Alice awakes in Raccoon City, only to find it has become infested with zombies and monsters. With the help of Jill Valentine and Carlos Olivera, Alice must find a way out of the city before it is destroyed by a nuclear missile.
A group of heavily armed hijackers board a luxury ocean liner in the South Pacific Ocean to loot it, only to do battle with a series of large-sized, tentacled, man-eating sea creatures who have taken over the ship first.
Simon Templar has no real family, no real home and Simon Templar isn't even his real name. Yet Simon Templar , also known as the Saint for his use of creating false identities using the ... See full summary »
Packard Walsh and his motorized gang control and terrorize an Arizona desert town where they force drivers to drag-race so they can 'win' their vehicles. After Walsh stabs the decent teenager Jamie Hankins to death for being intimate with a girl whom Walsh wants for himself, the mysterious Jake Kesey arrives, an extremely cool motor-biker with an invincible car. Jake befriends Jamie's girlfriend Keri Johnson, takes Jamie's sweet brother Billy under his wing and manages what Sheriff Loomis can not - the methodical and otherworldly elimination of Packard's criminal gang. Written by
While filming a chase sequence shot on a mountainside outside of Tuscon, a crew member was killed and another was critically injured. According to supplementary material on the DVD a camera car was overloaded and overturned. This was the only serious accident during the filming. See more »
When Rughead steps in front of Oggy's car and the Turbo to set off Oggy's race, Oggy's side mirror shows him wearing his helmet. In the next shot when he is shaking hands with Skank he is wearing no helmet but his sunglasses instead. See more »
[Sheriff Loomis approaches]
Man, I smell a cop! Do you smell a cop?
Uh, I smell french fries, Skank, but that don't make no sense, huh?
See more »
Very few films past or present stray from the predictable form of a fluid linear narrative. Exposition, conflict, resolution, and possibly an occasional flashback or revisiting of an earlier moment---these are all staples of visual story telling.
Charlie Sheen's late 80's action masterpiece THE WRAITH, however, successfully ventures down a road much less traveled by filmmakers, a road which guides viewers through an assemblage of scenes which seem somehow related, but give no indication of how or why.
Ingeniuosly, the many questions of THE WRAITH, much like the guiding directions in other impressionist images, provide a grander picture of a straight forward story of love, loss, and revenge. Who is the angelic avenger that, one by one, picks off the gang of road-rash-ruffians in a futuristic car? Who, inexplicably halfway through the picture, receives his untimely demise from the ruffians in the trunk of car? Can it be the same character so craftily played by Sheen, a charming young man who both befriends the young short-order chef and knocks boots with the buxomly Sherilyn Flynn?
Thankfully the audience is given a clue to THE WRAITH's avante-garde modus in the air brushed leather jacket of Nick Cassavettes: the skull-among-flames symbolizes many things, maybe most important of which is the picture's dramatic refutation of sensible organization. The line between the beautiful, bone-white skull and the jacket's hot, licking flames, is blurred in the same fashion as the line of narrative arch which threads through THE WRAITH.
80's Action connoisseurs will appreciate the steely-eyed performance Sheen gives, as well as the supplemental contributions of Chuck Howard and Randy "Uncle Eddy" Quaid. From the first moment Flynn appears on the screen, there can be no doubt that Sheen will take her to the mat---or in this case, an Arizona hot spring---and there can be no doubt that Cassevettes and co. will receive their devilish comeuppance. During the course of such a spectacle, the audience must then ultimately ask itself, will we be able to handle the power contained in rest of this film? And if so, more importantly, will we be able to ever again stomach the banality of traditional film?
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