Even if only for marketing purposes, the possessive movie title is usually reserved for your Alfred Hitchcocks and John Carpenters and your Stephen Kings — you know, your name-brand filmmakers and creatives. Nonetheless, here’s Phil Herman’s Doomsday Stories.

For this multidirector microcinema anthology, Herman (behind such SOV faves as Burglar from Hell) hosts as Zorack, one of a mere 8,000 people remaining worldwide, following the apocalyptic “Meanies” virus. As savages outnumber humans, Zorack roams the earth, occasionally stopping to read from a clutched composition book containing “stories from the old world.” Of the five, one entertained me and another impressed me. Also, three characters are named James.

The entertaining one comes from Florida’s prolific Joel D. Wynkoop, offering a possessive of his own: “Joel D. Wynkoop’s 187 Times.” Attempting to prevent the virus, Wynkoop’s nebbish protagonist hops throughout a 30-decade time span, up to 2050. Each time he thinks he succeeds, the ol’ butterfly effect rears its wings. Its slight comic tone, breathless pace, clever premise and good-enough computer effects make it endearing.

The most impressive is “A Broken Promise” from Derek Braasch (Murder for Pleasure). Approaching an epic sweep with a Western flair, Justin Bower’s crawfish-capped Rick Butts and his canine companion scavenge for food in rural Illnois. They encounter everything from kid zombies to rednecks with a hankering for “dog steak.” The short may look like Paul Blart: Last Man on Earth at first glance, but for being so hamstrung, its sheer scope is mighty accomplished.

Lesser segments involve an organ recruiter and a fevered phone call between siblings. And in “Bomb Threats” from Hollywood Warrioress’s James Panetta, a woman (Debbie D, Herman’s Jacker) wrongly decides to seek emergency shelter at the home of a man she just met at a bar (Jim Ewald, Nacho Mountain); W.A.V.E.-style torture ensues. Its high point is her hysterical retort, “You’re a sick, sick weirdo! And a rapist!”

In between each, Herman cuts back to hosting duties — sometimes with the wind beating the crap out of the camera’s microphone — and waxes nostalgic, e.g., “Man, that brings back some memories. Some bad memories.” At two hours and then some, though, there’s enough variety that to leave with a couple of good ones. —Rod Lott

Get it by contacting Phil Herman or Joel D. Wynkoop on Facebook Messenger.

A few days ago, I came upon Infraterrestre, an El Santo movie I didn’t recognize. After all, he took his final bow sometime in the mid-1980s, after a few luchador-style kung-fu fight films.

Thinking it was a rip-off of the immortal character, I purchased the movie, looking for illicit laughs — only to find to Santo was the Son of Santo, and Infraterrestre was his big-screen debut. Much like the world of the rebooted Dark Knight mythos, it offers a darker, grittier version of the much-loved Santo flicks, but, sadly, the son was one and done.

Like other characters with a storied past, why was this version of Santo given the wrestling boot? Why hadn’t I heard of it? And why is it not championed as the rightful heir to the throne?

Using both public-domain nature footage and pre-CGI computer animation, Infraterrestre suggests that 100 million years ago, aliens came to earth to, I guess, hibernate. And when strange beings awaken — off-screen, of course — they find a family on a desert road and vaporize them, save for the boy who’s urinating.

Meanwhile in the city, Santo fights Blue Panther in the ring. As Santo is almost down and out, he realizes his opponent is “perverse and evil” and uses “satanic forces” to take the mighty luchador to the mat. (Actually, it’s more like “alien forces,” but I guess “diabolical satanism” is okay; it’s probably interchangeable.)

While the soundalike version of a Ricky Martin tune plays in a lazy discotheque, a sleazy guy picks up two dancing ladies, only to find two black-clad men shooting ridiculous laser blasts and kidnapping them. I think. Luckily, the whole thing is watched by Santo on his 13-inch supercomputer. Also, in case you don’t know, he has a super car with jet propulsion, satellite tracking and a very South Beach look to his costume — Miami nice!

After finding the kidnapped boy, the humanoids finish the job; it’s up to Santo and his muy caliente psychiatrist, Alma, to locate the aliens and their subordinates, figure out their noncomprehensive plan, use some basic wrestling moves on the baddies, and jet off in their flimsy escape pod — all in some 90-odd minutes.

There are crusty visitors from a different world, sunglass-wearing beefy drones, a strongly possessed wrestler and a race of creepy reptilians, with Santo taking all comers — even if most of the movie takes place in dark sewers, with two guys playing a whole race of cold-blooded extraterrestrials, but, you know, whatever.

Sadly, it’s very low-budget and mostly scattershot, with the Son of Santo stoically playing the golden-hero role. With the exception of Diana Golden’s performance as Alma, the frightened doctor, it’s really not on par with the original Santo adventures; something integral is missing, whether the story, effects, costumes and so on … take your pick.

Truthfully, I guess there wasn’t enough capital to shock this series back into action. With all the impactful stories of this beloved hero, maybe one day, someone will try to recharge it again. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.