Disney had two high-profile, big-budget underperformers in the summer of 2010: The Sorcerer’s Apprentice and Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time. Alfred Molina has supporting roles in both, making me think he and Disney have hatched some sort of punch-card deal. In Prince, he’s the swarthy sheik who serves as comic relief, with lines like “Did you know ostriches have suicidal tendencies?” and “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

The latter could be asked of the movie, which, like producer Jerry Bruckheimer’s Pirates of the Caribbean franchise, tells very little story for a long feature. Based on a series of video games, Prince stars oft-shirtless and miscast Jake Gyllenhaal as Dastan, the titular royal himbo framed for the death of his father, the king — by poisoned robe, no less!

Dastan flees with Princess Tamina (Gemma Arterton) across the desert and encounter ostrich races, deadly snakes and guys with gloves that shoot spikes. He is quite the ace at hopping rooftops, performing rope tricks, and smiling and grunting. Whenever he effs up, he unleashes some magic sand in his magic dagger which reverses time for several seconds, resulting in a cool effect whose cost could keep Third World countries flush in white rice for years.

Between noisy action scenes of mild interest, boredom reigns and traipses a kajillion-dollar path of predictability. Likely under threat of death and/or contractual obligation, director Mike Newell utilizes Bruckheimer’s trademark golden hue, which always bugs me since I first saw it on Saturday-morning cereal ads. Those didn’t have Arterton, however, but even her stunning beauty isn’t worth weathering the sandstorm. —Rod Lott

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If you ever have a Fuck Whitey Film Festival, be sure to include Surviving the Game, a Most Dangerous Game update for the moviegoer who has both Men’s Journal and Soldier of Fortune sitting on his toilet tank.

Down on his luck following the death of his dog and an old coot he went Dumpster diving with, an overly dreadlocked homeless man (Ice-T) is hired by Rutger Hauer to be a hunting guide for him and his friends. The other hunters include Gary Busey, John C. McGinley and F. Murray Abraham, each tripping over the other in a rush to give the worst performance.

After an initial night of bonding in the cabin over a pork dinner — during which Busey repeatedly plays with a disembodied pig’s head, and you wonder if that was scripted — Ice-T gets a rude awakening (literally) as he learns he — not wild animals — is the intended prey. Despite the miles and miles of forest around them and not having hunting dogs, they always manage to know right where he is. After running for a while, Ice-T decides to turn the tables on them, and you can pretty much guess what happens from there. It involves little more than rock-throwing, rigging vehicles, jumping from trees and uttering bad quips.

Nutjob Busey has the film’s unintentionally greatest scene, giving a long speech about the time he wrestled a dog to the death, and he can’t get through a line of dialogue without throwing in an onomatopoeia. As Abraham’s son, William McNamara screams like a girl through the entire thing. The entire film is a hokey mess, with an utterly abbreviated ending (and unfortunately drawn-out beginning). —Rod Lott

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How can you tell The Green Hornet feature film is cobbled together from four episodes of the ’60s TV series? Because for about 20 minutes, our masked superhero (Van Williams) and his sidekick, Kato (Bruce Lee), are being targeted by the big city’s criminal bigwigs for assassination, and then — kablooey! — aliens from outer space (in the forms of humans donning costumes one level above Reynolds Wrap aluminum foil) burst through the wall. Cohesion and consistency, you are marked for death!

By day, The Green Hornet is wealthy newspaper publisher Britt Reid, and Kato is his chauffeur. The far-out space nuts comprise the largest piece of the story pie as they vie for control of a warhead, then suddenly — and finally — the action shifts to the Golden Lotus Cafe, the playground of the deadly Tongs and their kidnapping and extortion racket.

Hornet was birthed as another Batman, but eschews that series’ playfulness for a more straightforward approach. I wouldn’t exactly call it gritty, but the emphasis is on crime rather than clowning around, with the added pleasure of kung fu. Williams is generic is both line delivery and pretty-boy looks, but likable enough. Lee is, of course, Lee, Supreme Ass-Kicker of the World, and to the surprise of nobody, the biggest asset of this superheroic feature.

Your best bet for grabbing this film and its 1976 sequel, Fury of the Dragon, plus all the episodes, the two crossover eps from Batman, the 1940s serial and a slew of extras, look no further than the four-disc Ultimate Collection import. Since the series — not to mention Batman as well — isn’t yet licensed for stateside release, it’s a steal. —Rod Lott

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A man in a beat-up El Dorado hunts shapely women to rundown and kill, and only Jim Caviezel can save them. Yes, it’s Duel meets The Hitcher meets The Passion of the Christ! Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Highwaymen!

Five years earlier, Caviezel lost his wife to the careless driver, so he chased him down and plowed right into him, forcing the guy into an 18-month hospital stay, during which he had his limbs rebuilt — not bionically, but with a brown bag of spare parts apparently purchased at a local TruValue hardware store.

Ever since then, the six-dollar man has been traveling the country, knocking off someone every thousand miles or so, with Caviezel hot on his rusted bumper. Next on the disabled driver’s hit list? Doomsday’s Rhona Mitra, who has the advantage of built-in airbags. And I don’t mean in her car.

The reason for watching a movie like this is for the carmageddon, and on that level, Highwaymen delivers some efficient and mildly gory B-movie thrills. But it is repetitive and padded (even at a mere 80 minutes), so it’s not quite the high-octane ride one would hope. —Rod Lott

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A year before Vietnam vet John Rambo took a group of rural lawmen to violent task for failing to leave him alone in First Blood, Kyle Hanson (Dirk “Starbuck” and/or “Faceman” Benedict) did the exact same thing in stuntman-turned-director Max Klevan’s lighthearted actioner Ruckus.

The difference here is that Hanson starts out a lot more fucked up than his more famous peer and he has the good fortune to find his redemption in the embrace of ’80s B-movie icon Linda Blair — which is all the difference in the world.

His sanity eroded by his time spent caged like an animal in a P.O.W. camp, Hanson is a disheveled, mumbling mess of a human being, which causes problems when the local small-town bigwig (Ben Johnson) sends a deputy to ask him some questions about his MIA son. Hanson has no interest in talking to anyone, but the deputy and his gang of redneck yokels refuse to take no for an answer. Unfortunately for them, what the disturbed vet may lack in social graces he more than makes up for in kicking ass!

A much kinder, gentler film than First Blood, Ruckus pleases, thanks to the efforts of its talented cast members who are able to invest dimensions and authenticity into characters that walk along the wrong side of cliché. Richard Farnsworth is typically great as the reasonable sheriff who can’t believe the situation his moronic underling has gotten him into, and Blair is a lovely delight as the lonely wife of Johnson’s missing son. —Allan Mott

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