Only the most undiscriminating monster-pic buff will come away satisfied.

There's no suspense (ETs rampage from the word go); no frissons (loud hailers telegraph the shocks); and it's insufficiently bright to be an hommage.

About as nerve-wracking as a warm bath.

While it’s far from Heinlein’s original flight of frightening fancy and its ending feels utterly bogus, "The Puppet Masters" remains a psychologically sound and physiologically gross dissection of the anatomy of occupation and the pathology of control.