Have we become such a navel-gazing, irritatingly self-introspective, youth-fellating culture that we can’t even make a decent giant monster movie anymore? It started with Cloverfield, where, instead of a gargantuan beast destroying New York, we got a group of slick hipster jerks dodging debris, searching for a superficial “love” interest while talking about how much they loved Fraggle Rock while a gargantuan beast destroyed New York. Maybe. It’s kinda hard to tell because the thing was filmed on the modern-day equivalent of a handheld Fisher-Price PixelVision camera. It’s like a Nick Zedd movie with self-esteem.

Monsters director Gareth Edwards, luckily, invested in a tripod so we can at least see what is going on. Too bad what is going on are two insipid spring breakers stuck in Central America, trying to get home to Regular America, while gargantuan monsters are destroying the lush Mexican countryside. Maybe.

This is a great idea — the chance for an Americanized District 9 — but every time leads Scoot McNairy and Whitney Able open their mouths, it’s like listening to every single drunken conversation you’ve ever overheard around closing time at Señor Frog’s. Mumblecore for the frat crowd, finally! And the monsters? They’re barely seen extraterrestrials who crash-landed in Mexico a few years back — oversized, Old Gods-esque creatures that crush and destroy whole villages and, best of all, inspire heavy-handed allegories about illegal immigration.

It’s commendable that Edwards made Monsters for $800,000 and, because of it, he’s got the upcoming Godzilla remake gig, which is awesome. If there’s one way to top the 1998 Roland Emmerich atrocity, it’s making an ultra-talky redux of a legendary kaiju film. Were the Duplass brothers all booked up? Either way, I look forward to the inevitable Taco Bell tie-ins. I won at least 10 free bean burritos last time! —Louis Fowler

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I hope you like images of stars in space — because that’s the first three minutes of The Day Time Ended, an early Charles Band production in which a family living on a desert ranch in California finds strange things afoot after three supernovas explode and the light is absorbed by their abode’s solar paneling.

First off, the requisite annoying little girl finds a glowing green pyramid thing behind the barn and thinks nothing of it because she’s a selfish bitch whose one-track mind is dead-set on her new pony. This leads to bathroom lights and faucets turning themselves on and off, and soon the nighttime appearance of a 3-inch-high stop-motion alien who dances and flitters about the cabinets and bedding.

Then there’s a poorly matted spaceship that chases them through the house, and ultimately, as the title promises, time ends. Or rather, the family just gets warped into the future, on the outskirts of the city of tomorrow, and for some reason, this suits them just fine.

For us, however, it’s a whole other story — namely, one that can’t believe how director John “Bud” Cardos could follow up the greatness of Kingdom of the Spiders with dumb ol’ crap like this. —Rod Lott

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Based on a manga that’s literally dozens of volumes long and still going strong, the Japanese action epic Gantz has a premise both unique and head-scratching as its title. Students Kei (Kazunari Ninomiya) and Kato (Kenichi Matsuyama) meet an untimely death via subway car, yet are transported at the point of impact to what seems to be an alternate dimension.

At any rate, it’s a sterile-looking, unfurnished apartment, barren but for the giant black ball in the room’s middle. The sphere is to this film what the monolith is to 2001: A Space Odyssey: one big mystery. Via textual cues, it informs Kei, Kato and the few other perplexed newly dead peeps with them — naked cutie (Natsuna Watanabe) included — that they are to suit up, grab a gun and play its game.

In basic terms, that’s ridding Japan of aliens, which take on wildly varying forms, from onion-headed mutants and a clockwork robot to statues that come to life, all of which the players shoot with powerful, energy-pulse weaponry that results in exaggerated explosions of gore and grue. Die in the timed game, and you die for good; survive, and you can return to your former life, but remain at the ball’s nightly beck and call.

Combining elements of horror and sci-fi — and initially reminiscent of the great Cube — Gantz is a high-velocity thrill ride with only slight lulls between rounds of go time. Like many effects-driven Asian films, it’s a little too long, but it certainly delivers bang for your buck, not to mention some sly laughs and more than a few WTF moments. The two-hour affair doesn’t offer closure so much as a breathing point before the forthcoming Gantz: Part II, and I’m perfectly primed for another leap into its imaginative world. In the meantime, I’m intrigued to the point of seeking out the comics. —Rod Lott

It’s not hard to appreciate the impulse to turn supermodels into movie stars, despite the fact that it has never actually worked. Here you have someone who is already famous and who has already shown a tremendous ability to look fantastic in front of camera. What could possibly go wrong?

To answer that question, I give you Alien from L.A.

There is no doubt that Kathy Ireland had an arresting onscreen physical presence. The word “hot” in this case would be most à propos, especially if it was preceded by the words “goddamn” and “fucking.” But, just like many famous silent-era stars whose careers ended when talkies took over the medium, the power of Ireland’s charisma is tragically undone each and every time she opens her mouth and does us the tremendous discourtesy of allowing words to escape from it.

Cursed with the kind of voice that causes dogs to howl in misery whenever she speaks, her is further diminished by a script that requires her to essay the role of the whiniest protagonist in the history of narrative storytelling. At times, the dialogue suggests that this was a deliberate choice on the part of director/co-writer Albert Pyun. Forced to cast Ireland as his lead, he obviously decided to turn her greatest weakness into the film’s main running joke, but chose to do so in a way that only makes watching it more of a chore than it might have otherwise been.

The nominal plot concerns a California waitress (Ireland) going to Africa in order to find out more about her absentee (and presumed dead) father, only to fall down the same hole he did and become trapped in the underground city of Atlantis. To say that Alien lacks dramatic momentum is something of an understatement. The only memorable scene comes at the very end, where Ireland is finally shown in the kind of outfit that got her the role in the first place. It’s almost worth the previous 90 minutes, but in this day of Google, you can easily find similar pictures of her in similar outfits and never once fear that she might ruin it all by saying something. —Allan Mott

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From about the only part of Fantasia that isn’t a total snoozer comes The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, an overlong Walt Disney fantasy-adventure with special effects shooting out of every orifice. Nicolas Cage essays the role of the sorcerer half of the equation; Jay Baruchel, the apprentice.

Cage is Balthazar Blake, a thousands-year-old magician for the powers of good (yet he can’t do anything about his stringy, homeless-man hairdo), while Baruchel is Dave, a New York nerd who speaks so nasally, you’d think this was a 110-minute advertisement for Breathe Right strips. He’s also the chosen one to help Blake in the fight against bad, a magician named Whorebath. Correction: Horvath (Alfred Molina).

They’re all fighting for control of something called a “grimhole.” (Can you say that in a Disney film?) Distracting Dave are his hormones; his magic wand grows for his childhood crush, bland blonde Becky Barnes (Teresa Palmer). He impresses her by playing musical Tesla coils. When she’s coming over, he has to clean up the place lickety-split, allowing the film to re-create Mickey Mouse’s ill-fated, abracadabra approach to housekeeping, but only after a shot of a dog urinating.

Apprentice reunites Cage with his National Treasure franchise director Jon Turteltaub, and you’ll wish they had made a third one of those instead. Especially when they had the smarts to cast the fetching Monica Bellucci, yet give her maybe five minutes of screen time (all clothed, at that). The only magic in it is that it comes to an end. —Rod Lott

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