The Stranger

Even in this post-Wicker Man era, it's difficult not to feel a little sympathetic toward Nicolas Cage. I mean, really; one of the biggest comic book fans in Hollywood waits years and years for a franchise to call his own, and this is the result? To be fair, it’s easy to see what initially drew the actor to the material: By all rights, the saga of Johnny Blaze, a stunt cyclist cursed by the devil to dispense flame-headed justice, should be, like, the raddest, most metal thing ever. Leave it to writer/director Mark Steven Johnson (previously responsible for botching Daredevil) to suck all of the pulpy juice out of the premise, leaving a sodden, listless mess that wouldn’t thrill even the most ardent Hot Topic enthusiast. There are a few bright spots scattered hither and yon—Cage gets off the occasional manic goofball line reading, and a noticeably amused Sam Elliott drawls out the narration as only he can—but this is otherwise a big ol’ sad bag of Satanic ass. To crib a line from Marvel Comics guru Stan Lee, I say thee nay. By Andrew Wright