Whoever is ultimately responsible for Attack of the Super Monsters has to have been that kid at the convenience store or fast-food restaurant who fills his soda cup with a little bit of Pepsi, then a little bit of Mountain Dew, then Dr Pepper, then orange and on down, leaving no spigot unspat. How else to explain the Japanese import’s incessant roulette-wheel use of live-action footage, cel animation, stop-motion animation and miniatures, sometimes all in the same scene? It’s a combustible, schizophrenic mix that will wring the brain of anyone who no longer expects applause for a bowel movement.

When our 21st-century world needs defense from reawakened prehistoric foes, our collective fate rests in the hands of the four-person Gemini Command, 50% of whom are ineffectual. Siblings Jim and Gem Starbuck are kinda cool, what with bionic chips that allow for temporary body-merging (!) and shape-shifting and all. But Jerry is pudgy and, therefore, clumsy, while Wally is a scaredy-cat nerd with a mullet and a literal sloth for a best friend. These two are the Far East’s response to Zan and Jayna.

Thrill to the Battle of the Planets-style exploits of Gemini Command as the team embarks on four separate, seam-showing episodes adventures, scripted Mad Libs-style:
• a Tyrannosaurus rex uses a laser to command cartoon dogs to “DESTROY! DESTROY!”
• a pterodactyl telepathically commands rubber bats to “KILL ALL HUMANS!”
• a stegosaurus telepathically commands cartoon rats to “ATTACK! ATTACK! USE YOUR TEETH!”
• a triceratops doing things for himself wreaks havoc and barks, “DIEEEEE!”

Please note that in all the above, our heroes are animated, while their opponents are men in kaiju suits. Also please note that from a management standpoint, the stegosaurus gives the most clear and actionable direction to those under his employ.

Attack of the Super Monsters is not wanting for action, that’s for certain, and the amalgamation offers images you’ve never seen before, such as a T. rex laughing maniacally. But some things aren’t meant to be viewed — I’m putting this up there with, say, the sun — and any initial sugar rush quickly slows to a diabetic coma, leaving one longing for the heady wit and deep pathos of Turbo: A Power Rangers Movie. —Rod Lott

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In the Jules Verne adaptation The Fabulous Journey to the Centre of the Earth, one word in the Spanish production’s title is grossly inaccurate. Can you guess which?

After acquiring a map purported to share the whereabouts of you-know-what, Professor Otto Lindenbrock (Kenneth More, The Sheriff of Fractured Jaw) embarks on a mission to you-know-where, by way of Mount Sneffels — a landmark that could not sound more stupid, except that it does with each subsequent utterance. Accompanying the professor are nancy-boy Axel (Pep Munné, Girl with the Golden Panties), who narrates, and muscle-for-rent Hans (Pieces’ Frank Braña), who is paid in sheep. Inviting herself is Glabuen (Ivonne Sentis, China 9, Liberty 37), who is not only the professor’s rock-collecting niece, but Axel’s girlfriend.

Although Juan Piquer Simón (the aforementioned Pieces) went to the lengths of helming his film in an actual cave, don’t expect any sort of spatial geography, other than knowing the characters want to descend. At one point, Axel’s voice-over mentions “an exciting adventure,” despite no proof of such onscreen. And I say that knowing full well the movie features such sights as giant mushrooms, man-eating tortoises, cave-dwelling dinosaurs, bath-toy sea monsters, a Kmart King Kong and a lava-spewing volcano — and yet, very little of all of the above. It’s a real patience-frayer.

In terms of production design, costuming and men’s grooming habits, Simón nails the 19th-century look, although the cast’s prim-and-proper affectations and behaviors suggest a setting more Hereford than Hamburg. Performance-wise, More is the most grounded; Munné and Sentis, overly theatrical; and Spanish cinema legend Jack Taylor (Edge of the Axe) literally sits through much of his minor role.

While Fabulous Journey (aka Where Time Began) is not the worst Verne adaptation I’ve seen, it’s photo-finish close. With feasible naïveté, it hews so faithfully to the novel that it emerges stuffy and starched. Lob whichever insults you’d like at Simón’s other, less respectable Verne picture, 1981’s Mystery on Monster Island, but boring, it is not. —Rod Lott

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A psych-101 Reddit thread drives the plot of David Guy Levy’s The Mandela Effect, referring to the phenomenon of “remembering” something that has never been true, whether it’s Curious George having a tail or the Monopoly man wearing a monocle. However insignificant these false pop-culture memories are in real life, they’re bestowed with literal life-or-death stakes in this screen telling.

Video game designer Brendan (Charlie Hofheimer, an alum of Levy’s Would You Rather) learns of the theory from his brother-in-law (Robin Lord Taylor, John Wick: Chapter 3 — Parabellum). Perhaps because Brendan is grieving the drowning death of his daughter (Madeleine McGraw, Ant-Man and the Wasp), he latches onto the theory with an unhealthy fervor. Before long, he’s stalking a college professor (Outland’s Clarke Peters, obviously a Morgan Freeman stand-in) who believes Brendan is witnessing the result of alternate realities colliding, and whose quantum computer can allow them to alter the world’s “code” so they can bring the girl back to life. Or something like that.

Providing no shortage of Big Ideas, Levy and his Would You Rather collaborator Steffen Schlachtenhaufen have the makings of a Matrix-style head-tripper, but the pertinent information to transition into that all-important third act is delivered with such immediacy (as opposed to urgency) that the climax feels rushed — which truly may be the case, as the film clocks in at a brief 80 minutes, credits included. Had Brendan and the professor looked before they leapt, so to speak, The Mandela Effect might have resonated with its intended power. Lost in that sprint is a late subplot about the mental state of Brendan’s wife (Aleksa Palladino, The Irishman), although she does pop back up just long enough to contract what looks to be a medical condition known in the field as Jenga Face.

The fun of the film is all upfront, if viewers know to look for hidden-in-plain-sight examples of the Mandela effect before the narration alerts you to them; it’s like playing Life magazine’s Picture Puzzle feature, in which readers are challenged to spot the differences between two photos. With paranoia brewing stronger as the story progresses, one wonders what a director with demonstrated skill in this arena before — say, Pi’s Darren Aronofsky or Primer’s Shane Carruth — could do with it. —Rod Lott

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One of the earliest found-footage movies, if not the earliest, Dean Alioto’s no-budget The McPherson Tape purports to document one family’s encounter with extraterrestrials on an evening in the fall of 1983. Despite the title, this clan’s surname isn’t McPherson, but Van Heese. The night that changes their life happens to coincide with their celebration of a girl’s fifth birthday, thereby accounting for the constant use of the video camera.

The Tape’s strongest suit is that the cast members interact like a real family would at a paper-plate supper — gentle ribbing, overlapping conversations and all. Other than the two brothers — our ostensible leads — we witness more normal human behavior than we do acting. But — and this is rhetorical — how exciting is watching normal human behavior?

After that interminable dinner, unusual lights through the windows prompt the brothers to wander through the woods to see what’s what. From a distance, they spot a couple of alien life forms stepping off a landed spacecraft, or, in the words of one of the Van Heese boys, “a Martian or shit or somethin’!” Rightly fearing for their lives, they hightail it back to the house … until they decide to go back outside again. Among a power failure and the siblings hauling a dead alien inside (without affording us a glimpse), the family plays Go Fish and the matriarch voices her desire to watch Johnny Carson.

And so it goes (and goes and goes and …) until the literal last shot, when something interesting finally happens, giving us our first good look at the space invaders. It’s a letdown, however, because it’s nothing you can’t see answering the door every Oct. 31. An anal probe would elicit more emotion. In 1998, for Dick Clark Productions and the late, not-so-great UPN network, Alioto remade The McPherson Tape as Alien Abduction: Incident in Lake County with less believability, but more tension and action, not to mention actual characters named McPherson. —Rod Lott

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When originally released, Deep Impact was, arguably, the better of the two killer-space-rock movies released that summer, the other being the Michael Bay-directed Armageddon.

But now, 20 years later, viewed through the stinging eyes of the COVID-19 pandemic, it has become a once-hopeful film of a government that knows what it’s doing, a president who actually cares about people, and the world coming together in solidarity to defeat a deadly threat from outer space.

How times have changed.

In this 1998 disaster film, the comet is accidentally discovered by teenager Elijah Wood, then passed on to astronomer Charles Martin Smith, who is accidentally run off the road and killed in a fiery explosion. A year later, this rock — dubbed ELE, for extinction-level event — is discovered accidentally by Téa Leoni, back when America accidentally gave her a career.

As President Tom Beck (Morgan Freeman) soothes the nation with those dulcet, proto-Obama tones, a group of astronauts with the unlikely names of Spurgeon Tanner (Robert Duvall), Oren Monash (Ron Eldard) and Dr. Gus Partenza (Jon Favreau) look to blow up the thing with nuclear missiles. Meanwhile, Wood marries his 15-year-old girlfriend (Leelee Sobieski).

When I originally viewed this in the theater, I was a bit bummed by how little destruction there actually was. But, watching it now, I’m actually impressed by the amount of scientific planning — fake or not — that went into the months of prepping before the actual aerial collision, and I believe that’s mostly thanks to director Mimi Leder and writers Bruce Joel Rubin and Michael Tolkin.

So while Earth might not be affected by a comet the size of New York City anytime soon — dear God, I sure hope not — while under quarantine we can at least, collectively, watch this slow-burn sci-fi flick and dream about better times when the total immolation of our planet was the only thing we had to worry about. —Louis Fowler

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