A spaceship crashes, leaving just a few survivors to hunt a dangerous quarry – whose world their race has destroyed – across a desert. Though it's hard to understand what they are saying through their helmet intercoms, it soon becomes clear that this is essentially the Star Trek episode Arena (or the Fredric Brown story it adapted) drawn out over ninety minutes, with a chunk of Enemy Mine padding things out. My impression was that, like Rodriguez making Mariachi, the film-makers did their sums, figured out the bare minimum they needed to make a movie, and managed to do it – for which they have my great admiration. But having worked out that they could make it, I wonder if they asked themselves whether they should, whether this film was really worth the effort. A low budget film needs to offer something you can't get elsewhere: a good idea, a good script, a strong story, a great performance – something! – and this film doesn't have that.

It's all very flat, with none of the flair that marked Rodriguez as a director to watch, even when working without money, and aside from some decent alien make-up, a couple of nice spaceship shots, and a good performance by Damion Poitier as the lead alien, there's not much to commend it. The mid-way twist might surprise viewers new to science fiction. The music tries hard, but is hopelessly overblown for lengthy scenes of desert wandering. The casting of Clark Bartram as lead human is perhaps the biggest mistake. Best known for his role in Batman: Dead End, the excellent fan film that was Collara's calling card, he seems out of his depth as the lead in a feature. There's little sense of what the character has been through, or the gravity of what he's planning to do, and if his beard harks back to Dallas, MacReady and the other hirsute heroes of science fiction past, the comparison does him no favours.

Hunter Prey, Sandy Collora (dir.), Kaleidoscope, DVD, 1hr28.

Retirement, dear Watson, is not for to be taken lightly. Great characters of literature don’t always die, they survive beyond the life of their creators, regenerated. With the new series of TV adventures underway, it’s no surprise that the greatest detective of all is given a new breath of life in a new library reprinting novels by contemporary writers who maintain the spirit of the original tales whilst adding new ingredients.

In these first two adventures, Holmes enters a world of psychics and the undead where murder seems to come beyond the grave. Seance for a Vampire (originally published in 1994) finds him investigating two seemingly fraudulent spiritualists who have been called in by Ambrose Attamount to make contact with his recently deceased daughter. A murder in the mansion only adds to the mystery, whether supernatural or not. But it means that Holmes can only solve the mystery with the help of his cousin, Count Dracula, encountering an undead Russian pirate and the mad monk himself, Rasputin. Fred Saberhagen, best known for his fantasy and science fiction tales such as The Swords and Berserker series, pens this dark detective tale and unites two literary greats. Indeed he also penned a whole series of Dracula/vampire tales popularising the bloodsuckers long before Twilight and True Blood. Perhaps it’s not surprising then that he divides the narrative between Dr Watson and the Count himself, which helps maintain the sense of intrigue. However, it has the feel of a more conventional mystery adventure rather than an assimilation of our favourite detective’s familiar deductive skills.

In complete contrast, The Seventh Bullet (originally published in 1992) is set in that favourite murder-mystery environment, the quaint English village, as well as in the bigger realms of America. In this instance, gossip writer David Graham Phillips has been assassinated. Someone obviously didn’t like their affairs being spread about; such a muck-raking individual was bound to create enemies with his revelations. Holmes is forced to interrupt his peaceful rural vacation as he solves the clues which reveal the motives for the murder and explain how seven bullets were fired from a gun that held only six. Could that mean the killer was silenced by another gunman rather than committing suicide? This volume is penned by David D. Victor and right from the start he’s determined to show an ageing sleuth who still lives with his extraordinary powers of perception. An enjoyably affectionate celebration of those original adventures.

Two very contrasting tales with equally varied styles, both proving that you can’t keep a good detective down.

Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: Seance for a Vampire by Fred Saberhagen and The Seventh Bullet by Daniel D. Victor, Titan Books, pb, rrp £7.99 each. Rating: ***½

A story of fate, passion, jealousy, suicide, bullfighting and translation from 1950, Pandora and the Flying Dutchman takes place twenty years earlier in Esperanza, on the coast of Spain, but its story begins centuries before that. On trial for an appalling crime, Hendrick van der Zee blasphemes most dreadfully and is cursed by God to wander the seas of the earth until judgment day. There's a way out: every seven years he gets to spend half a year among men, to find a woman who could redeem him, a woman willing to give up her life for him.

Pandora Reynolds understands unreasonable demands, since she makes them of others: she tells one suitor that she will not consider his advances unless he pushes his car off a cliff, but considers their deal broken when he recovers it from the ocean. She's a drama queen, a vicarious thrill seeker who, unfulfilled by her life, chooses "fury and destruction", as the Dutchman says. Meeting, they are overwhelmed by their mutual need, though knowing what must result he resists as long as he is able.

For a restored print, it's a bit scratchy, and the colour is very variable – traces perhaps of why it required restoration in the first place. Despite that, the beauty of the film shines through: each shot resembles a carefully composed oil painting, often with symbolic intent – when Pandora and Hendrick kiss for the first time, and in other crucial scenes, his ship is visible in the distance, hanging over them, predicting their doom. The narration is sometimes rather on the nose, with the actors comically appearing to act in response to the narration, but the performances are otherwise excellent, James Mason and Ava Gardner in particular being quite wonderful as the Dutchman and Pandora.

Though Pandora's depiction in the film is unflattering, a feminist reading is possible, by which she is frustrated by the limitations of her times, and forced to live through the men in her life. "Happiness lies in the simple things," says Stephen Cameron, her rather aged suitor, but given his determination to break the land speed record it's clear the maxim is for wives rather than husbands. Given the opportunity, Pandora might have found fulfilment and drama behind the wheel of her own racing car, rather than in the arms of a tragic ghost of times past.

It's a remarkable film, and one whose re-release is well-timed to appeal to fans of modern films of supernatural romance – though given its tragic conclusion, and the way that conclusion is presented as heroic, beautiful and inevitable, it's perhaps the last thing maudlin, love-struck teenagers should be watching...

Pandora and the Flying Dutchman, Albert Lewin (dir/wri), Park Circus, DVD/BluRay, 1hr58.

Count Marechal would see the Mirkarvian empire restored, but the emperor died three hours ago – before a crucial speech could be given. Thus Johannes Cabal escapes execution for necromancy (and related book theft), but the episode ends badly, and Cabal escapes on an aeroship – the Princess Hortense, on her maiden cruise – in the guise of Herr Gerhard Meissner, docket clerk first class, Department of Administrative Coordination. There are murders; Cabal investigates.

This was very enjoyable. Both narrator and character are quietly funny, and there's a touch of the Stainless Steel Rat about Johannes, both in his humour and his disdain for the law (and at one point it is said of him that you should "set a monster to catch a monster"), though he does not share his science fictional counterpart's regard for human life – having defeated an enemy, he thinks it best to kill them while they are "handy and vulnerable".

Nor does he share the Rat's interest in women. Indeed, he "usually carried a faint scent of formaldehyde around with him, which had the effect of depressing any amorous intent of any woman with a working nose", so the attention he attracts from femmes fatales during the voyage (enforced absence from his laboratory having done much for his odour) comes as a surprise and a challenge.

There are also echoes of Keith Laumer's Retief tales: Cabal is a capable man on a world of militaristic idiots, sadists and popinjays, a world with one foot stuck in the 19th century. Unlike Retief, Cabal has a capable, intelligent woman to deal with: Leonie Barrow, a criminologist from his past with the uncanny, infuriating ability to awaken his "feelings" and "conscience". Their uneasy unfriendship provides many of the novel's best moments.

Special mention must go to the wonderful cover, a striking piece of art and design by Michael Windsor. The back cover reproduces the first three paragraphs of the novel, showing a classy and I think justified confidence in the author's writing, which is sparky, amusing and dramatic.

The last thirty pages of the book offer a bonus feature: "The Tomb of Umtak Ktharl", an entertaining novella which succeeds the events of the novel.

Johannes Cabal the Detective, Jonathan L. Howard, Headline, hb, 380pp.

The Imperial Fists space marines are recruiting. Instead of a major leafleting campaign and some adverts on the telly, the Imperial Fists land in a war zone and grab some likely lads, asking for volunteers before drugging them and taking them aboard ship. Three recruits, one from each side in the war, conveniently, end up being trained together and going off to guard a planet that has been attacked by the forces of Chaos. It all goes pear shaped of course, and the lads are thrown in at the deep end.

It’s competent enough, well written and very workman like. The characters are well formed and three dimensional, the plot all works and mostly makes sense. It’s good enough to take its place among others of its kind where it will fit in nicely.

Unfortunately it won’t stand out in any way. There’s no spark of originality here, no angle or spice to make you take notice. It’s just another Warhammer novel.

To sum up, and in my opinion, you won’t think you’ve wasted your money, if you’re a fan of the Black Library, but I challenge you to pick it out from a line up after about three months.

Sons of Dorn, Chris Roberson, The Black Library, £6.99.

Apostle Marduk of the Word Bearers finds a device in a necron tomb. To cut a long story short he switches it on while attacking a warp gate held by the Imperial forces. The gate closes and the planet and its surrounds are cut off from vital re-enforcements. The forces of Chaos then begin to slaughter the populace in order to take over the gate and penetrate all the way to Earth. Everything is going great until a third party arrives in the form of the necrons, undying metal men with some pretty nasty weapons. This is no surprise because it tells us on the back cover.

The book is well written, but the main protagonist is a Chaos warped creature bent on a-slaughterin’ and a-mutatin’ his way across the galaxy. There’s no identifying with such a character, and certainly no sympathy, so at least half of the book doesn’t work. The parts of the book told from the “good guys” perspective work a lot better and are well worth reading.

I can see what the author was trying to do, but a shift of emphasis would have made this an excellent read, instead of merely good.

Dark Creed, Anthony Reynolds, The Black Library, £6.99.

Another of those damned Horus Heresy books. Magnus the Red is loyal to the Emperor, but he and his legion, The Thousand Sons, are known to use witchcraft in their battles. The other legions distrust them for this of course, despite the fact that it’s Horus who’s gone loopy. Anyway, Magnus has a vision showing Horus’ treachery and warps over to Earth to snitch. Unfortunately, Magnus lands on an expensive and rare piece of kit the Emperor had been working on for ages and is displeased. In retaliation, the big cheese sends the Space Wolves to the Thousand Sons’ planet to break his tele and slaughter the population.

If we ignore the first third of the novel, which is unneeded, it’s actually not bad. It’s well written, has some good set pieces and is atmospheric. The battle at the end is huge and well told, and up to spec for this kind of novel. I’m not sure exactly where it fits with the other books in the series, we seem to have gone back a few decades. As I’ve said before, the HH series ran out of steam long ago. Although this one is probably more worth reading than most.

A Thousand Sons, Graham McNeill, The Black Library, £7.99.

Through poisonous treachery Lord Godless has captured the Emperor of China. Unable to defeat the invincible atheist, the great generals of China incinerated, Wind and Cloud retreat to gather their strength. Wind walks Lord Wicked's path of evil, the dangers of which are shown by Wicked's decision to cut off his own arms, to limit his own evil-doing. Cloud takes on the powers of master Nameless, creating twenty-three new sword styles of "divine superiority" along the way, collectively known as "Ba!"

Time for a rematch!

The special effects in this film are often fantastic: it's a video game come to life. Aaron Kwok and Ekin Cheng return to the roles they originated in Andy Lau's 1998 film The Storm Riders (which I found a little underwhelming), and Wind and Cloud look like they've stepped out of a Squaresoft cut-scene. As in The Eye trilogy, and even their otherwise slightly disappointing American film The Messengers, the Pang Brothers make brilliant and often subtle use of digital effects. Much like 300, 95% of the film is computer generated, estimates Oxide Pang in the special features.

It's not a perfect film: its adoration of 300 is not restricted to technical issues, certain shots and costumes feeling more like imitations than homages. The female characters have little to do but look serious and pretty (and in many cases die) and the two heroes are a bit soppy and stiff. But in a film where the main draw is the fighting those flaws can be overlooked.

At worst reminiscent of clunky, melodramatic but fun Indian telefantasy, at best quite fantastic, this is one of the better movies of its type I've seen since Zu Warriors of the Mystic Mountain. If it had featured a character with extensible eyebrows, or even a scene where the heroes took on a decently-sized army or two, it might have beaten even Zu. I didn't always understand what was happening, but when it happened I was enthralled.

The DVD includes a commentary by Bey Logan and 80 minutes of interviews and special features.

The Storm Warriors, Pang Brothers (dir/wri), Cine Asia, 106mins.

Surprisingly, this is Vincent Chong’s first cover artwork for Postscripts in its six year run and happily the title story lives up to its promise – no easy task where Chong is concerned. It’s an alternative history steampunk tale, but not one that is played light and loose for the sake of frolicsome adventure. And the best compliment I can pass on Chris Robertson’s tale is that his seemingly dense evocation of alternate New York and the glimpses he affords of a whole other back history made me wish the story had not ended: there was enough here for a novel, although the story’s intro gives no hint that it is, or will be, part of a larger canvas.

What we have, then, is a tale of murder, and Thomas Edison… and of what he created in this world where electricity has been shunned and Edison fallen into obscurity. The anthology closes with Stephen Baxter returning to the timeline of his superb novel Anti-Ice and in between there are some two dozen excellent tales, among them “Catherine My Lionheart”, the best short story Allen Ashley has ever written.

Alas, at a hefty £30 (plus £2.49 P&P) for a 370 page book, Postscripts has now become an elite publication for wealthy readers immune to such trivial concerns as recessions and credit crunches. I, for one, can no longer renew my sub.

Edison’s Frankenstein (Postscripts 20/21), eds. Nick Gevers and Peter Crowther, PS Publishing 2009. £30 hb. £60 signed hb.

This semi-sequel to real-life events begins with a group of Australian students being cautioned and interviewed about the evening of 12 September 2007, when Angela King, a beautiful, insane drama addict (played by Heartbreak High vet Lara Cox), threw a farewell dinner party. A farewell to life, that is: she and boyfriend Joel planned to kill themselves after dessert. Anything to avoid charades! Their insufferable student friends came to spectate and cheer them on. But Joel knew nothing about the suicide plan, and no one thought to tell him.

This is a decent stab at making a high concept film on a very low budget, but it wasn't terribly exciting to watch. Fifty minutes of story are padded out with lots of moody montages, while police interviews and flashbacks to Joel and Angela's first meeting add little to the film. Issues of complicity and moral courage are raised in a perfunctory way, and there's a curious lack of weight to it all. Knowing from the beginning that most of them survive kills much of the tension. The only question left is whether things will play out as you are led to believe, or if there will be a twist. But I wasn't made to care – the speculation felt academic.

By far my favourite part of this film was the appearance of the paramedics at the end: they felt crushingly real, people getting on with their jobs, following well-worn routines in the most ghastly of circumstances. Perhaps that's because they were: emergency services were thanked in the credits. Credit also to the music, by Fire on the Hill and The Andi & George Band, a melancholy atonal noise with swings towards Tangerine Dream cosmic rock.

The Dinner Party, Scott Murden (dir/wri), Kaleidoscope, 88mins.

The title story of this anthology sees our intrepid anti-hero, thief Luff Imbry, crashlanding (after an interminable 6 pages) in a desert where a dweller strong arms him into retrieving his friend from a warren of underground tunnels, where a device which shows the viewer a perfect simulacrum of what they ought to be, but can never hope to become, thus driving mad all who come across it. But will it undo Imbry? An enjoyable romp, if a tad overlong and not a little heavy-handed: it fails to live up to the subtle hues of Edward Miller’s evocative cover painting.

Despite headline status, Matthew Hughes’s tale is not the best on offer, although it does set the tone as the book contains a number of very assured adventures, from Daniel Abraham to Chris Beckett to M. K. Hobson. Good, but the most memorable stories also prove to be among the shortest, such as Andrew Hook’s delightful fable-esque “Bigger than the Beetles” and David N. Drake’s “A Life Clichéd”.

Further solid work is provided by Mark Youmans and Scott Edelman and many others. 12 authors all, who ably maintain Postscipts’ reputation of energetic, eclectic content.

Enemy of the Good (Postscripts 19), eds. Nick Gevers and Peter Crowther, PS Publishing. 2009. £15 hb. £30 signed hb.

I decided to read this novel cold, foregoing the publisher’s blurb on the back cover. The story follows two small groups of characters whose threads don’t merge until half of the book’s 400 pages have lapsed. Neither does the novel’s intent. Sure, there’s plenty of sound and fury, but that lack of knowing what any of it is all about gives the novel a very disjointed feel.

It’s visceral, make no mistake, and evokes vintage Clive Barker, but Williams lacks Barker’s lyricism, his ability to make his evocation of the dream world more potent than those scenes set in the real world. On the other hand, Williams is superb at conveying the here and now, the grit and grind of urban life. By comparison, his other world appears rendered in broad strokes. Good stuff – if it had been published in the early nineties, although even then it lacks the scope and ambition of The Secret of Anatomy (1994) by Mark Morris. Structure wise, it is too similar to Williams’s own The Unblemished (2006) whilst lacking that novel’s superior characterisation. And it’s not a patch on the tightly focused precision of Williams’s other novel from last year, One.

All in all, a cracking weekend read whose Barker-esque moments will spell readers over until Clive gets around to releasing The Scarlet Gospels and the third Abarat book.

Decay Inevitable, Conrad Williams, Solaris. 2009. £7.99 pb.