character busting in on trouble with a hearty “Hello, I’m Mr. Ed! You called about a paint job?,” you get Jackson setting an enemy aflame after cracking, “Barbecue, huh? How do you like your ribs?” Oooooh, burn! —Rod Lott

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