Maybe it’s just me, but if I had escaped the clutches of a serial killer named El Diablo, then fled to a new locale for safety, the last house I would move into would be the one with a security system from a company named Diablo Controls. That would go double if said company used a devil’s head for its logo. And triple if the place’s previous tenants disappeared without a trace.

Yet that’s exactly what the remarkably dumb spouses at the center of Motion Detected do, which instantly puts the movie on terra not-so-firma. So dunderheaded are they throughout, I wouldn’t be surprised if the next-door neighbor turned out to be the guy from The Break-In. Hey, there’s suspension of disbelief; then there’s something called a second draft.

Emma (Natasha Esca, TV’s Narcos: Mexico) and Miguel (Carlo Mendez, Bitch Slap) constitute the aforementioned couple. Their new abode spots the Diablo system — one so advanced, it can sense residents’ heart rate and analyze their dreams. Quoth Emma, “I can’t figure out if this thing’s going to protect me or if it’s going to kill me.” Famous last words …

… except many more have yet to come. Motion Detected makes for a long 80 minutes, especially after Miguel bolts for a biz trip, leaving Emma stuck at home — and often in the home, like a rape-free Demon Seed scenario. Viewers are abandoned, too, on an idle path of circuitousness events: Miguel calls “mi amor” to say he has to stay an extra day or two; the Diablo alarm goes off; Emma investigates and talks to herself; repeat. This might jolt some juice if the movie’s prologue didn’t literally give up the ghost.

Culminating in a laughable scene even the most misguided Twilight Zone imitator wouldn’t settle for, Motion Detected barely moves. In their first feature, co-directors Justin Gallaher and Sam Roseme at least can deflect a chunk of blame to their screenwriters: Justin Gallaher and Sam Roseme. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Hoopster Shaquille O’Neal’s efforts to become a matinee idol didn’t exactly pan out. The basketball drama Blue Chips didn’t score with moviegoers. What little audiences Kazaam had, it was one genie they wanted to put back in the bottle. And Steel, based upon a DC Comics character I hadn’t heard of until then, was too cheesy for the average action-seeking bear, not to mention too early, arriving before obscure, D-list superheroes became bankable. At least it’s watchable.

Shaq stars as John Henry Irons, a weapons specialist who quits the Army, only to find the deadly, sonic-boom tech he turned his back on has turned up in the hands of gangs on his hometown streets. It’s all about the Benjamins. Judd Nelson (Relentless) and his sneering nostrils fill the role of preppy villain, tailor-made for over-the-top hamminess — a bar Nelson easily clears.

To combat the undesirable element, Irons fashions himself a suit of bulletproof armor and carries a big-ass hammer, both made of steel. Hence, the name Steel. This would-be superhero is aided by his handicapable scientific genius/love interest Sparky (Annabeth Gish, Shag) and a white-bearded Richard Roundtree (1971’s Shaft). The latter thoroughly embarrasses himself by saying, “I’d boogie ’round that like a Soul Train dancer,” then doubles down with, “Well, dip me in shit and roll me in bread crumbs!”

As a writer and director, Kenneth Johnson is responsible for some of American television’s sharpest science-fiction series, including V, The Incredible Hulk and Alien Nation. But he’s also responsible for this dumb-as-rocks adaptation. Nonetheless, Steel manages to squeeze entertainment value from nearly its entire running time. Many references to fellow DC superheroes Superman and Batman are made, in between a running joke of Shaq’s character being unable to make a basket. A subplot hinges on whether Steel’s stereotypical granny can make a soufflé. —Rod Lott

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Even if only for marketing purposes, the possessive movie title is usually reserved for your Alfred Hitchcocks and John Carpenters and your Stephen Kings — you know, your name-brand filmmakers and creatives. Nonetheless, here’s Phil Herman’s Doomsday Stories.

For this multidirector microcinema anthology, Herman (behind such SOV faves as Burglar from Hell) hosts as Zorack, one of a mere 8,000 people remaining worldwide, following the apocalyptic “Meanies” virus. As savages outnumber humans, Zorack roams the earth, occasionally stopping to read from a clutched composition book containing “stories from the old world.” Of the five, one entertained me and another impressed me. Also, three characters are named James.

The entertaining one comes from Florida’s prolific Joel D. Wynkoop, offering a possessive of his own: “Joel D. Wynkoop’s 187 Times.” Attempting to prevent the virus, Wynkoop’s nebbish protagonist hops throughout a 30-decade time span, up to 2050. Each time he thinks he succeeds, the ol’ butterfly effect rears its wings. Its slight comic tone, breathless pace, clever premise and good-enough computer effects make it endearing.

The most impressive is “A Broken Promise” from Derek Braasch (Murder for Pleasure). Approaching an epic sweep with a Western flair, Justin Bower’s crawfish-capped Rick Butts and his canine companion scavenge for food in rural Illnois. They encounter everything from kid zombies to rednecks with a hankering for “dog steak.” The short may look like Paul Blart: Last Man on Earth at first glance, but for being so hamstrung, its sheer scope is mighty accomplished.

Lesser segments involve an organ recruiter and a fevered phone call between siblings. And in “Bomb Threats” from Hollywood Warrioress’s James Panetta, a woman (Debbie D, Herman’s Jacker) wrongly decides to seek emergency shelter at the home of a man she just met at a bar (Jim Ewald, Nacho Mountain); W.A.V.E.-style torture ensues. Its high point is her hysterical retort, “You’re a sick, sick weirdo! And a rapist!”

In between each, Herman cuts back to hosting duties — sometimes with the wind beating the crap out of the camera’s microphone — and waxes nostalgic, e.g., “Man, that brings back some memories. Some bad memories.” At two hours and then some, though, there’s enough variety that to leave with a couple of good ones. —Rod Lott

Get it by contacting Phil Herman or Joel D. Wynkoop on Facebook Messenger.

A few days ago, I came upon Infraterrestre, an El Santo movie I didn’t recognize. After all, he took his final bow sometime in the mid-1980s, after a few luchador-style kung-fu fight films.

Thinking it was a rip-off of the immortal character, I purchased the movie, looking for illicit laughs — only to find to Santo was the Son of Santo, and Infraterrestre was his big-screen debut. Much like the world of the rebooted Dark Knight mythos, it offers a darker, grittier version of the much-loved Santo flicks, but, sadly, the son was one and done.

Like other characters with a storied past, why was this version of Santo given the wrestling boot? Why hadn’t I heard of it? And why is it not championed as the rightful heir to the throne?

Using both public-domain nature footage and pre-CGI computer animation, Infraterrestre suggests that 100 million years ago, aliens came to earth to, I guess, hibernate. And when strange beings awaken — off-screen, of course — they find a family on a desert road and vaporize them, save for the boy who’s urinating.

Meanwhile in the city, Santo fights Blue Panther in the ring. As Santo is almost down and out, he realizes his opponent is “perverse and evil” and uses “satanic forces” to take the mighty luchador to the mat. (Actually, it’s more like “alien forces,” but I guess “diabolical satanism” is okay; it’s probably interchangeable.)

While the soundalike version of a Ricky Martin tune plays in a lazy discotheque, a sleazy guy picks up two dancing ladies, only to find two black-clad men shooting ridiculous laser blasts and kidnapping them. I think. Luckily, the whole thing is watched by Santo on his 13-inch supercomputer. Also, in case you don’t know, he has a super car with jet propulsion, satellite tracking and a very South Beach look to his costume — Miami nice!

After finding the kidnapped boy, the humanoids finish the job; it’s up to Santo and his muy caliente psychiatrist, Alma, to locate the aliens and their subordinates, figure out their noncomprehensive plan, use some basic wrestling moves on the baddies, and jet off in their flimsy escape pod — all in some 90-odd minutes.

There are crusty visitors from a different world, sunglass-wearing beefy drones, a strongly possessed wrestler and a race of creepy reptilians, with Santo taking all comers — even if most of the movie takes place in dark sewers, with two guys playing a whole race of cold-blooded extraterrestrials, but, you know, whatever.

Sadly, it’s very low-budget and mostly scattershot, with the Son of Santo stoically playing the golden-hero role. With the exception of Diana Golden’s performance as Alma, the frightened doctor, it’s really not on par with the original Santo adventures; something integral is missing, whether the story, effects, costumes and so on … take your pick.

Truthfully, I guess there wasn’t enough capital to shock this series back into action. With all the impactful stories of this beloved hero, maybe one day, someone will try to recharge it again. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

Who knew Brandon Cronenberg’s feature-length bonus episode of The White Lotus — aka Infinity Pool — would get so weird? Probably most us familiar with the director’s father. After all, the fleshy apple doesn’t fall far from the mind-warping tree. Brandon’s last film, the 2020 sleeper hit Possessor, more than proved it. But his balancing act of striking imagery, purposeful violence and a compelling conflict starts to teeter in the sands of this sunny vacation.

Alexander Skarsgård (The Northman) plays James Foster, a one-trick novelist who can’t find a thrill at a beachside resort in Latoka, an ambiguous country featuring a festival of stereotypes. While his wife (Cleopatra Coleman, Fear Clinic) begs for any reaction beyond disconnected grunts, James is drawn to Gabi (Mia Goth, Pearl), a British actress and his writing’s “No. 1” fan. After plowing over an unassuming farmer following a drunken picnic outside the resort, Lakota’s authorities deliver a simple punishment: execution.

But Lakota enjoys tourists. Specifically, the stupid-rich kind. For a fee, any foreigner on death row can infinity-clone themselves to endure as many deaths as possible — hence, Gabi and her gang of insufferable “zombies.” Yet the more James destroys himself, the more the island paradise morphs into purgatory.

Infinity Pool’s effects and snap editing are great in the cloning sequences, but they soon wane as film stalls at its halfway mark. This was a fantastic way to illustrate the (literally) internal struggle of Possessor, but it was also used sparingly. Cronenberg lacks that refrain here — maybe because he didn’t have much of a story to fill it with. That’s not to say the ideas he proposes aren’t intriguing or worthwhile; he just spends so much time identifying them without saying anything deeper. It’s excruciating similar to how Alex Garland approached toxic masculinity — one of this film’s many subjects — in 2022’s Men.

Perhaps by accident, Infinity Pool also follows last year’s trilogy of eat-the-wealthy flicks, including Glass Onion, Triangle of Sadness and The Menu. The film feels imitative in the wake of these, all the way down to the “consensual cuckoldry.” It definitely has the most interesting sex scene — an orgy that feels like it was pulled from Phil Tippett’s Mad God — but that does little to make up for the movie’s weaknesses.

What the film has in spades, however, is an unhinged Goth. Her part alone carries the overarching insanity. Gabi is as much of a siren and nurturer as she is a sadistic matriarch. Goth is perfectly cast, and the image of her cradling an infantile Skarsgård might be Infinity Pool’s most telling frame.

The movie isn’t an utter misfire, but it is a disappointing mark on li’l Cronenberg’s otherwise spotless filmography. Maybe the extra creamy NC-17 cut will fix that. Maybe. —Daniel Bokemper

Get it at Amazon.