How did that metal-masked Frankenstein become Frankenstein? Where’d he get that modified Ford Mustang? How did the high-octane event even start? Did they find Joan Allen through LinkedIn or something? Odds are, you weren’t even asking such things at the end of 2008’s Death Race remake, but Death Race 2 arrives to answer them anyway. Despite the numeral, it’s a prequel. It’s also near its equal.

On the aptly named Terminal Island reside hardened felons in a near-future prison run not by the state, but a corporation. Yeah, yeah, same as before, but this movie isn’t just the same ol’ thing. Before the prison’s sultry PR queen (Lauren Cohan of TV’s Supernatural and The Vampire Diaries) invents the Death Race, she garners huge TV ratings by having the prisoners engage in bare-knuckle, life-or-death, gladiatorial-style games, in which pathway access to lethal weapons is triggered by ground sensors.

She proposes “a race: wicked, epic,” which begets the Death Race we all know and love. One of its instant superstars is Terminal Island’s newest residents, Carl Lucas (Luke Goss of Hellboy II), thanks to an ill-fated bank robbery-cum-cop murder spree. Other participants include Danny Trejo (Machete), Robin Shou (Mortal Kombat) and a hillbilly (mountain rape).

If you weren’t told this was a direct-to-DVD effort, you wouldn’t know it. Taking the reins from Paul W.S. Anderson (who contributed the story), director Roel Reiné (The Lost Tribe) keeps the proceedings consistent in look, tone and feel — i.e. big, dumb and wonderfully violent — and the film ends precisely where Anderson’s began. Goss is more Desmond Harrington than Jason Statham, but he’s a good anchor for the flick, even if he keeps his pants on while humping his driving partner (Tanit Phoenix, Lost Boys: The Thirst). If you liked the first one, schedule some room for some more vroom-vroom. —Rod Lott

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Mark Dacascos’ performance in Crying Freeman isn’t all that solid, but this is still a great movie, the first from his Brotherhood of the Wolf director, Christophe Gans.

In it, Dacascos plays the titular Freeman, a potter-turned-assassin who guiltily sheds tears for the deaths of those he is ordered to execute. In the beginning, a beautiful artist (Julie Condra) observes one of his hits in San Francisco; the laws of his Sons of Dragons organization require all eyewitnesses be killed, too, but for some reason, he spares her life.

Even though he can’t bring himself to kill her, others are willing to take his place, so Freeman must protect her as he falls in love with her. He also wants out of his organization, so he has to use all his super-killer moves to off his former comrades in Japan and the Interpol agent who tails him there (Kiss of the Dragon’s Tcheky Karyo).

Based on a manga of which I have no knowledge, Crying Freeman is lensed in a highly stylized, hyper-real manner, with lots of slow-motion shots and kinetic violence. It’s a bit slow in spots, but Gans has such a knack for visuals, few frames aren’t worth gawking at. Despite Dacascos’ presence, there aren’t much martial arts, but a lot of shootin’ and swordplay. And Rae Dawn Chong. —Rod Lott

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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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