WARNING: If a movie ever begins with the credit “R.I. Diculous Presents,” be afraid — be very afraid — because it’s Invasion of the Star Creatures, an utterly witless, laughless, 70-minute exercise in tedium, written by Little Shop of Horrors star Jonathan Haze, who writes as well as he acts.
It concerns two bumbling privates at a missile base, both of whom are short and have heavy Quentin Tarantino unibrows. They do pratfalls and have dumb dialogue, firmly planting the movie in what I call the “why I oughta” school of comedy — you know, the remedial kind.
They’re sent to investigate a radioactive crater in Nicholson Canyon, only to find a horde of star creatures (men with burlap sacks over their heads, ping-pong balls for eyes and twigs and leaves placed randomly about their tights) and, better yet, two bra-busting honeys named Poona (!) and Tanga (!!) from 60 million light years away who want to take over Earth and who wear skintight space suits that can’t quite contain their ass cheeks. They’re played by Gloria Victor and Dolores Reed — or, as the credits refer to them, “Wow!” and “Wow! Wow!”
But “Woof!” is a more appropriate word to sum up this dog. If you make it to the part where the boys start hanging out with the Indians who freak out at the very mention of the word “Custer,” you’re a braver man than I. —Rod Lott
It ain’t 
Director/co-writer Michael Neel gets an A for effort, but a C+ for execution, as the segments run a little longer than needed and are need of cutting to accelerate the pace. None are scary, unless you’re … oh, let’s say 10 or under, but will appeal to fans of DIY horror. It sure doesn’t skimp on the gore. Its end credits, however, assault your ears with horrible, terrible music. —Rod Lott
The picture was written, directed, shot and edited by Jay Lee, with dialogue assistance from Zarathustra. Supposedly inspired by Eugène Ionesco’s absurdist play Rhinoceros, in which everyone is eager to conform by becoming the title beast, Lee’s script is a grab bag of horror movie parodies — one zombie begging to be shot in the head is a dead-on poke at 
But then the games begin, and Deathsport kicks into higher gear, as our two heroes are given swords and forced to participate in a gladiatorial-style showdown wherein they’re pursued by souped-up-with-welded-metal motorcycles that make the same cartoony sound each and every time they swoop by.