There is one thing I liked about TBK: Toolbox Murders 2, and although it arrives at the end of the movie, I’m going to reveal it. Skip this paragraph if you must, but c’mon — we all know the sequel is and always was going to be as formulaic as a 12.5-ounce canister of Enfamil. Anyway, having survived days as a serial killer’s hostage, our heroine is told she forgot something … and is handed her cellphone. Still charged, the device has something like 150-plus missed calls on it. D’oh! Trust me: That’s the only horror cliché TBK:TM2 dares subvert.

A belated follow-up to Tobe Hooper’s Toolbox Murders, which itself was a remake of the notorious 1978 grindhouse “classick,” TBK:TM2 turns out to be awful, and not even in a fun way. Hooper’s 2004 redux is, to me, a memorable gem unearthed from the Walmart $5 DVD bargain bin, so I was all for another trip to its historic Hollywood hotel setting. Hooper was not, apparently, so in steps Dean C. Jones, graduating from the makeup department to the director’s chair. Since Jones also comes credited as co-writer and a producer, he gets the blame for turning in work that screams made-for-TV, yet is full of gory (and good) effects the tube wouldn’t touch.

Stuntman Chris Doyle reprises his role as the mute Coffin Baby, the Darkman-looking dude who does all the stabbing, slicing and cooking; he’s like, says a cop, “Jack the Ripper, Jeffrey Dahmer and Richard Ramirez, all rolled into one,” and it’s obvious from some of the framing choices that Jones is trying to turn Coffin Baby into a “thing.” No need — if the rights holders can’t settle on a name (see the title moniker of “TBK,” a tasteless pun on/anagram of Wichita’s real-life BTK Killer), fan-favorite status is well out of reach.

The cannibalistic psychopath kidnaps a previous victim’s sister (Chauntal Lewis, Séance), cages her like an animal and makes her watch as he tortures other prey with this tool and that. But at least he cooks her a tub of Jiffy Pop so she’ll have something to snack on while spectating. Toward the finish, she encounters another captive, played by poor Bruce Dern (Nebraska), for whom I felt sorry — not for his character, but the two-time Oscar nominee himself. I know a man’s gotta eat, but geez, Bruce! There’s always ramen.

I’d like to think it’s not coincidence that this return to the Toolbox leaves us with this message: “If you can’t be something great, do something terrible.” Mission accomplished. —Rod Lott

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Billing itself as “Nuttier than a Squirrel Fart,” Hillbilly Horror Show makes one long for the subtlety of Elvira. The mixed-mailbag showcase of horror shorts takes a comedic approach to its very brief host segments, although the four featured films are serious on the whole. The Hillbilly clan’s Hee Haw sensibility hardly meshes well with the contents it purports to champion.

Doing those duties from the innards of a mobile home are trailer-trash bumpkin Bo (Bo Keister, The Taking of Deborah Logan); his mumbling cousin, Cephus (Scott Geiter, Midnight Matinee Psycho); and Bo’s “kissing” cousin, Lulu (Maxim model Rachel Faulkner). In a stereotypical thick-hick accent, Bo does most of the talking: “You know whut that means? We gettin’ piss-ant drunk and watchin’ movies!”

Four “movies” play, with Lulu sporting skimpier clothing — star-spangled bikini included — between each one. First up is Franky and the Ant; not only is it questionable to qualify it as horror, but the story struck me as pointless and, worse, its two hit men annoyingly speak as Quentin Tarantino rip-offs. Next is the wordless Doppleganger, a fine, stop-motion animation with two skeletons. Although wonderfully executed visually, it also leaves the viewer wanting in all other departments.

Almost free of dialogue, Amused is another inconsequential bit, this one of a woman fleeing a zombie in a snow-covered rural area. Finally, there’s The Nest, the lengthiest segment of all. Its primary special effect — of killer bees stripping their victims to the bone — is excellent, but wears out its welcome, much like Hillbilly Horror Show itself. —Rod Lott

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Wracked with guilt and grief over the “fast driving” that caused the death of his wife, businessman Fred Saunders (Barry Coe, Jaws 2) believes his beloved Laura (Jo Morrow, 13 Ghosts) will return to him from her tomb. Eager to speed that process along, he resorts to visiting a séance and a secret society, both of which are revealed to be a sham. Fred’s chances of a spousal reunion seem slim until he meets … Doctor Death: Seeker of Souls!

An amateur magician with G.I. Joe hair, Doctor Death (John Considine, The Thirsty Dead) possesses the power to transfer the soul of a freshly departed body into a corpse, thereby reviving the latter. This trick he demonstrates to a small audience (with elderly former Stooge Moe Howard seated in the front row) by sawing a suicidal woman with hideous facial burns in half: “As she requested, she must — as we call it — ‘die.’ And so we shall gladly fulfill her request, and in so doing, why not be entertaining at the same time?” Ergo, the girl is split in two, and her life force stuck into a busty blonde (Sivi Aberg, The Teacher) who will come to wear flimsy nighties to meet the doc’s desires. Sold!

Fred agrees to pay the $50,000 cash fee in advance. But no matter how many women Doctor Death kills and orders, “I command you! Enter that body!,” he is unsuccessful at fulfilling his end of the deal. Fred, meanwhile, starts dating his pretty secretary (Cheryl Miller, TV’s Daktari), so you know how the lines of that triangle will intersect.

The only film directed by career A.D. Eddie Saeta, Doctor Death is yet another variation on Georges Franju’s Eyes Without a Face, but without any airs of artistry or metaphors; in garish colors, he pumps up the exploitable elements for all they’re worth. The movie is, I think, rife with self-awareness; Considine’s gleeful performance is simply too chewy for this not to be the case, and raises Seeker of Souls above a made-for-TV look to tongue-in-cheek enjoyability. —Rod Lott

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With Day of the Mummy, it’s tough to tell who had it easier: William McNamara (Chasers), since his role is largely offscreen and spoken? Or Danny Glover (Saw), who literally sits behind a desk for the entirety? No matter your answer, the loser is clear: We.

That’s because the movie is as wretched as the Day is long. And damn, does this ever feel like director Johnny Tabor (Eaters) took the time of the title to heart. His horror flick is so lazy that its opening credits present a pair of (no-)names in a typeface that has defaulted from the fancy one everyone else gets. If they didn’t bother, why should we?

McNamara’s Dr. Wells seeks a big ol’ diamond from an Egyptian king’s tomb, rumored to be cursed and of course it is. To get his hands on the goods, he joins a team of archaeologists — who look like they’d be on such an adventure only if MTV crafted a reality show around such a concept — and together, they penetrate the tomb. I hate to spoil it, but with just a few minutes left in the movie, our asshole archaeologists find a CGI mummy.

Because Wells’ eyeglasses have a built-in camera, we see what he sees. Given that much of Day of the Mummy takes place within narrow cave paths in the dark, the POV gives viewers the feel of watching — but not playing — a first-person shooter. In the corner of the screen, Glover’s character sits and watches and guides and comments and occasionally gets flustered. (For proof of the latter, check out the eight-second clip below from the final scene, which I shot with my iPhone. Doesn’t it seem like he’s having a stroke while pitching a fit?)

If you’ve seen the trailer, you’ve seen the movie; I wish I had not progressed past that first step. —Rod Lott

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Directed by the fallen-from-grace Tobe Hooper, who did the killer-croc thing before in 1997’s Eaten Alive, Crocodile kicks temporary-escapist ass for one simple reason: It does not skimp on the bloody croc attacks. So many animal-attack films seem to miss this point entirely, resulting in utter disappointment, but Hooper gives nearly 10 violent on-screen deaths! Yes!

The rote story puts several drunken frat types and their so-hos on a houseboat during spring break. The lake they visit should have a sign posted reading, “DO NOT FUCK WITH CROCODILE EGGS,” because once these immature bozos do, it’s feedin’ time! And that’s what Hooper does right. What he does wrong is put a poodle named Princess in jeopardy at least three times, yet ultimately lets her live. (I’m also curious why he let the croc vomit up the annoying punk kid at the end, but that’s beside the point.)

Members of the cast are unremarkable and unmemorable — they’re just croc food, after all — with the possible exception of Caitlin Martin (When Billie Beat Bobby), playing the kindhearted Girl Next Door who charms the screen with her crooked-eye-and-bit-lip routine. She did not return for 2002’s expected sequel, Crocodile 2: Death Swamp, but neither did Hooper. —Rod Lott

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