The movies that men do, likewise, live after them, and this one, while not exactly evil, is pretty bad, and not one of the glories of the long careers of Charles Bronson and director J. Lee Thompson, nor even of their short string of mutual collaborations. A litany of grisly horrors recited on video cassettes, plus a couple of tangible blood-drenched corpses in the prologue, gives good reason for a well-fixed hit man to come out of retirement on the balmy Cayman Islands, and to set his sights, free of charge, on a distinguished-looking British torturer named Molloch (no relation, presumably, to the horrible sacrificial god of the ancient Phoenicians whose name had only one "l" in it). The latter has apparently plied his trade on half the population of Surinam, and must finally pay the piper when they rise up against him like something out of Night of the Living Dead. Bronson, outfitted with a couple of collarless shirts and a useful gimmick of reading lips, has moments of lucidity amid general somnabulism. With Theresa Saldana, Joseph Maher, Raymond St. Jacques, and Jose Ferrer. (1984) — Duncan Shepherd
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