Back in the ’90s, the direct-to-video market existed because many producers had discovered they could make a lot of money before a single frame of film was shot by pre-selling a generic action plot starring a handful of semi-famous actors to a bunch of unwary foreign distributors.

With their profit ledgers already in the black, there was no incentive then to spend further money on quality filmmaking, publicity or a theatrical release for these films and, as a result, they would just suddenly appear on the “New Releases” shelf of your local video store and stay there until some sucker decided he was tired enough of life to give them 90 minutes of his time.

Starring that pockmarked guy who was in Die Hard and The Goonies, that one guy who was in Scarface, that fucked-up Airwolf dude, plus Red Sonja and The Streetfighter, Body Count is an archetypal example of one of these pre-fab films.

In it, The Streetfighter plays a Japanese hitman who teams up with Red Sonja to get revenge on the cops who sent him to prison for a hit he performed on two acquitted child-pornographer gangsters. Pockmarked guy is aided in his investigation of these murders by a leggy FBI agent whose nonregulation miniskirts are highly inappropriate for the workplace. Naturally, they’re the only two who make it to the end of the movie alive.

Body Count is one of those movies you forget about while you’re still watching it, so it isn’t exactly worth seeking out, but it does feature enough violence, explosions and gratuitous nudity to sit through if it were to suddenly appear on your television screen. That is, if you’re a sucker who’s really tired of life. —Allan Mott

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This good, but not-as-good sequel to 2001’s Tokyo Raiders again centers on all-around good-guy private eye Tony Leung. He’s the only holdover from the previous Mission: Impossible-style Asian actioner. Here, Tony retrieves counterfeit American currency plates from enemy hands, intent on returning them to U.S. hands, but immediately finds himself duped and pursued by bad guy Richie Ren.

No fear, however, as Tony is aided by too-cute Transporter baggage Shu Qi and a bevy of thinly drawn beauties. Expect great action and style to burn. Don’t expect lucidity. Seoul Raiders grows tiresome in its final third, but overall, it’s fun enough, and Leung is nothing if not charismatic. —Rod Lott

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Talk about putting the cart before the horse — and getting away with it. Robert Rodriguez’s Machete has the rare distinction of being a movie that stemmed from a fake trailer, the latter being something Rodriguez devised for Grindhouse, the terrific 2007 schlock homage he did with Quentin Tarantino. Thankfully, Machete proves its drive-in bona fides.

Featuring more dicing and slicing than Benihana, the movie isn’t so much a send-up of 1970s-era exploitation cinema than it is a star-studded (if kitschy) revival of it. The pitch-perfect cast includes Robert De Niro, Lindsay Lohan, Jessica Alba, Don Johnson, Jeff Fahey and Steven Seagal, whom we discover, if you put sunglasses on him, is a dead ringer for Jim Belushi. Oh, and Michelle Rodriguez’s bare midriff deserves a special credit of its own (and maybe even an Oscar).

The titular character, though (what, you didn’t know Machete’s a name?) is played by familiar character actor Danny Trejo, a big, thick slab of a human whose real-life travails (ex-con, ex-boxer), are etched on a face seemingly swiped from Monument Valley.

Machete is a former Mexican federale whose life has fallen apart after a drug kingpin brutally murdered Machete’s family. When an oily goon hires Machete to assassinate an illegal immigrant-bashing Texas state senator (De Niro, wandering in and out of accent), the scheme sets off a flurry of crosses, double crosses, bare boobs, slashing, gunfire and as much political subtext that Rodriguez can shoehorn in without incurring the wrath of Arizonans.

Machete maybe goes on a bit too long for its own good, but you have to respect its trashy heart. —Phil Bacharach

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Producer Roger Corman’s Deathsport has long been pegged as a semi-sequel to Death Race 2000, but don’t you believe it. Although it reunites Corman with star David Carradine; has “death” in its title; and involves one effed-up sport of the not-too-distant future, it has nothing to do with that 1975 film, which is a satirical riot.

Even with Claudia Jennings dancing naked in a room strewn with Christmas lights, this one is boring. At least for the first 30 minutes, in which peaceniks on horses are zapped into oblivion by the bad guys. And hey, check out the so-called “mutants,” with ping-pong-ball eyes. Carradine and Jennings both find themselves held captive by Richard Lynch, in a cell bathed in depressing red light.

But then the games begin, and Deathsport kicks into higher gear, as our two heroes are given swords and forced to participate in a gladiatorial-style showdown wherein they’re pursued by souped-up-with-welded-metal motorcycles that make the same cartoony sound each and every time they swoop by.

Then it’s a chase for the remaining running time of a short, sweet 82 minutes. Hope you like motorcycles, fighting with torches, and some dumb-ass with blond hair who struggles to remember his lines. Bonus: woozy cycle-cam during obstacle course finale! —Rod Lott

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What do you get when you put Rambo, The Transporter, The Punisher, The One, Johnny Handsome, John McClane, The Terminator, American Streetfighter and a couple of wrestlers into one movie? The Expendables, bitch!

Sylvester Stallone’s action opus is struck from the ol’ mercenaries-on-a-mission template, like The Dirty Dozen or even Inglourious Basterds, minus eight Oscar nominations. Stallone, Jason Statham, Jet Li, Dolph Lundgren, Randy Couture and Terry Crews comprise The Expendables, a “fry or die” freelance team hired to go to some foreign island and take down a surly dictator, played by that chubby detective from Dexter who always wears the hat. (Here, he wears a beret.)

As expected, the script is stupid, the acting is atrocious, but the action scenes are kick-ass — gratuitous, over-the-top violence where bad guys can get sliced in two with the flick of a knife. In other words, when’s the freakin’ sequel? Next time, Sly, you need to throw in Blade, The Glimmer Man, Snake Plissken, The Marine, Bloodfist, American Ninja, The Perfect Weapon and — oh, what the hell — Lionheart. Certainly they can’t be all that busy. —Rod Lott

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