I, Robot: Me, unimpressed. You, better off doing something else.

In a very loose adaptation of Issac Asimov’s classic book, I, Robot imagines a futuristic world 30 years from now, where friendly, eager-to-please robots are members of every household; where one miswired robot is suspected of murder; and where an entire robot revolution can be squashed by a wisecracking, sweet potato pie-eating cop in a skullcap and Converse sneakers.

That would be Will Smith, as Det. Spooner (a character not in the book, fork you very much), a homicide cop investigating the apparent suicide of a prominent robot inventor at the office of U.S. Robotics. All signs point to a new-model robot with the high-tech name of Sonny, although no robot has ever committed a crime before, being programmed with three laws which state, in essence, that no robot may ever harm a human; that a robot must obey human orders, as long as it doesn’t harm humans; and a robot must protect its own existence, also as long as it doesn’t harm humans. (These rules, unfortunately, do not extend to the audience.)

I, Robot doesn’t have a bad premise, just bad execution. My main problem with this movie lies with a miscast Smith. Continuously walking with a rap-video swagger, he has two modes of acting, each inappropriate: In normal situations, he’s over-the-top and shouting, while in times of life-threatening danger, he’s suddenly under the spotlight at Catch a Rising Star, lobbing leftovers from his Men in Black II quipbook. These ineffectual attempts at comedy include such one-liners as “Aw, hell, no!,” “Get off my car!” and — well, this is new — “Hold my pie!”

But he’s not the only actor to blame. As robot psychologist Dr. Susan Calvin, model-turned-actress (in theory, at least) Bridget Moynahan is quite robotic herself, and looks to be on the verge of tears with every line reading. The best performances come from the robots, and they’re computer-generated. In fact, there are times in this movie where everything onscreen is computer-generated, turning I, Robot into, quite literally, a cartoon.

Gifted director Alex Proyas (Dark City, The Crow) doesn’t help matters, forever swirling his camera as if it were a gyroscope, killing all sense of perspective in the action scenes and nearly requiring a dose or two of Dramamine. All he’s done here is created yet another megaexpensive sci-fi film with big, dumb moments out of place for the antiseptic tone he initially sets. I can see the script meetings now: “And the explosion will hurl Will out of the house, only he won’t get hurt because he’ll use a door like a surfboard and land safely in the pond outside! And he’ll do this while saving a kitty!” In keeping with Hollywood blockbuster mentality, all feats of derring-do are filmed in slow motion, all plot points are telegraphed far in advance, and all people unloading shotguns do so with lips pursed in a scowl. —Rod Lott

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As fun as Marvel’s big-screen Thor is, you can always rely on The Asylum to make a movie that’s more fun, even if only in terms of sheer cinematic insanity. For a few years now, these straight-to-video kingpins have been churning out “mockbusters,” suspiciously similar, low-budget rip-offs (for lack of a better word) of current blockbuster theatrical releases. Did you like Transformers? You’ll love Transmorphers! Did Paranormal Activity give you the shivers? Paranormal Entity will make you crap your pants!

Almighty Thor, a mind-numbingly loco version of the classic Norse myths, features a pale, menacing Richard Grieco as Loki, and in the world’s biggest middle finger to classically trained actors like Anthony Hopkins, former wrestler Kevin Nash as Odin. The Thor depicted here is far from Chris Hemsworth’s muscle-bound hero; instead he’s a whiny, petulant, wannabe warrior prone to crying jags. Lots of them. Every time anything goes the slightest bit wrong, Thor starts to weep and emote and hang his head low, usually forcing the bo staff-flinging Jarnsaxa (Patricia Velasquez) to take up the slack and dispatch of whatever CGI baddies come their way.

Loki escapes from Hell with a handful of dragon dogs and heads up to Asgard, which, awesomely enough, looks a lot like the lush forests of Southern California. He wants the Hammer of Invincibility — basically a sharp rock tied to a stick — so he can rule the world, or at least a cost-effective portion of it. Odin gets his ass slayed, and the Hammer is sent to another dimension. Thor must man up and find the Hammer in modern-day California alleyways. He’s taught how to use a Uzi and … well, that’s something I’ve always wanted to see my entire life. God bless you, The Asylum. Monsters attack the city, Thor forges a new Hammer, and Grieco gets to eat for another week.

Cody Deal manages to be the greatest and worst Thor of all-time, giving such an emotionally chaotic performance that it should be studied by drama students for years. Then again, you need such a stirring performance for a movie that plays like a pre-teen’s creative writing assignment, a piece of Thor fan fiction that is so wildly creative and tonally manic that, if given to a school counselor to read, the kid surely would be prescribed some sort of ADHD drug.

Oh, yeah: It’s directed by Christopher Douglas-Olen Ray, son of legendary B-movie director Fred Olen Ray. There’s gotta be something in the genes, because dude’s every bit the mad genius his dad is. Maybe together they can make their own mockbuster superhero crossover? I look forward to seeing Metal-Head, Gamma-Beast, Sgt. Patriot and the Almighty Thor coming together in Vindicator Force 3000. Don’t let me down, The Asylum! —Louis Fowler

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Better than most of Bela Lugosi’s Poverty Row efforts — but still just average — is The Corpse Vanishes, in which he plays a mad doctor who sends poisoned orchids to brides so that they’ll expire on the altar.

He then steals their bodies — hence the title — so that he can extract their youth and inject it into his aging wife, who sleeps in a coffin. A nosy female reporter figures it all out. A cop shoots a midget. —Rod Lott

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Paycheck most certainly was just that for star Ben Affleck, because he invests very little in the film, other than portraying an unlikable chucklehead, which his protagonist is not supposed to be. Like Minority Report (but with lower star wattage and much less behind-the-camera skill), Paycheck is based on a Philip K. Dick short story. Affleck plays some kind of freelance techno-whiz who consults on jobs so top-secret that after his gig is over, his memory of the experience is erased. As the story begins, he accepts a two-year assignment — one far longer than ever before — that will result in an eight-figure payday, meaning he won’t have to work ever again.

But when he’s done and his brain is wiped clean of the previous 24 months, he is shocked to find that he has forfeited his money in exchange for an envelope full of 20 items worthy of a junk drawer: a paper clip, a pass key, Affleck’s career. He’s also pursued by the police, for a murder he’s not sure he did or didn’t commit, and as he flees, he learns that each item in the envelope helps him evade capture. Perhaps he was working on a machine that could foresee … the future?!?

It’s not a terrible idea for a film, but director John Woo and company have steered it down that road. Woo’s Asian sensibilities simply do not translate well to American film; his direction is needlessly showy, making for choppy editing, awkward pacing and poor performances. Plus, when he manages — even in a sci-fi thriller — to throw a shot of his beloved white doves, I had to groan.

Affleck has shown signs of being able to act before, but here he’s simply coasting; the man can’t even laugh credibly. As a biologist and requisite love interest, Uma Thurman is completely vacant, giggling and trying to act like she’s Kate Hudson or something. She’s not and it doesn’t matter, anyway, because she and Affleck have zero chemistry. Oh, and I’m not certain, but I think Paul Giamatti is supposed to be playing a monkey. —Rod Lott

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What do you get when you combine the plot of a bad ’50s sci-fi alien invasion movie with the visual aesthetics of a backyard slasher film and add just a dash of early-’80s porno sensibility? A terrible mess, naturally, but a strangely compelling mess for those not overly offended by others’ incompetence.

Evils of the Night features John Carradine, Julie Newmar and Tina Louise as alien doctors sent to our world to harvest “platelets” from healthy teenagers in order to help keep their population young beyond their years (which leads us to believe that Carradine must be a million years old by this point).

Despite their noble attempts to harvest these platelets without killing their unwilling donors, many of the kids die as a result of the harsh methods employed by their chief kidnappers, two mentally deficient mechanics (Neville Brand and Aldo Ray). The fact that we don’t actually care if any of these kids survive does have a somewhat negative impact on the movie’s overall tension.

Its brief running time is padded with a couple of spliced-in softcore interludes featuring well-known era porn stars Crystal Breeze, Amber Lynn and Jerry Butler, which — along with the minimal clothing worn by most of the female cast — makes the movie feel far sleazier than its plot requires. By the end, the (unintentional) joke does wear thin and it becomes hard to resist the temptation of your fast-forward button, but until then, Evils of the Night is just too awful for any bad movie fan to resist. —Allan Mott

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