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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Here’s my personal theory as to why Predator has stuck around after so many similar movies have disappeared from the public consciousness, and it’s not the alien (although that is a vital component).

It’s that Arnold Schwarzenegger [SPOILER ALERT FOR THOSE THREE PEOPLE WHO HAVEN’T SEEN IT!] loses the climactic fight.

Think about it: We’ve got a more-or-less traditional action scenario: the Austrian Oak (named “Dutch,” because duh) leads a Black Ops troop into Central America on a rescue mission. There, an alien hunter quickly decimates this ragtag troop of former wrestlers, football players and porn stars until we get to the customary final bout of mano-a-extraterrestrialmano.

Customarily, pretty much every Arnie film comes down to a show of brute force — i.e. Commando, Conan, Raw Deal, Eraser, Jingle All the Way, et al. — because how could anyone hope to defeat a man whose biceps are bigger than the average American’s thigh? Yet here, we find Mount Brawny outmatched. He’s forced to outthink his crab-faced opponent through an adoption of new tactics rather than come at him muscles a-blazin’, and even then he loses. It’s only through a mixture of luck and intelligence that Schwarzenegger ultimately manages to triumph.

Beyond that, Predator would still only be a rare acceptance of action-hero mortality if it weren’t for the now-famous alien, a charismatic creation that is practically the xenomorphic embodiment of Schwarzenegger himself. Director John McTiernan (Die Hard) wisely keeps it hidden behind an invisible shield to heighten the tension, and keeps the action and wisecracks flowing smoothly. Frankly, he’s a far better director than the material deserves and keeps the B-movie festivities from falling to, say, Dwight H. Little (Marked for Death) levels of averageness.

Even more than that, McTiernan deserves some mention for achieving the nigh-impossible: making Jesse Ventura watchable. Although Ventura tries his damnedest to stop him. —Corey Redekop

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I, Frankenstein. This, garbage.

Based on a reasonably obscure comic book, I, Frankenstein feels more as if its true origins lie in the bleeps and blips of a video game. At one point among a seemingly endless number of fight scenes, our stitched-together hero makes a broad leap over a car and punches a gargoyle on his way down — a slow-motion move that sophomore director Stuart Beattie (better-known as the screenwriter of Collateral and 30 Days of Night) commits to pixels in a left-to-right pan. All that’s missing is a life/health counter at the screen’s fringes.

The classic Frankenstein story dreamt by Mary Shelley is dispensed within mere minutes in order to bring the mad doctor’s reanimated creation into the 21st steampunk century. Here named Adam, the handsomely scarred monster (Aaron Eckhart, The Dark Knight‘s Two-Face) joins the fight against Satan’s legion of demons, which conveniently number 666.

They snarl from behind Halloween masks; he finishes them off with the panache of a skilled martial artist. Those longing to see Frankenstein’s monster basically plopped into Kate Beckinsale’s part in the Underworld series — with which the film shares producers — may delight amid all the blue-tinted flash. But even that’s not likely, as I, Frankenstein is numbing, best summed up by the subtitle your Blu-ray player will repeat often if the feature is activated: “METAL CLANGING CONTINUES.”

Sadly, Eckhart in a Goodwill-donated robe is not the same as Beckinsale in black leather pants. Speaking of the ladies, Adam just wants to be built a mate. I, Bride of I, Frankenstein, anyone? Hope not. —Rod Lott

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Like a French version of 1984’s Night of the Comet, Dead Shadows depicts one night in the City of Lights — specifically, the one with the passing of a comet. This rare event makes tech-support slacker Chris (newcomer Fabian Wolfrom) very nervous. After all, when a comet last passed a decade ago, dear old’ Dad went mad and killed Mom; Chris has been afraid of the dark ever since.

With Chris on edge more than usual, a relaxant of sorts arrives in the form of Claire (Blandine Marmigère), his hot, newly single neighbor. An artist by trade, she invites Chris to an “apocalypse party” that night. We know she’s good to go when she shares the name of her in-progress series of paintings: Orgasmic Explosions.

Chris agrees — wouldn’t you? — but has trouble finding Claire at the soirée. He does, however, see a man’s anaconda-like alien phallus slither up a slutty attendee’s behind … and out her mouth. Basically, the comet’s presence causes the citizenry to mutate — or is it all just in Chris’ head? — into a parade of Lovecraftian monsters that would give Guillermo del Toro a Pacific Rim-sized erection.

With a running time under the 75-minute mark, Dead Shadows should spark to life on the double; first-time director David Cholewa bides his time, however, so viewers likely will expect a payoff worthy of his slow build. It does not happen, although a face-melting partygoer and a topless spider-woman are effects well-realized. Cholewa’s direction is not at fault for the film’s eventual place one step above mediocrity — it’s newbie Vincent Julé’s script, stupide. In the end, with all accounted for, the movie is far more c’est la vie than c’est magnifique. —Rod Lott

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Mercilessly yet accurately parodied by the titular segments of 1987’s Amazon Women on the Moon, the sci-fi spectacle of 1958’s Queen of Outer Space stands today — shoulders back, girls! — as a camp curio. After all, it stars everyone’s second favorite Hungarian beauty, Zsa Zsa Gabor, now known more for playing herself (i.e. The Naked Gun 2 1/2: The Smell of Fear) and/or a real-life bride (nine trips at press time) than actually acting.

In the year 1985, a group of square-jawed astronauts is sent on a mission to Venus, to determine whether Earth is in mortal danger from the cloud planet. Turns out, hardly! Thought to be uninhabitable, Venus houses a bevy of beautiful women — the shapely kind for which the term “wowza” was coined. Most of them are friendly; their wicked queen is decidedly not. Contrary to audiences’ expectations and beliefs, her highness Queen Yllana is not played by Gabor, but Laurie Mitchell (Attack of the Puppet People) — because I’m guessing Gabor wouldn’t dare appear with a face that looks that looks dipped in boiled goulash.

Queen of Outer Space comes form-fitted with many a sci-fi trope and prop — do look out for the giant rubber spider — but plays like a Miss America pageant in glorious CinemaScope … and not-so-glorious misogyny. In accentuating beauty above all else, it portrays women as trophies to periodically hold one’s sperm. As the horniest of the men, Patrick Waltz (The Silencers) fires off lines like:
• “How’d you like to drag that to the senior prom?”
• “You know how women drivers are!”
• “How could a bunch of women invent a gizmo like that?”
• “How can a doll as cute as that be such a pain the neck?”
• “She’s jealous! Twenty-six million miles from Earth, and the little dolls are just the same.”

How much of that was just the character is up for debate, but so many clues suggest director Edward Bernds (Return of the Fly) and screenwriter Charles Beaumont (TV’s The Twilight Zone) were charter members of the ol’ “barefoot and pregnant” brigade. If anything else within the colorful fun of Queen hits a sour note, it’s that an uncredited Joi Lansing (Marriage on the Rocks) appears only in the prologue. —Rod Lott

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