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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Ringo Lam (City on Fire) brought his might as one of Hong Kong’s most noted action directors to the West for Maximum Risk, the first of three assignments starring Jean-Claude Van Damme. Said Muscles from Brussels plays the cop Alain Moreau, twin brother of Mikhail, the guy who’s killed in the kick-ass prologue. (And before we proceed, with this, Double Impact and Replicant, just how many double-trouble movies does Van Damme intend to make?)

To find out — about his sib’s death, not the number of twin movies — Alain travels from France to New York, where he enlists the help of a possibly autistic cabbie (Zach Grenier, TV’s Deadwood) who’s writing the Great American Novel. Everywhere he goes, Alain is mistaken as his brother, a “big-time gangster” who evidently betrayed the Russian mob.

Even club hostess and former stripper Alex (Natasha Henstridge) assumes he’s Mikhail, and thus, throws herself at him because she’s the dead dude’s GF. Alain, however, backs off from her advances, which is how you know this is not based on a true story. Later, however, after he spots a peek at her fabulously real breasts while she changes clothes, Alain’s into the idea of letting her rub her Species DNA all over his parts, and allows it.

But this is an action movie, and generic though much of may be, Maximum Risk does deliver in that department, with Lam excelling at staging the car chases more than the gunplay. As so many of these flicks tend to do for no discernible reason, its climax is set amid hanging animal carcasses. I’m a bit surprised Van Damme was willing to share the screen with another slab of meat. —Rod Lott

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There are two kinds of Chuck Norris films. The first create a decent enough entertainment around His Holy Beardness by surrounding him with actors capable enough to distract the audience from the immovable post that is Grimace Highkicky, such as Code of Silence or Lone Wolf McQuade. The other kind allows Fisty Hardcheese to carry the heft of the film on his own charisma, leading us down a jagged path of despair to Hero and the Terror and The Hitman.

I’ve never seen the original Delta Force, but considering its cast includes George Kennedy (!), Robert Vaughn (!!), Robert Forster (!!!) and Lee Fuckin’ Marvin (!!!!!), I figure it must, at its worst, be an enjoyable shoot-’em-up. By comparison, Delta Force 2 has Billy Drago annnnddd … that’s it. Give Drago some credit: His performance as a drug lord is so ridiculously oily, he becomes not only the highlight of the film, but the only reason to see it.

Directed by Aaron Norris (favorite bro of Bristle McSoloflex, and as fine a director as his sib is an actor), Delta Force 2 finds Punch Rockgroin leading some kind of anti-terrorist group, a leader so magnetic that no backstory or character development is necessary. After a friend is killed by Drago, The Beard with No Name works out his rage by kicking the snot out of his men in a training exercise and then traveling to South America for revenge, backed by the U.S. government.

Much poorly choreographed shooting and roundhouse kicking follows. If nothing else, Delta Force 2 serves as a primer for right-wing darling McFootinyourface’s nuanced understanding of U.S. foreign policy.

Fun fact: Chuck Norris is the only man alive with less facial expressions than Steven Seagal. —Corey Redekop

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