In 2012 A.D., a plague-ravaged New York City carries the stench of The Omega Man all over it — but in a matte-painting/studio-backlot way — in The Ultimate Warrior. Newsflash: The future is dull and boring, so file this speculative-fiction snoozer under “sigh-fi.”

While cannibalistic street people lurk about, the dozens of survivors form a makeshift community within a city block junk-walled for reinforcement. Under the kindly watch of Baron (Max von Sydow, Flash Gordon), their ersatz mayor, the grime-faced men and women sustain themselves on vegetables grown on a rooftop garden and rations of tinned meat and powdered milk.

The film’s title refers to Carson (Yul Brynner, The Magnificent Seven), a bare-chested and high-waisted fighter invited by Baron to join their quaint neighborhood. Lured not by the offer of extra portions at mealtime, but by the promise of “cee-gars” to get his smoke on, Carson agrees. That’s good, because every post-apocalyptic compound needs an ass-kicker in its employ, particularly with the ever-present threat posed by the ginger-haired giant Carrot (William Smith, 1982’s Conan the Barbarian). Blood is shed, in the color and consistency of Campbell’s Condensed Tomato Soup.

Eventually, Baron sends Carson on an Important Mission, but don’t get your hopes up. That portion — seemingly an afterthought — is even less interesting than everything before it. Then pushing age 55, Brynner is hardly the end-all-be-all tuffie promised — hell, he’s a fraction of the imposing figure he cut just two years earlier as Westworld‘s robo-cowboy — and that alone renders the very premise obsolete. The same could be said of its writer/director, Robert Clouse, continuing his long, slow slide from the (accidental?) heights of the 1973’s kung-fu classic Enter the Dragon to the dregs of DTV action. —Rod Lott

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Never seen a John Carpenter film? Haven’t found the time for Mad Max? 28 Days Later looks too scary? Well, has Neil Marshall got a deal for you! All these films, plus many, many more, all mashed into one easily digestible package! How can you lose? Order now and you’ll also receive a set of steak knives at no cost to you!

Doomsday certainly wears its influences with pride. An intentionally ridiculous amalgam of almost every high-octane B movie of the past hundred years or so, it’s not so much a coherent vision of a dystopian future as it is a “best of (fill in genre of your choice here)” YouTube video. However, considering the oeuvre of writer/director Neil Marshall (Dog Soldiers), it is well-directed ridiculous mayhem, which is pretty much a summation of any classic B movie anyway.

Beginning as a 28 Days-type thriller, Doomsday rapidly shifts into Escape from New York gear, as major asskicker Maj. Sinclair (Underworld: Rise of the Lycans’ Rhona Mitra, frequently eyepatched à la Snake Plissken) is sent into the virus-scorched wasteland of Scotland to search for a possible cure before London tears itself apart. There, she encounters both Road Warrior-type cannibals and an Arthurian feudal system of government ruled by insane scientist Malcolm McDowell (A Clockwork Orange), because who else?

Also, Bob Hoskins (Who Framed Roger Rabbit) is hanging around for some reason, and soldier Adrian Lester (Primary Colors) plays heroic second fiddle in what will now and forever be referred to as “the Michael Biehn role.” So, yeah, he dies.

And then there’s a car chase that leaves me exhausted and hungry for more. When is Mad Max: Fury Road coming out again?

Again, it’s all nonsense (and frankly not up to the rest of Marshall’s output, including The Descent, although his talent for gore remains intact), but goddamned if it isn’t fun nonsense, even if half the time you’re playing the “what’s being referenced now?” game. And Mitra’s qualities as kicker of ass should be much more in demand. In a genre saturated with bone-thin heroines who appear too frail to lift a sandwich (let alone a gun), her musculature is a rare thing indeed. She might not be a physical match for Haywire’s Gina Carano, but I’d put her up against the likes of Kate Beckinsale, Angelina Jolie, and Zoe Saldana any day. I leave it to you to daydream about that. —Corey Redekop

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Hungering for more teenage post-apocalyptic games? The Maze Runner is one of the best of that crop, while still visibly suffering from the core problems plaguing all the others: undercooked narrative, overelongated time and an overall feeling of genericness and déjà vu. Directed by newcomer Wes Ball, the blockbuster is based on James Dashner’s novel — the first in a series, of course!

Our protagonist (Dylan O’Brien, The Internship) is … well, he doesn’t even remember his name at the film’s start, when he awakens in an industrial elevator racing up from an underground who-knows-what and into a primitive village of several dozen boys who once were in his position. Once a month, out pop fresh supplies and new blood. Deep into the second act, the makeshift community gets its first and only female (Kaya Scodelario, Moon) and the movie doesn’t even broach the subject of what really would happen to the poor girl.

They live in harmony — or at least compared to Lord of the Flies — captive and surrounded on all four sides by insurmountable walls that, on clockwork occasion, widen to a gap to reveal a labyrinth. At great risk to their lives, those tasked with entering have one goal: Find an exit.

See, this towering, ever-changing maze is populated with grievers. No, not widows sobbing over the death of their spouse, but giant robot spiders. (And that brings up a pet peeve I have with these kind of movies: What’s with all the needless vocabulary changes, invented lingo and only-us language? Why can’t it suffice for giant robot spiders to be called that? It’d cut down on the movie’s need to explain things.) Watching Thomas — that’s our hero’s name, once he hits his head hard enough to recall it — and his fellow runners maneuver the maze’s dangers is like watching a live-action adaptation of the board game Mouse Trap, or at least a YA variant on 1997’s Cube, but less fulfilling. —Rod Lott

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Man, oh, man — the balls of Mark Polonia to place a copyright notice right on the title screen of Empire of the Apes. This is the $1.98 version of 20th Century Fox’s venerated Planet of the Apes franchise, still going strong after nearly five decades in existence. How a rip-off this brazen, this transparent could exist in an industry environment so litigious that the word “butler” ignites a legal firestorm, I’ll never know. Perhaps it’s flown so far under the Hollywood radar as to render itself stealth. It sure doesn’t fall under the First Amendment protection of parody, because Empire is too fan-fictiony to resemble a spoof, even by honest error.

Three barely dressed women (the credits don’t bother to give them names, so I won’t, either) imprisoned on a spaceship make their way to an escape pod, which promptly crash-lands on a (but not the) planet of apes. Clearly just men behind masks, these primates wear denim jeans and trench coats and footwear from Cabela’s. They also talk! Despite being so advanced on the evolutionary scale, they are confused by the women and their weapons; one ape accidentally shoots his own head off, to the delight of his poo-flinging brethren. At least I think they’re laughing; it’s tough to tell since their mandibles move to approximate speech patterns, yet their voices echo inside the masks rather than emanate from within.

When it comes to dialogue, the ladies — or “the primitives,” as the script by director Polonia (Amityville Death House) calls them — get all the USDA-choice lines, from “‘Behave’ rhymes with ‘slave’” to “What are you gonna do, put us in a cage and feed us bananas?” (Ba-dum-bum.) As if commenting on the females’ collective performance, one ape warns, “It is best if you do not speak.” I agree.

Empire is not a better movie than the most recent “real” Planet of the Apes chapter, 2014’s Dawn of the, but if — and only if — you have just 60.77 percent of the time to watch … —Rod Lott

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The first of two Hercules projects to hit the big screen in 2014, The Legend of Hercules is so bad, the other one need not do much more than simply show up to the battle to win.

And mind you, “the other one” comes from Brett Ratner.

But back to the first-outta-the-gate Legend. Directed by the once-promising Renny Harlin (Die Hard 2), the film errs in many ways, but most notably through miscasting. Whereas the other Herc flick casts Dwayne Johnson (né The Rock) as the Greek myths’ ultimate hero and god of strength, Harlin has Kellan Lutz, a Twilight franchise second-stringer. Lutz looks like a frat boy who overdid the bronzing tanner, but his mortal enemy, King Amphitryon, is played by Scott Adkins (2010’s Ninja), a real-deal martial artist who commands the camera. Lutz likely commanded the on-set iPod playlist.

The two deserve to have to switched roles, but my preference would be to nix Lutz entirely. Free of charisma, he looks no more convincing chasing a babe (Gaia Weiss, TV’s Vikings) than he does choking a CGI lion. So dull and flat is the 3-D would-be epic, viewers may wish they were the lion, quickly put out of misery before the curtain falls on Act 1.

Lou Ferrigno, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Kevin Sorbo: You are forgiven. —Rod Lott

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