Literally the last action film of the ’80s, the Guber-Peters Company buddy copper Tango & Cash seemingly rounds up every element that defined the genre that decade, and packed them into the first 10 minutes. To wit: Renegade cops! Guns! Car chases! Cocaine! Tits! Mullets! Mullets!! Mullets!!! Complete and total disregard for life, limb and property! Russian comic relief! The snyth-pop music of Fletch’s Harold Faltermeyer! The scary-potato face of Maniac Cop Robert Z’Dar!

Okay, so I lied. All that can be found in the first nine minutes. Only upon closer scrutiny do we notice the absence of two things: running/jumping from an explosion and a slice of beefcake via a hunk’s bare buns. Rest assured, both “rear” their heads before director Andrei Konchalovsky (Runaway Train) ends the film — in a freeze-frame of a high-five, natch.

Respectively coming off Lock Up and Tequila Sunrise, Stallone and Russell respectively play rival cops Lt. Raymond Tango and Lt. Gabriel Cash, respectively buttoned-up and a loose cannon. Both winners in the war on drugs — or at least as far as their L.A. beats are concerned — the men are framed for murder by rat-loving criminal kingpin Yves Perret (Jack Palance, playing his character as if he were still in Tim Burton’s Batman), simply to move the story forward and give Tango and Cash something to do — namely, go to prison, simply so Tango and Cash can break out of prison. You get the picture; its idea of audience-pleasing comedy is dressing Russell in drag and having Stallone declare that “Rambo is a pussy.” Ha, get it?

At once as familiar and embarrassing as a lunch of SpaghettiOs, Tango & Cash does sport a couple of surprises, the first being that our heroes are like James Bond in that they have their own Q, as savant-as-ever Michael J. Pollard (Bonnie and Clyde) constructs such useful gadgets as the guns that pop out of Cash’s cowboy boot heels. Speaking of 007, future Bond girl Teri Hatcher (Tomorrow Never Dies), in an early role as Tango’s troubled kid sister, Kiki, proves to have quite the impressive stripper moves. She also may be the screen’s only clothes-peeler to a perform a drum solo in the middle of her routine. Well-played, Ms. Hatcher, well-played.

Kiki’s rhyming throwaway comment of “grime, crime and slime” nearly could be Tango & Cash’s plot synopsis, but definitely works as a tagline for this high-calorie high colonic of a movie. Same goes for Tango’s utterance of “good old American action,” because no one makes mindless violence as the USA. USA! USA! USA! US — whaddaya mean Konchalovsky was born in Moscow? No wonder this production was so troubled. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Look, just because something is old does not make it great. And yet, as the Point Break remake surfed into theaters on Christmas Day 2015, I do not recall running across a single article or review that failed to refer to the 1991 original, which paired Patrick Swayze with Keanu Reeves, as “classic” — noun or adjective. “Classic” is a charged word — one that should be earned rightfully vs. bestowed automatically.

Perhaps Swayze’s too-young passing in 2009 is responsible for the revisionist love, because Kathryn Bigelow’s crime flick was neither well-reviewed nor a hit in its July ’91 bow. In fact, its $8 million opening placed it in fourth that weekend, behind James Cameron’s Terminator 2: Judgment Day, John Singleton’s Boyz n the Hood and a reissue of a then-30-year-old cartoon, Disney’s 101 Dalmatians.

So, old? Definitely. Classic? Hardly.

With that out of that way, back to the “new” Point Break …

… and wow, does it suck. Seven years after witnessing (if not encouraging) the death of his dumbass bike-riding buddy (Max Thieriot, House at the End of the Street), extreme-sports athlete Johnny Utah (Luke Bracey, The November Man) has reinvented himself as an FBI agent. When a group of rogue extreme-sports enthusiasts use their extreme-sports skills to pull off a series of extreme heists, Utah is the only one who convincingly can go deep, deep, deep, deep undercover. After all, he’s got the extreme-sports know-how, the sleeve tats and, of utmost importance, the looks of what would result from The Fast and the Furious’ Paul Walker impregnating Sons of Anarchy’s Charlie Hunnam.

With the bureau’s blessing and armed with gun and surfboard, Utah takes off to infiltrate the gang, crack the case and bring ’em to justice … extreme justice. (Fun fact: According to one of the film’s posters, justice has no limit. Crime doesn’t, either, according to another. #themoreyouknow) Led by the Zen-ful Bodhi (Deliver Us from Evil’s Edgar Ramírez, too good an actor to endure haircuts as super-silly as he does here), the group operates under a Robin Hood agenda of wealth redistribution: Steal from the rich, make it rain on Third World countries. Bodhi’s crew members have names like Roach, Chowder, Grommet and Samsara, and welcome Utah into their bro-dude family with irony-free lines like, “What’s a motocross rider like you doing on a wave like that?” and “The only law that matters is gravity.”

Yes, Point Break is exactly that point-blank simpleminded, and its stupidity exhausts the viewer. Clearly cribbing more from the likes of Furious 7 than Bigelow’s big Break, it boasts some absolutely amazing stunt sequences that impart if not an adrenaline rush, then a solid contact high. Yet not even the best is worth suffering two hours plus of boneheaded dialogue and an unintentionally hilarious bumped-uglies subplot between Utah and eco-friendly earth child Samsara (Warm Bodies’ Teresa Palmer, suffering the further indignity of having her breasts pushed up to her neck). Invincible director Ericson Core (chosen for his extreme name?) is no Bigelow; while he can shoot leaping, jumping, running, falling and other action verbs all day, the man is forever crippled when it comes to mere walking and talking. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.