Deep Impact (1998)

When originally released, Deep Impact was, arguably, the better of the two killer-space-rock movies released that summer, the other being the Michael Bay-directed Armageddon.

But now, 20 years later, viewed through the stinging eyes of the COVID-19 pandemic, it has become a once-hopeful film of a government that knows what it’s doing, a president who actually cares about people, and the world coming together in solidarity to defeat a deadly threat from outer space.

How times have changed.

In this 1998 disaster film, the comet is accidentally discovered by teenager Elijah Wood, then passed on to astronomer Charles Martin Smith, who is accidentally run off the road and killed in a fiery explosion. A year later, this rock — dubbed ELE, for extinction-level event — is discovered accidentally by Téa Leoni, back when America accidentally gave her a career.

As President Tom Beck (Morgan Freeman) soothes the nation with those dulcet, proto-Obama tones, a group of astronauts with the unlikely names of Spurgeon Tanner (Robert Duvall), Oren Monash (Ron Eldard) and Dr. Gus Partenza (Jon Favreau) look to blow up the thing with nuclear missiles. Meanwhile, Wood marries his 15-year-old girlfriend (Leelee Sobieski).

When I originally viewed this in the theater, I was a bit bummed by how little destruction there actually was. But, watching it now, I’m actually impressed by the amount of scientific planning — fake or not — that went into the months of prepping before the actual aerial collision, and I believe that’s mostly thanks to director Mimi Leder and writers Bruce Joel Rubin and Michael Tolkin.

So while Earth might not be affected by a comet the size of New York City anytime soon — dear God, I sure hope not — while under quarantine we can at least, collectively, watch this slow-burn sci-fi flick and dream about better times when the total immolation of our planet was the only thing we had to worry about. —Louis Fowler

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Stay Tuned for Terror (1965)

From Emilio Vieyra, director of The Curious Dr. Humpp, comes the arguably more bizarre Argentinian tale Stay Tuned for Terror, aka Strange Invasion, in which an entire town’s television sets suddenly go on the fritz. It all happens in Clearview — subtle, Señor Vieyra — where every channel of every TV starts broadcasting only a ’round-the-clock hypnotic pattern of waves, baffling authorities.

This is immediately met with the urgency of government response, shouting over the phone, screeching brakes, nosy reporters and fully suited men problem-solving in a board room as if this were Apollo 13 and not just housewives crying in vain, “Gimme my stories!”

Because children have no taste and will watch anything, Clearview’s kids remain transfixed by the signal, which renders them glassy-eyed and cataleptic — basically, the most emotionless kids this side of Midwich. Remove them from their perch in front of the tube and they fall ill and throw tantrums, much like today’s tots when the Wi-Fi signal goes down. As doctors and other experts theorize the signal’s origin and purpose, prepare to hear “diathermic” so often, you could make a drinking game out of it.

Unlike its cathode-ray threat, Stay Tuned for Terror is harmless speculative fiction, more fun in concept than in execution. Written by Philip Kearney and Les Rendelstein, the duo behind Paul Bartel’s wonderfully warped Private Parts, the pic grows as repetitive as the Liberty Mutual jingle, but at 71 minutes, is mercifully brief. The message is perfectly simple; the meaning is clear: TV is a drug, so please, for the love of God and country, patronize the cinema. —Rod Lott

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Sonic the Hedgehog (2020)

Based on the Sega Genesis video game that I watched my brother play throughout most of the ’90s, Sonic the Hedgehog is a blue rodent who spins, flips and, most of all, runs very fast. I guess that was all you needed for a successful gaming franchise back then.

In this feature-film outing, Sonic (voiced by Ben Schwartz) is apparently an alien on a distant planet. When his owl caregiver is murdered by somewhat offensive savages, he comes to Earth and spends his years in a small town, wishing he had a family. When he gets angry, however, his supersonic speed causes a nationwide electrical blackout.

Thinking it’s a terrorist plot, the Army sends in Dr. Robotnik (a questionable Jim Carrey), sans his Mean Bean Machine. Using a wide variety of robots and drones, Sonic and small-town cop Tom (James Marsden) go on the lam, running into bikers and such on their way to San Francisco, where Sonic has to find a bag of magic rings.

Better late than never, Sonic barreled his way into theaters before the quarantine started, to impressive numbers, but it will mostly be remembered for being pushed back multiple times as digital artists desperately tried to erase the 1s and 0s that originally made up Sonic’s creepy teeth. Oh, the things we used to care about!

And while the redone Sonic is irritatingly adorable, Carrey’s shtick is somewhat dated; still, Robotnik is an interesting character, one I would like to see more of — preferably in the form of a solo flick I’d rent from Redbox — but, instead, it looks like we’re getting a sequel featuring Tails, a flying fox with the deformity of two tails. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

Spaceship Earth (2020)

In 1991, in the appropriately named Arizona city of Oracle, eight people thought they were stepping into a massive vivarium for a two-year, 24/7 science project. And they were. But they failed to realize what else they were stepping into: a shitstorm. Known as Biosphere 2, the “prefab paradise,” as dubbed by Diane Sawyer, soon became a magnet for controversy, including allegations of cults and charlatans.

And that’s only part of the story, decades in the making, told by documentarian Matt Wolf (Recorder: The Marion Stokes Project) in Spaceship Earth.

With $250 million backing and inspiration from the sci-fi oddity Silent Running, Biosphere 2 was the dream project of John P. Allen, a nomadic Oklahoma native who took a left-of-left turn after Harvard and assembled a countercultural theater troupe whose members then built themselves a self-sustaining ranch community, and after that, a seafaring research vessel, just because, hey, why not? Honestly, from there, an artificial ecological system doesn’t seem like a stretch.

Aided tremendously by copious home movies capturing seemingly every move of Allen and his crew, Wolf’s can-do New Age tale of wonder and might restores the credibility the brave and bold experiment initially had, until public curiosity beget a media circus, which in turn beget a controversy with no real stakes.

Whatever your stance, Biosphere 2 was a big deal when it opened — and then closed, hermetically speaking — but memories of it have fallen away. (And yet, the mindless comedy it inspired, the Pauly Shore vehicle Bio-Dome — unacknowledged by the doc, for the record — is retroactively regarded as a “classic” by people who clearly saw it too young, before they developed taste.) The only thing more surprising than Spaceship Earth’s Rue McClanahan cameo is that of multishirted serpent Steve Bannon, but every good story needs a villain. —Rod Lott

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Blood & Flesh: The Reel Life & Ghastly Death of Al Adamson (2019)

Having been a cult-film cutthroat for most of my life, Al Adamson is a brand name that fans of filmic trash have come to know and adore. Having rented titles like Satan’s Sadists, Dracula vs. Frankenstein and I Spit on Your Corpse as a teenager from the local video joint, I knew that as dirt-cheap as his flicks usually were, you were at least guaranteed a good time of breasts, blood and beasts.

What I didn’t know about Adamson, however, is the lurid way that, at 65 years of age, he was ruthlessly murdered by a conman. Yikes.

The son of an Australian Western star, Adamson became famous in America’s grindhouse theaters and rural drive-ins, pumping out outrageous titles and usually making more than a few bucks on them. The documentary Blood & Flesh: The Reel Life & Ghastly Death of Al Adamson goes into great detail, with hard-boiled talking heads like Greydon Clark, John “Bud” Cardos and Fred Olen Ray coming together to tell tales of low-budget excitement in cinema’s gory days.

Adamson’s life, however, took at dark turn in the 1980s when, after having directed a lost “docudrama” in Australia about unidentified flying objects, he allowed a drifter named Fred Fulford to work on a couple of his houses; Fulford would eventually take over Adamson’s life, stealing his money and then burying him under 6 feet of concrete in the basement.

Director David Gregory — who did the equally great Lost Soul: The Doomed Journey of Richard Stanley’s Island of Dr. Moreau a few years back — crafts this film as if it were one of Adamson’s double-bill shockers: one half a rip-roaring action flick and the second half a true crime mystery. Despite the terrible ending, I think Adamson would have been proud. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.

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