All I recall about 1989’s The Terror Within is that I’ve seen it. Going into The Terror Within II, retention doesn’t matter, were you so worried. The opening titles fill in any narrative blanks with broad, questionably need-to-know strokes: Biological warfare beget an apocalypse and “grotesque genetic mutations.”

Andrew Stevens (Munchie Strikes Back) isn’t one of those, but he’s back toplining as David — not to mention making his directorial debut and writing the screenplay. Roaming the post-apoc desert where everything, per all of Roger Corman’s Concorde Pictures, is uncomfortably too orangey, David and his glue-on beard spear a lizard for chow and communicate with his peeps back at Rocky Mountain Lab. There, scientists (including Stevens’ mom, Poseidon Adventure victim Stella) rush to formulate a vaccine to combat an unpredictable virus, but conspiracy-duped parents upend school board meetings they lack key ingredients David hopes to find. Until then, Full Metal Jacket’s R. Lee Ermey — and you’re not gonna believe this — shouts orders.

This being a Terror Within movie, there’s a terror, all right — but since it’s prowling the sands, it’s not yet within. It’s also not yet seen, depicted only by an arm swatting into frame and, for the rare POV shot, a completely blue screen. (Folks, in just three years’ time, cinematographer Janusz Kaminski would go from blue to black and white … and win the cinematography Oscar for Schindler’s List.)

Soon, David witnesses a young man and woman grappling with the creature. Following a fruitless attempt at subjugation by boomerang, the man dies, but David pledges to watch after the poor sap’s sister, Ariel (Clare Hoak, Cool World). Not even a day passes before Ariel thanks David with a guided tour of her uterus.

Ariel does not afford the terror within this same pleasure; it simply takes her from behind — but tastefully, y’know, because Stevens shows us just one thrust. Later, at the lab, when she’s scanned for pregnancy, we get a hilarious animation of a lone white sperm (David’s) peacefully flagellatin’ its way into her egg … momentarily followed by one black sperm (the terror’s), spikes and all, aggressively shoving in for sloppy seconds. The resulting infant is so hideous, not even principled YouTube influencers would hesitate to rehome it.

Somewhere between the crawling in the air ducts, the “Come to Papa!” quip and especially the reveal of the monster looking like a grown man dipped in marinara and sporting a head hernia, you realize you’re watching a simultaneous rip-off of Alien and Aliens … and then asking yourself, “Why?” —Rod Lott

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Originally to be directed by Tobe Hooper, this John “Bud” Carlos joint stars a haggard William Devane as Roy, a disheveled ex-con who, thankfully, happens to be a bestselling author. When his daughter is ripped limb from limb walking home late one night, it starts a killing spree down the scummiest streets of Los Angeles, which is most of them.

Besides routinely harassing the mostly useless cops on the case, Devane also finds time to bed reporter Cathy Lee Crosby, so at least he’s got his priorities straight, right? Meanwhile, the killer slices up a few more pedestrians, always with a low-rent light show beforehand, which tells me that this murderer ain’t a typical Angelino.

Turns out he’s actually an alien and, in the Star Wars-esque prologue, he’s here to test out his extraterrestrial camouflage, or something to that effect. Either way, Predator 2 did it better, which is really nothing to brag about.

While the space monster, when we finally get to see it, is less than impressive — most of the time he’s just got laser eyes to differentiate him — but at least that’s something entertaining. Otherwise, for the rest of the running time, it’s just a somewhat all-star cast of Devane, Crosby, Richard Jaeckel and Keenan Wynn — and look, it’s Casey Kasem as a coroner! — standing around arguing, flirting or both.

And let’s not forget the strange subplot about an aging psychic named — and named only — De Renzy.

According to Cardos, in the original Hooper treatment, The Dark was supposed to be about a mentally handicapped shut-in who roams the streets murdering whoever gets in his way after his abusive parents die in a fire; here, it’s just about a space monster, with no real rhyme or reason for the killing, with the exception of that bit about camouflage.

To be fair, that other bit sounds terrible as well. —Louis Fowler

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With its Americanized name change, I’ll admit I was more than ready to pass up I Am Toxic. But, still, the idea of Mad Max meeting The Walking Dead, per Hollywood News’ cover blurb, piqued my interest enough to give it, at the very least, a 10-minute viewing just to test the diseased waters.

Seconds after popping it in, however, it became evident the film’s original title was Soy Tóxico and, even better, it was from Argentina. Realizing this wasn’t the same straight-to-video dreck I’m used to, I stuck around a bit longer. And the longer I stuck in, the more I got sucked into this brutal world of disease and death, not in that order.

It’s way in the future and the southern hemisphere has become one large garbage dump. A haggard man wakes up in the middle of a pile of corpses, unable to remember who he is or what he’s doing there. As he’s attacked by sun-beaten corpses, he’s momentarily rescued by an old scavenger in a tricked-out apocalypse-mobile.

The old scavenger takes him to his walled-in dump of a living situation with his two sons and, supposedly, a daughter. Of course, the nameless man is immediately taken prisoner and always on the verge of death; with a tattoo on his wrist providing the only key to his future, he starts to remember things as he goes through changes, mostly in his face.

With a final act that ties it all together ’til it bleeds, I Am Toxic is directed by Pablo Parés. With a seemingly shoestring budget, he’s able to turn what could have been a nonsensical mess into a rather pulse-pounding zombie (if they even are zombies) flick with only a handful of characters and even fewer locations. —Louis Fowler

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Like its 1994 predecessor, Scanner Cop II makes its audience wait until near the end before getting around to exploding a head. While the sequel isn’t as enjoyable as regular ol’ Scanner Cop, it is chockablock in throbbing foreheads and popped veins.

Very much like a TV episode, Scanner Cop II needs not bother re-introducing hero cop/scanner Sam Staziak (Daniel Quinn, Wild at Heart), not even to remark on his mullet, acquired between then and now. This time, he’s romancing the redhead (Khrystyne Haje, 1987’s Bates Motel) who runs the clinic that dispenses the scanners’ version of methadone, but this subplot just gets in the way of Sam having it out with an evil scanner named Volkin (Patrick Kilpatrick, The Toxic Avenger).

In addition to tossing objects about, scanners now can create elaborate illusions that would guarantee a smash Vegas residency. But dueling orgasm faces maketh the movie, which director Steve Barnett (Mindwarp) seems to understand in spades, because not for nothing is the pic also known as Scanners: The Showdown.

Sam and Volkin’s final battle is such a master class in clenched jaws and gritted teeth that both men look like they’re on the verge of either a self-induced aneurysm or the evacuation of an entire El Charrito Grande Saltillo Enchilada Dinner in one violent grunt. I won’t give away whom, but one of them paints the back wall with the contents of his head, while the other quips, “He won’t be available for questioning.” (It’s probably easier to guess which one screams, “I’m waiting for you, scanner cop!”)

Believe it or not, this isn’t even Scanner Cop II’s standout special effect! Thirty minutes in, a man basically sizzles and liquifies before our eyes as Volkin scans the power right out of the poor bastard. Barnett repeats this parlor trick several times, including — but not limited to — a joint his-and-her demise. The budget for rubber cement must have been insane; one hopes David Cronenberg’s check were even more. —Rod Lott

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With Scanner Cop, we have one of the five greatest films about psychic powers due to an enlarged hypothalamus. Essentially an unnumbered Scanners IV, its title character is wimpy Sam Staziak (Daniel Quinn, Spiders II: Breeding Ground), a second-generation scanner who becomes a cop after 15 years living under the adoptive, scannerless wing of an LAPD commander (Richard Grove, Army of Darkness). In order to keep his scannerbilities under control, Sam must take meds daily; otherwise, he could suffer wild and ultimately fatal hallucinations like baby-doll faces bursting through his forehead.

However, the rookie Sam is asked to forgo his pills to help Dad crack a string of murders, in which cops are killed by random citizens brainwashed to mistakenly see all officers as tarot-card corpses, giant insects and assorted pants-sharting whatnot. The madman behind this plot? Why, whomever perennial villain Richard Lynch (Invasion U.S.A.) is playing, of course! And this time, as Glock, he’s got a metal plate in his head — all to make his eventual defeat-by-a-scannin’-Sam scene about 10% more daunting, yet 100% more awesome.

For those who’ve never seen David Cronenberg’s original Scanners — or even just the instantly famous clip that launched a million playground conversations in 1981 — a scanner basically scrunches his face and looks at an enemy really, really hard until the foe seizes up and shakes uncontrollably to the point of an exploding noggin. With a violent mess of blood, bone and brain tissue, this is the money shot of the Scanners franchise; no sequel is complete without one, although Scanner Cop sure bides its time before getting around to a one-two punch.

With the series producer Pierre David taking the directorial reins here, he expands Cronenberg’s concept to more of a general telekinesis from the case file of Carrie White. Thus, Sam’s mind upskills to include piloting defibrillator pads to fly across the room, getting a stranger to hand over his car keys and, best of all, convincing a cafeteria patron to let Darlanne Fluegel (1988’s Freeway) call dibs on a slice of pie.

No powers are needed for you to enjoy Scanner Cop, about as unfussy and consistent as your Cinemax weekend premieres were in that glorious final stretch of time when that B-friendly movie channel meant something — right before the internet ruined everything. A near-end sequence in hell is a bit much, but at least it gives the movie an opportunity to turn the melon of Hilary Shepard (Turbo: A Power Rangers Movie) inside out and then some. —Rod Lott

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