Hypothetical question: It’s the year 1996, and alien beings, cleverly disguised as humans, are destroying the earth for their own selfish needs. Who you gonna call? No, not Rowdy Roddy Piper; he sacrificed himself a few years back (that’s a They Live reference, BTW). Also, 1996 Will Smith is busy saving the world from other alien overlords (Independence Day), and 1996 Jack Nicholson has his hands full with yet another xenomorphic conflict (Mars Attacks!).

Who else you got? If you’ve guessed “Pudgy Charlie Sheen” … congratulations?

The Arrival, the third alien invasion movie of 1996, made little impact upon its release. It wielded neither the star wattage nor big budget of its higher-profile kin, and its special effects are best described as “eh, pretty good, all things considered.” But, much like spiritual soulmate They Live, its subtext makes it increasingly relevant, even if it’s too long and has all the visual élan of an episode of T.J. Hooker.

David Twohy (the Riddick trilogy) was a neophyte director here, and it shows; his lackluster pacing drags The Arrival out way longer than it needs to be. His writing is stronger, full of smart people sounding smart while doing smart things (and a few dumb things, because tension), and by layering in themes of climate change and environmental devastation, he (like John Carpenter with — again — They Live) transforms a slight B movie into something more topical and thought-provoking.

Sadly, most of the actors can barely muster interest, with only the passionate climatologist played by Lindsay Crouse (House of Games) making a true impression (so, obviously, she dies). Ron Silver (Timecop) is comatose as the baddie, Teri Polo (the Meet the Parents trilogy) is blandness personified as Girlfriend Character, and Sheen only rouses at the finale as his put-upon astronomer becomes more and more unhinged.

Sheen is also leagues away from the ripped and shredded physique he showed off in Hot Shots! Part Deux, which actually works in the movie’s favor. Be honest: Aren’t we all tired of movie scientists who also resemble GQ catalog models? Sheen’s corporeal puffiness adds a level of verisimilitude to The Arrival that his sleepy performance sadly cannot match. —Corey Redekop

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Aliens vs. Predator: Requiem begins where 2004’s Alien vs. Predator left off: with the miracle of birth! To be precise, an Alien-style chestburster rises from the womb-like corpse of a Predator — behold, the PredAlien! (Seriously, that’s what 20th Century Fox calls it.) This milestone occurs in space, aboard a Predator ship (PredShip?), which the newborn causes to crash-land on Earth, thereby loosing the Predators’ jarred collection of live Alien facehuggers on the quaint, quiet town of Gunnison, Colo.

Following the spacecraft’s distress signal to our planet is a clean-up Predator (Ian Whyte, The Scorpion King 4: Quest for Power) whose figurative job is to mop up the mess left behind using explosives and a beaker of blue acid. He makes that damned clicking sound while going about his business. Skirmishes occur amid the great outdoors, but also in the town’s sewer system, nuclear power plant, high school pool and hospital — woe be to the visibly already-pregnant woman who gets mouth-raped by the PredAlien.

VFX wunderkinds Colin and Greg Strause (Skyline) spend the first act of their feature-directing debut setting up members of their expendable human cast — an ex-con, a pizza delivery boy, an Iraq War vet, the customary cop and so on — and the next two acts knockin’ ’em down. To my surprise, they do a much better job establishing those earlier stages than in dishing out Requiem’s supposed meat. That the characters are introduced with so little personality should tell all about the degree to which the brothers’ film disappoints, especially in the only area in which their target audience gives a damn. They’re no Paul W.S. Anderson.

Requiem might be a fanboy’s dream if we could see the sequences that justify the “vs.” portion of the title. For whatever reason — perhaps to mask some digital seams? — these scenes appear unforgivably dark on disc just as they did in theaters; they’re even trickier for the eye to decipher than the movie’s “what is that?” one-sheet. The Strauses work from a through-the-motions script by Shane Salerno (2000’s Shaft remake), whose coda sets up a never-made third film. Neither Anderson’s original nor the Strauses’ sequel were able to meet the inherent potential of this spin-off franchise, but the Strause boys really squandered it. —Rod Lott

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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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