In a setup that in no way makes me think of the globe’s current overreaction to error-prone AI, the creator of the I-500 surveillance computer system is under serious pressure to rush his supposed technical marvel to the marketplace. No matter how often Ed (Gary Day, Death Warmed Up) tells corporate his prototype isn’t ready, the head honchos don’t listen because, duh, money.

Yet the I-500 really be buggin’. It forces Ed’s car off the road, paralyzing him below the waist and rendering him wheelchair-bound. Ed’s bosses kindly respond with a demand to finish the project by month’s end. To decrease distraction, they set him up in a swanky, 10th-floor apartment.

An Aussie omelet of elements from Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window, Brian De Palma’s Blow Out and Donald Cammell’s Demon Seed, writer/director Mark Egerton’s Crosstalk trips over its own plotting, uncertain of which track to take. The I-500 appears to continue trying to ixnay Ed, yet the creator also uses his creation to spy on a female neighbor — and hopefully solve what he assumes to be her murder by her philandering spouse (John Ewart, Razorback). You’ll never hear “insinkerator” more than within the film’s compact 83 minutes.

In some ways, this jumbled, two-left-feet approach resembles the indecisive, often contradictory visuals. After all, residents of the fancy high-rise reach their floors via an elevator that looks more like a shipping container for human trafficking. Not like the apartment interiors are much more pleasing with design that mimics two schools of design: New Orleans bordello and Atari-age science museum.

The much-hyped I-500 should knock our socks off, yet it’s an instantly dated, dual-reel mainframe spittin’ ones and zeros while tacking up the space of a theater concession stand. I swear one of its monitors is devoted to generating nothing but digital Spirographs. Not even the sudden appearance of a disembodied head in a washer makes Crosstalk worth booting up. —Rod Lott

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While people re-evaluate their opinions of Masters of the Universe due to the new movie, I’ve always liked the property on-whole — not just the 1987 filmic adaptation, but the cartoons and toy line, too.

That being said, it’s been around 40 years since I last saw the movie, on broadcast television one afternoon because my parents wouldn’t pay for first-run movies, dollar movies, premium cable or, even worse, basic cable. Yeah, for many years, we were a broadcast-only family and, consequently, I missed out of most of the MOTU studio Cannon Group filmography. Chuck Norris be damned!

I remember it being “all right” for what it was. Which was okay, because most adaptations at the time were very fast and loose and needed serious legroom to stretch out their fantastical concepts. You dealt with it. In preparation for the 2026 remake, I rewatched the original and, I gotta say, with all the limitations like budget constraints and unworkable screenplay, it’s actually pretty good for what it was.

The movie starts with a Superman-like title crawl that prepares us for Skeletor (Frank Langella) and his baddies to take the mythical wasteland of Eternia. The only thing that can stop them is a cadre of cannon-fodder soldiers, allies like Teela and Man-at-Arms, and, of course, muscular himbo He-Man (Dolph Lundgren).

During the battle, they find li’l Gwildor (li’l Billy Barty) and his fantastical tool to travel though strange dimensions and the like. With Skeletor on their brawny tails, they go through the machine and accidently find themselves in … a fried-chicken restaurant in Anytown, U.S.A.

Here is where most people have a problem with the movie: He-Man is given a backseat to his own movie to Courteney Cox and her boring boyfriend and their relationship problems, most of which stem from her wanting to leave to the big city after the death of her parents.

During a tearful moment at their grave, Courteney and said boyfriend find the dimension-hopping instrument and naturally decide it’s a new Japanese synthesizer to fiddle with. This sends out a beacon to He-Man, but also to Skeletor, sadly. Monitored chaos ensues, with Skeletor marching down city streets as he gives He-Man laser-lashes on his bare bottom. Or something like that.

The movie doesn’t really break new cinematic ground, but the characterizations of both He-Man and Skeletor are virtually spot-on. I like these characters and even though the costumes aren’t exactly right, they work. Even Teela, Man-at-Arms, Evil Lyn and the barrage of low-rent, bargain-basement, completely original villains (like Lizard Man, Eyepatch Man and Guy with Old Lady Hair) are fine for the material. Even li’l Gwildor.

No, the movie’s real problem is this: It’s soooooooo boring.

The characters — especially the humans — have no depth or meaning. Truthfully, I would have been good with the earthbound story if they had given us more than two dead parents, a depressive complex and a bucket of chicken to go.

I assume the new Masters of the Universe movie helps alleviate that, but surprisingly, it’s not doing well with movie critics or movie fans, with most saying it’s too faithful to the toys and cartoons.

By the power of Grayskull, what more do you want from me, Hollywood? —Louis Fowler

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Call me downright stupid, but I desperately want a big-budget version of Cannon Group’s 1980 anti-corporate, proto-surreal, biblically twinged, satanically dystopic, hard-rocking, soft sci-fi, neo-musical, The Apple, set in the distant year of … 1994.

That’s when I first heard about The Apple. Reading a snarky synopsis in a zine I can’t remember, I thought it was right up my weird alley. A decade later, I finally picked up a new copy at, can you believe it, the then-burgeoning Best Buy. Recently, selling old DVDs to Vintage Stock, I found this at the bottom of my collection and had to rewatch it. I truly liked it, more than I had in the past. Time heals all wounds, right?

The Apple uses the futuristic set designs of shopping centers, hotel lobbies and abandoned malls to create its 1994, where the spiritual fate of the world rests on the demonic visage of Mr. Boogalow (Vladek Sheybal), head of the music label BIM, which has its own theme song, “Do the BIM.”

Pre-American Idol, small-town Canuck kids Bibi (Catherine Mary Stewart) and Alphie (George Gilmour) appear on a futuristic talent program warbling the oh-so-syrupy “Universal Melody,” making them total superstars to the trend-swilling public. Well … one of them.

You see, Bibi is seduced by the voracious system, fully taken by the drugs, the sex and the unflattering costumes. Meanwhile, the virtuous Alphie eschews the whole system, writing protest songs nobody hears — probably the truest thing about this movie!

Something happens that makes the story even stranger: In between songs about how to “taste the apple” to make your dreams come true, Boogalow turns into Satan, small horns and gnashing teeth abound. Yikes!

Bibi becomes a total sellout in the period of two days. Although he’s tempted by the devil’s daughter (singing the sensuous, disco-fied come-on of “I’m coming … coming for you”), Alphie comes upon a hippie cult led by Mr. Topps (Joss Ackland), who is, to be sure, the Almighty.

As a matter of fact, Topps sings about a “child of love” and then, in his stately showroom-model Chrysler LeBaron, takes Bibi, Alphie and the rest of the commune to, I believe, Heaven. Praise be!

From its strained biblical allusions to Cannon’s low-budget way of depicting the apocalypse, The Apple is a PG-rated blend of Jesus Christ Superstar and Escape from New York. For a musical, the songs are the odd-man-out component; their lyrics are banal and the music substandard, but, I must admit, they’re also the biggest earworms I‘ve ever heard!

So, sure, the movie is pretty much “so bad it’s good” material, but perhaps it deserves more love — or, really, any love — so others can see what I can now see in The Apple.

And maybe we can start the campaign for a remake. Let’s all do the BIM! —Louis Fowler

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When the A-bomb, the H-bomb or other weapon of mass destruction lands at your front door, chances are you are not going to have amped-up automobiles, musclebound warriors or underground shelters to wait out the remaining mutant feeders.

If pressing the button does happen, I probably will carry on until I finally die, with a slight cough, bloody sputum and a wheezing gait. Really, what else can I do?

That’s the frightening premise of 1983’s speculative Testament, more of a smaller, quieter film about the end of the world. Directed by Lynne Littman, it comes from a sliver of time when The Day After and Threads shocked viewers with stillborn suffering, unflinching sadness and incurable empathy in the wake of global tragedy.

Stay-at-home suburban mom Carol (Jane Alexander) and her three kids are alone when the news reports atomic bombs are dropping near their small California town. As the world is left reeling in the constant ordeal, she tries to keep her family and their structures going. The newlywed couple across the street welcomes a new baby, their elderly neighbor works on his SOS signals, and all the local kids perform a play about the Pied Piper.

At first, with their spirits high, it seems like it might work. But with no further news, messages or support, it doesn’t look good for them or their community. Food and supplies get low, the rats come in, Carol takes in a couple of kids whose parents died, and, eventually, the family succumbs to various illnesses that take Testament to a grounded, highly emotional level that really makes you feel something.

You would think movies like this would make people think differently about the end of the world, but, as we’ve seen the asshole Trump flirt with Armageddon so fervently, it’s like they truly want the world to end, seemingly unaware real people, real families and real communities would die or live this nightmarish scenario. I don’t think they care.

Testament, I believe, might happen sooner rather than later.  —Louis Fowler

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If Lars von Trier’s Dancer in the Dark didn’t make it clear enough, take it from Paul W.S. Anderson: You really don’t need eyes to see. At least, you don’t need them after you take the scenic route through an interdimensional version of hell, courtesy of the titular spacecraft in the grimdark, sci-fi schlock-fest, Event Horizon. 

In 2040, the Event Horizon, a massive ship designed for high-volume space travel and colonization, vanished during its first cruise. Seven years later, it re-emerges. Capt. Miller (Laurence Fishburne, The Matrix), Dr. Weir (Sam Neill, Possession) and a handful of other unfortunate crew members fly out to investigate it aboard the Lewis and Clark, a vessel about one-hundredth of the Event Horizon’s size.

The Lewis and Clark crew discover the Event Horizon abandoned, save for a few eviscerated corpses. A few audio logs and one horrific recording later, Capt. Miller resolves to abandon ship. That’s easier said than done, however, as the seemingly possessed craft reactivates its warp drive, trapping the crew of the Lewis and Clark aboard. The survivors race to execute a desperate backup plan as the demonic presence that seized the ship slowly digs its way into their psyches.

Hellraiser: Bloodline wishes it were Event Horizon. Not that the bar for sacrilegious sci-fi horror is super-high, but for his film, Anderson (the Resident Evil franchise) brings tight cohesion, a genuinely intriguing setting and a quality of acting that leaves the rest of the genre in shambles. Fishburne and Neill transition from contentious comrades to cosmic nemeses believably enough, and the sparse comic relief from Richard T. Jones (2014’s Godzilla) doesn’t feel terribly forced despite being cheesy as — appropriately — hell.

While some may call Alien’s Nostromo the quintessential haunted house in space, Event Horizon’s lead spacecraft may actually exceed it. No, it doesn’t feature cramped quarters and an acid-bleeding Xenomorph, but it is actually haunted by the impression of an ineffable, chaotic dimension. Unlike the versions of space hell seen in Warhammer 40,000 or Doom, however, Event Horizon is less concerned with socketing in demons to make itself a half-baked creature feature. Instead, its terror is predicated largely on just the idea of hell.

Leaning on the concept as a source of horror instead of an overly manifested version of it (like the aforementioned Hellraiser sequel) likewise helps push the film’s theme. Event Horizon centers on a civilization that has pushed too far. It wasn’t good enough for us to get to another planet in a few days; we had to go faster than light itself, and in doing so, we didn’t just travel beyond humanity’s physical limitations, but the psychological ones as well.

Dr. Weir’s transformation into essentially a cenobite at the climax undermines this idea a bit, but otherwise, the crew of the Lewis and Clark aren’t fighting ghosts or demons. They’re fighting their own minds as punishment for not just fucking around and finding out once, but twice. This isn’t necessarily anything new in sci-fi, but using hell as an allegory for what little we know about space is still clever. (And maybe just a little heavy-handed.)

If anything, Event Horizon is worth the price of admission to catch the 30-or-so seconds of the sadomasochistic slaughter orgy captured on the recording the Lewis and Clark crew recover. This includes a follow-up line from Fishburne that is timed so well, it’s sort of baffling Anderson didn’t use it as the film’s tagline: “We’re leaving.” You should stay for the movie’s entirety, of course, even if it means disobeying a directly order from Laurence Fishburne. He’ll probably understand. —Daniel Bokemper

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