I fear Out Cold was made just because some Hollywood exec read an article about how “the kids dig snowboarding.” Even worse, I fear that somewhere, out there, one of those snowboarding kids thinks Out Cold is, like, “the funniest fuckin’ movie ever made, brah.”

It’s certainly one of the stupidest, making Extreme Ops look like high art. Destroying the last shred of credibility he had left from Dazed and Confused, Jason London stars as ski resort worker in Alaska. He has a perpetually stoned look, a ridiculous soul patch (redundant) and a torch in his heart for some girl he balled on spring break. London and his friends — any of whom, Zach Galifianakis excepted, could be played by Ashton Kutcher — treat work like a playground and play pranks on each other, like salting up one passed-out guy’s penis so that he can awake to getting blown by a polar bear.

Enter Six Million Dollar Man Lee Majors, now with a marquee value of about six cents (give or take). He’s the stereotypical evil rich guy who wants to buy the resort and turn it into a highly commercial tourist attraction. But the boys aren’t going to stand for that! No, they’re going to tell him off, destroy his property, shred powder, smoke weed, listen to Sum 41 and poop in a cup intended for a urine sample! Kids be so slammin’!

I hated everyone in this movie, except maybe Playboy Playmate Victoria Silvstedt. Every ski movie must have a Playmate, but I ended up not liking her either, because she never gets naked. Why? This is a teen comedy set at a ski resort. Have we learned nothing from Hot Dog?

The best part of the movie is the footage during the end credits, where many cast members are shown wiping out violently in the snow. I hope many ribs and hips were fractured. —Rod Lott

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I’ve spent far too much time trying to come up with reasons why I enjoy Grease 2 so much more than its overrated originator. Sometimes I think it’s because I like Michelle Pfeiffer a lot more than Olivia Newton-John, but then I compare Adrian Zmed to John Travolta and that theory goes out the window.

Sometimes I think it’s because I prefer the music, but then I realize I can name so many more songs from the first film than I can from the second. Sometimes I think it’s because Maxwell Caulfield was so dreamy back then, but then I remember that I’m a totally macho heterosexual he-man who likes girls and boobs and stuff like that.

The film itself isn’t that much different than the first one, except in Grease 2, the innocent foreign exchange student is a dude (Caulfield) and the tough-but-sexy greaser is a chick (Pfeiffer). Like his cousin Sandy, Caulfield decides he has to slut it up to get the romantic attention he desires, so he buys a motorcycle and some tight leather clothes. Getting in his way is Zmed, Pfeiffer’s ex-boyfriend and current leader of the T-Birds.

Maybe it’s just because I’ve always been a fan of the underdog and resent how much Grease 2 has gotten picked on since it was first released. Sure, it kinda sucks, but it kinda sucks for all the same reasons Grease kinda sucks, and I’m pretty certain that Grease kinda sucks just that little bit more. —Allan Mott

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Charles Ludlam, late founder of the Ridiculous Theatrical Company, once wrote a play the dialogue of which consisted of the punch lines of old jokes. No, I don’t remember the title. Jeez, do I have to do everything around here?

Larry Blamire, creator of one of this century’s great cult classic films, The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra, pulls off something just as challenging and funny with Dark and Stormy Night, in which everything is a dark-old-house spook-movie cliché: plot, characters, props, setting — everything. The dialogue is a thing of beauty, comprised almost entirely of stream-of-unconsciousness non sequiturs. One character asks the butler to provide sherry for the guests, and “Bring me an iced tea sandwich.”

The relatives — and assorted strangers, servants and one guy in a gorilla suit — have gathered for the reading of the will, then they start dropping like lead bon mots. Blamire’s usual gang of thesps, with a quartet of guest actors who have been in movies you’ve actually heard of, deliver their senseless lines as if any of this had any meaning beyond tickling your nostalgia for Hollywood Poverty Row thrillers until it hollers, “Uncle!”

Blamire’s talent for absurdist burlesque is immense and I’d like to see it rewarded with mainstream recognition, but if that meant he’d have to stop making these low-budget masterpieces, well, screw that. A wider multiplex audience could never love him like we do. —Doug Bentin

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I have no cinematic guilty pleasures, so when I like a movie such as the absurd James Bond burlesque Casino Royale, I don’t feel guilty about it. Stupid, yes, but not guilty.

Helmed by six directors, led by Val Guest, and with three credited and seven uncredited writers — including such heavyweights as Ben Hecht, Woody Allen, Joseph Heller, Terry Southern and Billy Wilder — there’s no way this could be anything but a train wreck, and that’s what it is. But who ever said train wrecks weren’t fun to watch?

Based on Ian Fleming’s first 007 novel — yeah, like The Origin of Species is based on the Book of Genesis — the comedic premise is that Sir James Bond is called out of retirement to best SMERSH’s financier, Le Chiffre (Orson Welles), at cards. To confuse the enemy — not to mention the audience — just about everyone on the side of the good guys is called “James Bond,” so David Niven, Peter Sellers and Woody Allen, among others, are all JBs. Sir James (Niven) also enlists the aid of his love-child daughter, Mata Bond (Joanna Pettet), and sexy spy Vesper Lynd (Ursula Andress).

Hating each other, Welles and Sellers refused to be on set at the same time, so their scenes had to be shot separately and then welded together. It must have been pure hell. The enmity, at its core, seems to have been the result of people fawning over Welles and ignoring Sellers, who was finally fired before filming completed. He was replaced by a cardboard cutout.

If only the whole movie could have been welded together. It’s truly a near-incomprehensible catastrophe, but it’s saved by being so stupefyingly mid-1960s. Watch for a cartload of cameos, and the score by Burt Bacharach fits the idiocy perfectly. Maybe you had to be there, and if you were, you’ll probably have fun going back for a couple of hours. —Doug Bentin

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Twenty minutes into the Down Under superhero satire, you find out that the filmmakers weren’t content to merely make a failed comedy, but a failed musical as well. It’s a startling revelation that unnerves you immediately … and it only gets worse from there.

It’s a shame, because The Return of Captain Invincible has a worthwhile premise and could’ve been an entertaining effort if it weren’t for the filmmakers’ stubborn insistence on fucking the whole thing up every chance they get.

Alan Arkin plays the title character, a once-great superhero reduced to an alcoholic mess after being forced to testify in front of McCarthy’s House of Un-American Activities Committee. Now a bum living in Australia, he’s called back into service by the President of the United States to find and stop the mastermind behind the theft of a powerful hypno-ray. Said mastermind turns out to be Invincible’s arch-nemesis, Mr. Midnight, who — as performed by Christopher Lee — has the film’s only semi-successful musical number (and even here I’m probably being a bit too generous).

Beyond a lazy script, lackluster direction and horrible songwriting, the movie’s biggest flaw is the casting of Kate Fitzpatrick as the female detective who lures Invincible out of retirement. Not only is she a terrible actress, but she also has all of the sex appeal of a Maude-era Bea Arthur, which would be fine if the filmmakers weren’t constantly ripping her shirt off, having her walk around without pants on and generally portraying her as being far more attractive than she actually is.

Because of the subject matter, you might be tempted to watch this as a double feature with Hancock. Fight that temptation — with all of your will and might. —Allan Mott

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