The Flood: Gators Attack

Alligator really does taste a bit like chicken. It is chewier, but delicious when prepared well. Unfortunately, gators think people also taste like chicken and they are bigger, faster, and hungrier. During a hurricane-flash flood, an isolated group of cops and convicts find themselves on the menu in Brandon Slagle’s The Flood, which opens Friday in New York.

A Katrina-like storm is surging around Sheriff Jo Newman’s station, so she reluctantly agrees to put up a detoured prison transport for the night. That means Rafe Calderon’s plans also change. His gang’s former getaway driver, Russell Cody was convicted of the cop-killings during their last job, but not before he hid the money.

Cody is less than thrilled to see his old comrades, but everyone will have to work together when a pack of angry alligators swims into the flooded station. Of course, they won’t, but Cody consistently throws his chips in with Sheriff Newman, rather than Calderon’s crew or his fellow convicts.

The Flood is sort of Rio Bravo with gators, which is a reasonably promising premise to start with. Slagle certainly does not over-complicate it. It is a crying shame the soundtrack totally lacks any jazz, blues, or zydeco selections, but it still feels like a Louisiana kind of film—even though it was shot abroad, presumably for economic reasons.

Casper Van Dien, Nicky Whelan, and Louis Mandylor are all pros at this kind of unfussy action filmmaking by now, so they credibly get down to business as Cody, Newman, and Calderon. As in Slagle’s Battle for Saipan, Eoin O’Brien is the surprise standout, doing a not-half-bad Cajun accent as the other reasonable prisoner, “Big Jim” Pruett.

Self-Quarantine Viewing: Trauma Center

Calling it “Die Hard in a hospital” gives it too much credit, but at least it stars Bruce Willis. That means the super-prolific star of almost-straight-to-DVD thrillers is now starting to rip himself off. However, his character will spend most of the film on the streets, doing police stuff. That leaves an injured witness to fend for herself when crooked cops come to kill her in Matt Eskandari’s Trauma Center, now available on DVD and VOD, the kind of film that could have self-quarantiners asking: “what the heck was that?”

San Juan Police Det. Wakes’ snitch has just been killed by the ring of dirty cops he was about to expose. His moronic partner soon follows him into permanent early retirement. However, there is a witness, Madison Taylor, whose rebellious sister Emily has also been admitted, following a nasty asthma attack (potential hostage alert). Shock has obscured Taylor’s memory of the attack, but the shooters will still come after her, because meat-headed Det. Pierce lodged a traceable bullet in her leg. (They also pumped several rounds into Wakes’ partner, but supposedly those were carefully fired to obliterate against hard surfaces—or something like that.

Wakes moves Taylor to the infectious disease floor for safe keeping (that will be a red herring for hyper-conscious viewers mindful of the Wuhan virus—which did indeed originate in Wuhan). Unfortunately, Pierce and the slightly smarter Sgt. Tull flash their badges and lock down the floor. The cat-and-mouse business proceeds from there.

The weird thing about these slapped-together films is how good Willis is in them. Maybe it helps that his screen-time is comparatively limited, but he is still the only one who really shows any star power. Regardless, everyone would surely agree nobody better represents Puerto Rico than Bruce Willis and Nicky Whelan. They must have some boffo film production tax incentives there.