That buzz you hear is The Swarm, disaster mogul Irwin Allen’s speculative epic about killer bees. As far as that subject goes, this one runs a distant second to 1991’s coming-of-age dramedy My Girl (Macaulay Culkin, nooooo!), but with Allen at the rare helm (he functioned not as director, but as producer for the influential The Towering Inferno and The Poseidon Adventure, practically birthing his own subgenre), this notorious turkey doesn’t disappoint in delivering all-star cheese.

A swirling mass of millions of African bees swoop down to sting a bunch of people to death. The insects first do some damage at a military base, then take down a few helicopters and disrupt a family picnic before moving on to more fertile ground, like a schoolyard busy with first-graders just itchin’ to get it.

Michael Caine (who later saw true disaster in Jaws: The Revenge) fronts as Brad Crane, the stuffy scientist who knows all about the stingers. His partner in the effort, (Katharine Ross, The Stepford Wives), mostly just sits there and looks gorgeous. And what a supporting cast: Richard Widmark, a wheelchair-bound Henry Fonda, Olivia de Havilland, a corpse-hugging Slim Pickens, Lee Grant, a pregnant Patty Duke Astin and big ol’ Ben Johnson. Of the celebrity deaths, I most enjoyed seeing Richard Chamberlain’s.

Caine and company throw everything at the bees in an attempt to appease their anger — firebombs, poison pellets, Fred MacMurray — but nothing quite works. Finally, something does, and only then do we get this incredible, full-screen, closing-credits disclaimer: “The African killer bee portrayed in this film bears absolutely no relationship to the industrious, hard-working American honey bee to which we are indebted for pollinating vital crops that feed our nation.”

So, wait: Was Allen was afraid of offending bees? —Rod Lott

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Saddled with writer’s block, novelist Howard Hansen (Ted Prior, Sledgehammer) makes his way into a Chinese curio shop, where he plunks down big bucks on a jar containing a one-eyed brain monster floating in icky water. Naturally, this wise purchase helps him to concentrate so he can finish knocking out his latest book.

It also makes him want to have sex with his secretary, Carol, played by 1981 Playboy Playmate of the Year Shannon Tweed. (Hey, jar monster or no monster, especially after watching her exercise scene in a half-shirt.) One might conclude that Howard is … how you say? … Possessed by the Night.

Every time the jar bubbles, somebody gets horny or murderous — sometimes both. During one particularly heated round of intercourse, Howard and Carol start slapping the crap out of each other. The boom mike makes its way into the frame once.

Who knows what mystical powers lie within this creature in the jar? The end hints at an evil Chinese curse, as if director Fred Olen Ray (Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers) knew all you wanted out of his film wasn’t story resolution, but tits. Touché, Fred, touché.

Also starring in this watchable weirdo thriller are Sandahl Bergman, Chad McQueen and Henry Silva, because, well, “directed by Fred Olen Ray.” —Rod Lott

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Jason Trost — The FP‘s writer, director and star (and probably caterer) — had an interesting idea for a follow-up: What if you mashed up Saw with superheroes? Well, you might get something like All Superheroes Must Die (also called Vs., a title I don’t like any better). Unfortunately, what you don’t get is a good movie.

Four superheroes (Charge, Cutthroat, Shadow and The Wall) wake up in a seemingly deserted town, stripped of their powers, and are forced to play a deadly game concocted by their arch-nemesis, Rickshaw. The game, one that they’re destined to lose, involves running from one building to another and overcoming various challenges with the lives of various innocent civilians on the line. If they refuse to play or try to leave, Rickshaw threatens to blow up the entire town.

Operating on a budget of what looks like a hundred dollars and change, Trost gives it an admirable go, but the movie becomes bogged down in too many plot holes (how did Rickshaw manage to capture them in the first place?), too many unanswered questions (their superpowers are never explained), too many eye-rolling scenes (the characters have a knack for heart-to-heart conversations while their time is clearly running out) and too many seams showing (in both their costumes and the “special effects,” as in explosions being shown by an off-camera stagehand tossing bits of wood and handfuls of dirt into frame).

That’s not to say that I hated everything about All Superheroes Must Die, like:
• There’s an interesting scene in which Charge (Trost) decides to sacrifice a few civilians for the sake of his teammates. 
• As Rickshaw, James Remar (48 Hrs.) has a terrific time chewing the scenery and showing that he can out-act the rest of the cast — and all while just sitting behind a desk. 
• Cutthroat’s hot sister somehow manages to look sexy while tied up and strapped to a bomb. —Slade Grayson

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I can understand why so many of the so few who saw Funny Games hated it. That means it made its point.

A shot-for-shot remake of his Austrian film a decade prior, writer/director Michael Haneke (Caché) serves up a brilliant deconstruction of the family-in-peril scenario we’ve seen time and time again. The difference here is that Haneke approaches it from a (mostly) realistic angle rather than a cinematic one: You’re going to get what you expected to see — violence — but not necessarily delivered the way you want it.

But you’ll get it nonetheless, and Haneke will rub your nose in the mess and, adding insult to injury, blast some ungodly John Zorn noise on the soundtrack.

Naomi Watts (Mulholland Dr.) and Tim Roth (Reservoir Dogs) make up the well-to-do married couple whose coastal vacation home is invaded by the well-scrubbed psychopaths Paul (Michael Pitt, TV’s Boardwalk Empire) and Peter (Brady Corbet, Melancholia) posing as rich kids in tennis sweaters. The two break his kneecap, tie her up half-naked, and bet that they and their son (Devon Gearhart, Shorts) will be dead by morning. Let the Games begin!

Paul and Peter draw out their twisted little plan to where the family is agonized by the mere dread of the inevitable — and viewers by their lack of patience. When very bad things do happen, Haneke generally doesn’t let his camera catch them, so audiences decrying Funny Games for crossing a line leads me to believe that we have become a nation of pussies. It’s a challenging watch, sure, but one that is crafted with a clinical detachment, is acted splendidly (especially by Watts) and sticks with you. If you hate Paul and Peter so much — and you will — that you want to punch the screen, don’t blame the movie for doing its job. —Rod Lott

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Terror on the 40th Floor is really a scorned-lovers drama disguised as a disaster movie. TV’s Dynasty magnate John Forsythe stars in the terrible, made-for-the-tube The Towering Inferno knock-off as one of seven people trapped in an office high-rise after their Christmas party when some janitorial dolt below causes a raging fire, which he immediately tries to put out with one foot!

The occupants don’t even realize their dire situation until about halfway through, and then they each have individual flashbacks about Interpersonal Relationship Crap. Meanwhile, Joseph Campanella (Meteor) bites it while trying to escape down the elevator shaft and some woman goes bonkers and runs through a plate-glass window. And since NFLer Don Meredith is on board, you’ll want to as well. —Rod Lott

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