Armored is one of those movies whose trailer got played so many times in front of other movies, for what seemed to be an interminable amount of months, that you feel like you’ve already seen it. And you pretty much have, although it’s still a mildly enjoyable 88 minutes — decent, but by no means necessary.

Columbus Short is Ty, the cash-strapped vet who secures a gig with an armored truck company (so that’s what the title refers to) in an attempt to set a new, clean course in life. That route appears doable until co-worker Mike (Matt Dillon, doing Matt Dillon) approaches him with an offer he can’t refuse: He and his fellow armorees (I just made that word up) — Laurence Fishburne, Jean Reno, Skeet Ulrich and that Hispanic guy from Prison Break — will hijack their own truck and make off with $42 million.

Needing money so child welfare can’t split him from his orphaned little brother, who likes to graffiti owls on their kitchen wall, Ty agrees, even though Skeet is involved. All goes according to plan until some asshole hobo has to fuck everything up, and, well, money corrupts, especially when we’re talking enough Benjamins to fund a Dillon vehicle.

Predators helmer Nimród Antal directs with enough competency to keep things slick and moving along, even when the story gives up. Short is really likable in this, which is good, because Heroes‘ Milo Ventimiglia, as a cop, is not. In his first scene, he scarfs down chili cheese dogs like he’s auditioning for gay porn. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

The title says it all: Bunny Lake Is Missing! But we’ll fill you in anyway.

Having just moved to a new neighborhood in London, single mom Ann Lake (Carol Lynley) becomes alarmed when she goes to pick up her little girl, Bunny, at school, and the tot is nowhere to be found. Not only that, but no one at the school remembers ever seeing her. And not only that, but they think Ann to be somewhat of a loon.

And not only that, but the authorities — led by Newhouse (Laurence Olivier — pardon me, Sir Laurence Olivier) — think about giving up on the search, because there’s no evidence Bunny ever existed. Or at least none that Ann and her brother, Steven (Keir Dullea of 2001), can present, as Bunny’s personal items at their apartment have vanished.

Director Otto Preminger deliberately toys with the viewer, making you question whether Ann is telling the truth or off her rocker. (It doesn’t help that Preminger cleverly has a cuckoo clock sound off in the background a couple of times — a clue or a joke?) And does that creepy bastard of a landlord (Noel Coward) have anything to do with it?

Although it could stand to lose a couple of scenes that go nowhere, this is a tight, black-and-white thriller with an awfully bizarro final act that’ll have you wondering if you weren’t drugged. It holds up pretty well today, minus the repeated songs of The Zombies. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

Despite Miramax’s best efforts to make you think otherwise (i.e. never releasing it in theaters, waiting five years to dump it on video, giving Skeet Ulrich a lead role), Track Down isn’t as bad as you’d expect.

It’s the true story of Kevin Mitnick, the hacker who evaded the FBI for two years after breaking into computer networks and stealing software and data that could have been highly damaging, had he chosen to do so.

Mitnick is played by Ulrich, who no longer looks like Johnny Depp, but Kevin Federline. As he attempts to live off the grid, he’s chased not only by federal agents, but computer security expert Tsutomu Shimomura (Russell Wong), whose hard drive Mitnick wiped clean and whose super-secret virus-worm-thingie he swiped.

Track Down has an interesting dilemma: How do you make hacking visually exciting? Well, other than having Angelina Jolie strip down in a pool, you can’t. So it has to rely on your standard cat-and-mouse setup to generate any thrills. But in doing so, Track Down forgets to dumb down the technology aspect to make it easily acceptable. It assumes you already know a lot about hacking, from the lingo to the how-to.

I obviously don’t know as much as I should have, because after watching the film, I have no idea what exactly Mitnick did or who Shimomura is. But I do know that Halloween 6 director Joe Chappelle so obviously used this flashy piece as a calling card to get his CSI: Miami gig.

Jeremy Sisto, Master P and Amanda Peet are thrown into the cast just to piss me off. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

Five Minutes to Live — aka Door-to-Door Maniac — stars singer Johnny Cash as Johnny Cabot, a two-bit crook who was framed when his partner dropped the dime on him during a warehouse job on the Jersey waterfront. After mowing down two coppers, Johnny bides time in a motel 2,000 miles away, waiting for the heat to subside.

Restless, he gets an offer from goodfella Fred Dorella, who’s got a score that’ll quench Johnny’s thirst for the juice. Dorella plans to walk right into the bank and ask for a $70,000 withdrawal from exec Mr. Wilson, while Johnny holds Mrs. Wilson for ransom at home. Progress will be updated in five-minute intervals via phone, but if Dorella doesn’t dial, Johnny is to ice her.

For a film released in ’61 starring legendary guitar slinger Cash, Five Minutes is edgy and hyperviolent. Cash is surprisingly convincing as the skittish menace. With his personal history, maybe some of that manic energy is pure method, with him howling the methamphetamine blues.

The script tries to add some nuance with a subplot involving Mr. Wilson having a fling. The marital unrest allows for a brief moment where the audience is led to question if the bank exec/hubby will play nice with the robbers’ demands. Unfortunately, all of that gets cancelled like a bad check by a bait-and-switch climax involving the couple’s kid and a sanitized (and outlandish) Hollywood ending, tacked on to realign the studio’s moral compass. Moviegoers know it’s okay to shoot someone … just to watch them die. —Joshua Jabcuga

Buy it at Amazon.

That noted action hero Ben Gazzara is on the trail of that noted terrorist E.G. Marshall, who wants to dose the Republican National Convention with nerve gas (hey, who doesn’t?), in the made-for-TV curiosity Pursuit.

I say “curiosity” because it’s directed by Michael Crichton, who manages to make every book he writes a megahit, but whose directorial career peaked with Westworld. Gazzara’s chase — a pursuit, if you will — of Marshall isn’t all that compelling, even if the 24-ish onscreen countdown clock suggests otherwise. Its themes still resonate today, even if the fashions don’t. The final scene is laughable in its inert cheapness. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.