I don’t know whether Hobo with a Shotgun qualifies as an homage, a genuine grindhouse masterpiece or just the goriest, most degenerate Canadian film to ever play in decent theatres. But once you see it, you won’t forget it. And I wouldn’t want to; this tale of a homeless man pushed too far is worth it just for the line, “I’m gonna cut welfare checks outta your skin.”

An expansion of a fake trailer entered in a contest for the enjoyably unhinged Quentin Tarantino/Robert Rodriguez pair-up Grindhouse, Hobo operates on a budget that wouldn’t have paid for Kurt Russell’s pomade. Using most of its cash on an actual actor, Rutger fuckin’ Hauer, the movie apparently spent the rest on blood and entrails. There isn’t one area on the human body that isn’t brutalized in Hobo’s 86 minutes; there isn’t one obscenity in the English language unmuttered; there isn’t one depravity unseen.

But you also get a surprising amount of flair. Director Jason Eisener is a real talent, using a grittily gorgeous color palette that recalls giallo at its most vivid, and if his script is intentionally silly, it also has a sly wit (at one point, a newspaper headline reads, “Hobo Stops Begging, Demands Change”). While the movie is constantly cranked to 11, Eisener takes everything to another level altogether with The Plague, a pair of armor-clad hit men who may or may not have killed Jesus Christ (if a freeze-frame of their lair is any indication).

Finally, we have Hauer, a pro relishing every moment and owing the screen. It’s his show, and he is glorious. His impassioned speech on the troubles of life, given to a hospital-room filled with newborn babies who get more and more terrified as his rant continues, is some sort of classic. —Corey Redekop

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Here’s how much of a true musketeer movie Ring of the Musketeers is: More than once in the end credits, it misspells the word as “muskateer.” But I’d expect nothing less from a feature film that appears to be a TV pilot with the next two episodes tacked on. Furthermore, it stars a mulleted and mustachioed David Hasselhoff as one of the Three Musketeers, but in modern-day Los Angeles.

The Hoff is D’Artagnan, who’s so serious about the freelance swashbucklin’ gig that he lives in a castle and eats chickens whole, with no utensils. Alison Doody (Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade) is Athos, aka sultry-voiced radio host Dr. Love. Frilly-haired German Thomas Gottschalk (Think Big) is Porthos, who wears a Team Mickey sweatshirt and can dunk his head in a fish tank for the count of 100. The trio rides tandem on Harleys and takes orders from antique store owner Treville (John Rhys-Davies).

Then there’s Burt Aramis (Cheech Marin), the stereotypical Mexican thief who fences VCRs and jewelry, and ends conversations with the baffling “It’s been a slice!” When he steals the fabled titular item that’s passed down from generation to generation, he has no choice but to join them in their adventures, which include saving a kidnapped 9-year-old boy whose captors feed him dog food on white bread. Two other missions come their way, including one with Corbin Bernsen acting coked-out, which strengthen our “failed TV series” theory.

Directed by Pee-wee’s Playhouse resident Jambi, John Paragon, who co-wrote with 24 creator Joel Surnow, Ring of the Musketeers is a bad idea from the start that gets worse with each aching minute. It would be even without the scene in which the Hoff gives an impromptu one-man synth concert on a trailer in an alleyway when he should be stopping a commercial airline flight from crashing, then backflips his way into a kicking tussle. Priorities. —Rod Lott

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Lord of the Flies meets Battle of the Network Stars in Terminal Island. The title refers to an isle 40 miles off the coast, where convicted murderers are shipped to fend for themselves ’til death. There are neither walls, nor guards, but escape is impossible. Guess it’s also like Escape from L.A., but instead of Snake Plissken, you get snakes — all in the figurative sense.

New to the prison plot is Carmen (Airport stewardess Ena Hartman, this flick’s de facto Pam Grier). She first meets a junkie doctor (pre-Magnum Tom Selleck), then the 39ish other inmates, including Magnum partner Roger E. Mosley, Lost in Space refugee Marta Kristen and Vega$ showgirl Phyllis Davis. The few women are forced to “entertain” several of the men each night, per the orders of psychotic, self-appointed leader Bobby (Sean Kenney, The Corpse Grinders).

Turns out there’s another gang on the island, led by Don Marshall (TV’s Land of the Giants) and comprised of the “good” bad guys (except for the guy who tries to rape Phyllis, who retaliates by rubbing honey on his penis around a hive of bees). They plot to take down Bobby and his crew with homemade poisoned darts and grenades; the latter gets used on a guy in an outhouse: “That dude just took his last crap.”

War ensues, and you win. Exploitation director/co-writer Stephanie Rothman (The Student Nurses) delivered a career best with this adventure-focused twist on the women-in-prison film. It’s not smart by any means, but it works, and that’s all you’ll ask of it … well, and nudity from the dishy Davis, and you’ll get that, too. —Rod Lott

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Grieving over the accidental death of his preggo wife (Nina Dobrev, TV’s The Vampire Diaries), paramedic David Lord (Kellan Lutz, those fucking Twilight movies) is tricked into a motel room by a full-frontal skank (an oft-naked Katia Winter), whereupon he is zapped, caged, tortured and brainwashed into becoming the Death Dealer. As such, he will take part in Death Games, a series of brutal battles broadcast over the Internet. It’s beloved the world over, but particularly by the frat douches of Psi Epsilon who cheer every kill.

These showdowns take place amid graphic overlays sporting samurai, gladiator and apocalyptic themes, and are the brainchild of GQ-dressed Logan (Samuel L. Jackson), the kind of rich guy who has Asian women on a giant swing behind his dining table. He’s so taken by the inexplicable victories of our Death Dealer, Logan agrees to let him take on the games’ hooded, ax-wielding Executioner (Johnny Messner, Running Scared), who beheads each round’s loser.

Lutz’s big emotional scene is hysterical, partly because of the bits of corn hanging out of his overstuffed mouth. Not that I think he can act; he can’t. The guy is all scowl. By contrast, we know Jackson can act; he just chooses not to. He’s clearly in his “whore for a paycheck” mode.

A mix of Death Race, The Condemned and the decade’s dozen other movies centered on televised murder matches, Arena is an unintentionally goofy garbage pail of an action flick. Yet if trash is what you’re hungry for, dive in. Jackson sure did — he chews so much fat in this thing, he could become Samuel XL Jackson. —Rod Lott

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Like many, I watched the descent of Mickey Rourke’s career with undue fascination. Here was a genuinely talented man, with a handful of superb performances and films under his belt (Angel Heart, anyone?), slowly and by all accounts willingly transforming himself into a punchline. First, there was the soft porn of Zalman King’s Wild Orchid. Then Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man. Finally, before his late-aughts comeback, he became a bloated replicant of himself, bare-chestedly battling Jean-Claude Van Damme to the death in a mine-infested tiger pit in Double Team. No legitimately great actor has ever fallen so low, although Wesley Snipes sure tries.

But of all of them, Point Blank is the one that serves as an object lesson for how far a man may fall before redemption. Not, sadly, a remake of the dynamic Lee Marvin classic (catch The Limey for that, sort of), this Point Blank is a painful slog through a third-rate Die Hard plot, enlivened only by moments of sincerely funny attempts to convince the audience that Rourke is a martial artist.

In a performance that defines the phrase “go fuck yourself,” Rourke is Rudy Ray (either the worst or greatest name in action-movie history), a former mercenary called into action when a group of escaped convicts, including his brother, takes over a shopping mall. Mickey mumbles and grunts inarticulately, then goes in, his skin glistening with what I presume to be … oil? God, I hope it’s oil.

What follows are scenes of action so inept, they are tailor-made for YouTube clips. And, yes, the filmmakers honestly expect us to believe that the slab of greased ham that is Rourke is backflipping his way out of Danny Trejo’s line of fire. Not even Trejo, or even the great James Gammon, can save this. Here’s a good drinking game: Take a shot every time Mickey completes a full sentence. You’ll barely get a buzz on. —Corey Redekop

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