There’s a great movie hiding somewhere inside The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai—but you’ll need a map, a microscope, and probably a flux capacitor to find it. Despite its gloriously weird premise and a cast that includes Peter Weller, Jeff Goldblum, John Lithgow, and Christopher Lloyd, the film feels like the cinematic equivalent of someone dumping every genre into a blender and forgetting to hit “mix.” What could have been a clever cult adventure ends up as a directionless mishmash that mistakes confusion for complexity.

The biggest sin here isn’t that the film is weird—it’s that it’s aimlessly weird. One moment it’s a rock ’n’ roll adventure, the next it’s a dimension-hopping sci-fi, and then suddenly it’s a love story or a satire. The problem is it never commits to any of those identities long enough for the audience to care. Every cool idea is buried under three others that go nowhere, leaving the viewer dazed rather than dazzled.

And while the cast is stacked with talent, even they can’t bring focus to the chaos. Weller plays Buckaroo like a man who just read the script five minutes before filming, while Lithgow chews scenery in a way that’s entertaining only because nothing else is. The movie keeps hinting at depth—a sprawling universe, quirky characters, offbeat humor—but it never follows through. It’s as if someone wrote ten beginnings and forgot to write an ending.

At the end of the day, Buckaroo Banzai isn’t strange enough to be a great cult film and not coherent enough to be a good one. It’s a cinematic shrug—full of potential, short on payoff, and surprisingly dull for something that promises interdimensional adventure. A “so bad it’s good” movie at least makes you laugh; this one just makes you wish it would pick a lane and go somewhere—anywhere—interesting.

“Cabin Pressure” (2003) is the cinematic equivalent of being stuck on the tarmac forever with a dying paperback and a screaming air vent. It’s not just dull; it’s aggressively, proudly dull—an unviewable mess that mistakes droning cockpit chatter and recycled stock footage for suspense. If turbulence were interesting, this movie would still find a way to taxi around it.

From the opening minutes, the film announces its priorities: beige sets, beige lighting, beige characters speaking in acronyms about systems we never see break in any satisfying way. Scenes repeat like safety demonstrations—pointless, bloodless, and performed by people who look like they’ve already mentally clocked out of the shift. The “action” is mostly cross-cutting between bored faces and a model plane that’s never given a convincing sense of scale, speed, or danger. You can practically hear the temp track begging to be replaced by something—anything—with a pulse.

The script is a wasteland of clichés and filler, the kind of movie where every problem is solved by the next line of dialogue rather than an actual set piece. No character has an arc; they have altitudes. Every attempt at ratcheting tension stalls into holding patterns: more radio chatter, more hollow commands, more reaction shots that mistake blinking for acting. Even the inevitable “hero moment” feels perfunctory, like someone looked at their watch and said, “Guess we should land this thing.”

For Stinker Madness seekers, there’s no campy payoff here—just the slow, oxygen-starved fade of a production that never gets off the ground. “So bad it’s good” requires swagger, accident, or at least a spectacular crash. “Cabin Pressure” offers none of that. It’s boredom at cruising altitude: a feature-length layover where the only emergency is keeping your eyes open.

Rutger Hauer and Gene Simmons squaring off sounds like the recipe for a wild cult classic, but Wanted: Dead or Alive (1987) ends up being more lukewarm than explosive. On paper, it’s a hybrid of gritty crime thriller and high-octane action flick, but the way those genres are handled here creates a constant tug-of-war. The crime elements are played too straight, dragging the pacing down, while the action beats aren’t stylish or kinetic enough to pull the film into popcorn territory. The end result sits uncomfortably in the middle—not pulpy enough for “so bad it’s good” status, but not sharp enough to be genuinely gripping.

The script is one of the biggest culprits. Dialogue is so flat and mundane that Hauer, who could carry almost anything with his screen presence, is forced to chew scenery just to keep viewers from nodding off. You can practically see him straining to inject some life into lines that might as well have been lifted from a TV procedural. Meanwhile, Simmons as the villain brings his usual menace, but the writing undercuts him—his terrorist mastermind never feels threatening so much as silly, especially when the movie leans on his boneheaded schemes.

That said, there are flashes of entertainment value if you squint hard enough. The movie indulges in one of the purest forms of “Idiot Plot” with the villain’s bizarre tactic of stuffing henchmen into barrels and honking a horn to unleash them like evil jack-in-the-boxes. It’s laughable, but at least it breaks up the monotony with something memorable. A few of the action sequences manage to land simply because Hauer sells the physicality, even if the staging is clunky.

In the end, though, Wanted: Dead or Alive is a middling watch. It doesn’t embarrass itself enough to be a riot, nor does it have the chops to rise above its B-movie roots. Instead, it drifts in no-man’s-land—a serviceable but unremarkable relic of the late ’80s action-crime craze. Hauer fans might find a few scraps of fun, but anyone else will likely forget it by the next morning.

Fasten your seatbelts and stow your disbelief, because “Crash Landing” (2005) is Wynorski at cruising altitude—never aiming for art, but always ready to drop the landing gear on your funny bone. This is the kind of movie where gravity is optional, logic is banned from the cabin, and an entire cargo hold of explosions—many borrowed from other, possibly better, movies—are always just a nervous copilot away from erupting. If you’re a Wynorski fan, you know exactly what kind of clearance you’re in for: low, turbulent, and unapologetically entertaining.

Antonio Sabato Jr. takes the stick as the world’s most reluctant action hero, trying to land a plane full of rich snotty college kids who end up in a kidnapping plot - over the Pacific Ocean. The acting, if you can call it that, ranges from “midday soap” to “community theater hostage situation.” The villains are less “Die Hard” and more “Weekend at Bernie’s,” bumbling their way through a hijacking plot so dumb you almost wish they’d succeed, just for the novelty.

Special mention must go to the action set pieces—chiefly the endless parade of stock explosions and crash footage Frankensteined from the vaults of late-90s action movies. The airplane’s physics seem to exist in a separate reality where turbulence is whatever the camera operator can shake into frame, and gunfights happen in slow motion, possibly to save money on blanks. Add in the kind of CGI that would embarrass a 2001 Weather Channel forecast and you’ve got a recipe for a beautiful, cheesy mess.

“Crash Landing” isn’t trying to fool anyone. It knows it’s ridiculous, it revels in being ridiculous, and, best of all, it delivers the kind of brainless, late-night fun that Wynorski made his name on. If you’re here for believable drama, you’ve boarded the wrong flight. But if you want to laugh, riff, and marvel at how many ways one movie can break the rules of both Hollywood and aerodynamics, this is your ticket to so-bad-it’s-good bliss.

Final Destination 2 is a symphony of stupidity—and I mean that as a compliment. It’s the kind of gloriously dumb horror sequel that knows exactly what it is, knows exactly what you came for, and wastes not a single moment trying to be anything more. This is 90 minutes of elaborate, Rube Goldberg murder machines soaked in blood and irony, gleefully cooked up for maximum squirm, scream, and laugh-out-loud shock value. It’s dumb, it’s low-brow, and it’s absolutely perfect at being both.

The movie wastes no time setting the tone: a now-iconic highway pile-up that feels like someone gave Michael Bay a box of Hot Wheels and told him to film a snuff film. From there, the film doesn’t bother with character development beyond “this one’s kind of a jerk” and “that one’s probably doomed” because it has better things to do—namely, assembling ludicrous, overly complex death scenes like it’s competing in a sadistic engineering contest. The real star isn’t any of the humans, it’s the absurd chain reactions involving ladders, air bags, barbed wire, and a spaghetti of fate that could only exist in this series.

What sets Final Destination 2 apart from other gore-porn offerings is its laser focus. It has a mission—deliver karmic, over-the-top death scenes wrapped in a thick coating of schlock—and it executes (pun intended). There’s no meandering subplot, no slow-burn psychological twists. It’s pure horror junk food: bloody, crunchy, and instantly satisfying. The movie also dials up the black comedy with every scene, letting the audience lean into the absurdity. It knows you’re laughing at it, and it wants you to laugh harder.

And let’s talk karma—because this sequel adds an extra little spice to the kills. Everyone who gets got sort of had it coming, and the movie leans into this with a smug wink, giving the audience permission to cackle through the carnage. There’s something almost therapeutic about watching these characters try to outmaneuver Death while it patiently flexes its Final Destination “gotcha” muscles. It’s a greasy, gory good time, and unlike many horror sequels, it actually delivers what it promises—nothing more, but certainly nothing less.

Clive Barker’s Nightbreed is the cinematic equivalent of an overstuffed trunk at a goth rave—wildly imaginative, beautifully adorned, and totally incapable of deciding what it wants to be. Packed with jaw-dropping creature designs, luscious makeup work, and a thrilling Danny Elfman score that pulses with dark fantasy energy, Nightbreed sets the table for a full-course horror feast. Unfortunately, the meal comes out half-cooked thanks to tonal confusion and a protagonist who drifts through the story like a half-deflated pool float.

Adapted from Barker’s novella Cabal, the film tells the story of Boone, a tormented man drawn to the subterranean world of Midian—a hidden city of monsters, outcasts, and literal night-breed. It wants to be a dark fairytale, a slasher, and a misunderstood superhero origin story all at once. And it kind of is... but not in a good way. Serial killer subplots rub awkwardly against messianic chosen-one arcs, while police shootouts interrupt poetic monster mythology. It’s like watching Hellraiser crash into X-Men, then take a wrong turn through Copland.

Still, if you’re a fan of practical effects and monster lore, Nightbreed is a visual banquet. The creature makeup is top-tier—each Nightbreed has their own unique look and feel, some terrifying, some oddly beautiful, all memorable. The world of Midian is fascinating in concept, with real potential to launch a whole franchise of supernatural antiheroes (which it almost did).

But anchoring all of this is Boone—a man so passive and charisma-deprived it’s a wonder the monsters didn’t just vote for someone else. His transformation from haunted man to reluctant savior is so subdued it barely registers, making it hard to care when the bullets start flying and Midian burns. Nightbreed deserves credit for aiming high, but its soaring ambitions are clipped by structural chaos and a limp lead. Watch it for the monsters, the mood, and the Elfman score—but don’t expect a satisfying story to match the spectacle.

If you’re in the mood for a mid-altitude crisis that checks every air disaster box without ever pushing the emergency slide of insanity, Rough Air: Danger on Flight 534 is the in-flight entertainment you never asked for—but might not mind watching with a bag of stale pretzels. This 2001 made-for-TV thriller stars Eric Roberts, who delivers one of the most aggressively disinterested performances in a movie about a plummeting death tube ever recorded. And yet, somehow, the film still finds a way to stay airborne as an enjoyable slice of light turbulence TV cheese.

The plot is your standard disaster blueprint: a disgraced pilot (Roberts) is pulled out of aviation exile to take over a flight after the captain suffers a sudden heart attack mid-flight. Cue the typical cabin drama: nervous passengers, a weepy stewardess, shaky controls, a storm system on the radar, and the always-welcome fuel crisis. But instead of going full barrel roll into each disaster trope, the film kind of… brushes up against them. It starts to nosedive into clichés and then levels off just before impact, leaving you wondering if it’s building to something bigger. (Spoiler: it’s not.)

What really sells the surreal mediocrity of the movie is Eric Roberts, who is not so much phoning it in as texting it in from a burner phone. His emotional range here is somewhere between “waiting at the DMV” and “mildly annoyed a vending machine ate his dollar.” The stakes may be life or death, but Roberts plays it like he’s watching a curling match and doesn’t know the rules. He’s not wooden. He’s laminated indifference.

Still, there’s something kind of comforting about the movie’s half-hearted commitment to disaster movie glory. It never crashes and burns, nor does it soar. It just floats in the airspace of “pretty okay.” If you’re a fan of “Fly Hard” flicks—where troubled pilots, stormy skies, and panicked passengers do their dance—this is a breezy 86-minute ride. Just don’t expect to remember anything about it once you’ve deplaned.

Death appears completely unqualified to do its job. It should apply for a cabinet position in the government. Hey yo!

"Final Destination" starts with an intriguing premise for an X-Files episode – a group of high school students narrowly escape a plane explosion thanks to a premonition, only to find themselves stalked by Death itself in the aftermath. It’s a clever setup, but the movie drags its feet getting to the fun part. The initial plane disaster sequence is drawn out like it’s gunning for an Oscar in tension building, but instead, it feels like a slow crawl through a TSA line. The characters spend far too much time brooding about fate and existential dread before the real fireworks begin.

Once the film finally lets loose and the Rube Goldberg death traps start rolling, it hits a much better stride. Each subsequent demise becomes more absurd than the last, delivering the kind of schlocky, over-the-top fun that horror fans crave. There’s a certain perverse joy in watching the universe bend itself backward to off these characters in increasingly elaborate ways, as if Death took a weekend workshop in improvisational murder. It's the kind of movie that practically demands a group viewing, where half the fun is shouting predictions at the screen like a demented game of Clue: "It was the faulty microwave cord in the kitchen with the poorly placed puddle!"

The cast, led by a moody Devon Sawa and a wildly underused Tony Todd, struggles to make the clunky dialogue feel meaningful, but the real stars here are the death scenes themselves – more creative than the writing and far more memorable than any of the actual characters. By the time the movie throws subtlety to the wind in its final act, it's gone from "grim supernatural thriller" to something closer to a darkly comic carnival ride.

In the end, "Final Destination" is a mixed bag – sluggish at the start but ultimately rewarding if you hang in there. It’s a popcorn horror flick that knows how to make an audience wince, cringe, and occasionally cackle at the sheer audacity of its kills. Would I watch it again? Sure, but only if I’m in the mood to laugh at Death's clumsiest attempts at efficiency.