I often play a mental game, connecting unconnected films through themes, style, etc. and pretending they exist in the same cinematic universe. Example: Outland, sharing a composer, costume designer, concept artist and probably more than a few grips with Alien always has seemed to exist in the same world as Ridley Scott’s film. Perhaps the Weyland-Yutani Corporation owns Outland’s Con-Am 27 mining operation. (I’m also sure Wey-Yu has a hand in Blade Runner‘s corporate world, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find its logo stenciled on equipment scattered about the base of Moon, either.)

Outland has no xenomorphs running about, but it does have Sean Connery kicking ass on the surface of Jupiter’s third moon, Io, so it ain’t a total loss. Actually, it is a great deal of fun, and while it’s often dismissed as being High Noon in space, why is that a bad thing? After all, Alien is Halloween in space, really.

Connery delivers one of his best performances, 007 or otherwise, as a planet-weary marshal policing a mining community on the ass-end of space. Trying to stop the shipments of a drug that increases worker performance and causes insanity (writer/director Peter Hyams’ script is weirdly prescient of America’s ongoing meth crisis), he finds little help from anyone, loses his family, and soon finds himself counting down the hours until hit men arrive to take him out.

It’s not terribly original, and there are quibbles to be found in its inaccuracies concerning science, gravity, technology, et al. But it also has terrific visual design, clean action, Young Frankenstein‘s Peter Boyle, marvelous miniatures and practical effects from the golden age of such, and a wonderful supporting turn by Francis Sternhagen (The Mist) as the local Bones McCoy, reminding us of her many talents outside of being Cliff Clavin’s mother on TV’s Cheers.

Speaking of Cliff Clavin: If you, like me, are not a fan of the character and/or John Ratzenberger, you’ll find immense gratification in Outland’s first five minutes, when the actor’s head explodes in the vacuum of space. Again, not scientifically accurate, but satisfying and splatterific. —Corey Redekop

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Known to Americans under its dubbed title of Majin, the Monster of Terror, the Japanese fantasy Daimajin doesn’t really kick in until after the first 30 minutes, when the requisite precocious youth with bad hair is attacked in the forest by skeleton hands and superimposed bedsheets standing in for ghosts.

But that’s nothing compared to the havoc wreaked by the giant mountain god Daimajin. For the first half of the movie, Daimajin is simply a statue to be worshipped. But when angry villagers start hammering away at his head and cause it to bleed, well, who can blame Daimajin for opening up the ground so he can spit fire and swallow fat guys whole?

What heretofore was a blank face as threatening as Holly Hobbie is replaced with a blue-green demonic kabuki glare with one wave of Daimajin’s stone arm. The big guy frees himself from his mountain home and goes to town to — in the finest tradition of Far Eastern genre cinema — smash some shit up.

The balsa wood flies as Daimajin destroys houses and randomly stops to impale citizens. At the end, he turns to dust, thus ending the carnage, but quite clearly driving home the moral of the story: Don’t stick steel spikes into the foreheads of a statue in the mountains unless you want it to come alive and fuck up your village. Got it? No one did, because two sequels immediately followed. —Rod Lott

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