Metacritic reviews

Whilst this fly is not as tightly scripted or keenly directed as its parent, it does have pace, breathless tension and the sort of gross-out effects that rules out kebabs for some time after the credits have rolled.

Unlike The Fly, You probably won't remember much of this after seeing it, and when a movie boasts as being no better but equal to the original, you can be pretty sure it isn't.

Martin zips from boyhood to manhood in a ridiculously short period, and in no time at all is getting it together with Beth Logan (Zuniga), who doesn't know about his dad being a creepy-crawly. But when Martin's skin starts falling off, she begins to suspect that it's more than just a case for Clearasil, and resolves to help her loved one sort out his confused chromosomes - too late to avoid the onslaught of latex and squishy special effects for which we've all been waiting, and which is indeed the movie's only interesting commodity. Other than that, it's standard directionless fare.

The Fly II is competent but hardly clever. The only respect in which it matches Mr. Cronenberg's Fly is in its sheer repulsiveness, since this film degenerates into a series of slime-ridden, glop-oozing special effects in its final half hour.

The Fly II is an expectedly gory and gooey but mostly plodding sequel to the 1986 hit that was a remake of the 1958 sci-fier that itself spawned two sequels.

The Fly movies could be a metaphor for sequels: Always go for the real article, not the freakishly mutated copy one telepod over.

If heavy gore is your kind of entertainment, you'll get a buzz out of The Fly II. But be warned -- don't take a squeamish date. [13 Feb 1989, p.C7]

Walas' animatronic Robo-Fly is as clumsy as both Stoltz's Martin and the film's script, which resorts all too often to clever computer graphics and video-flashbacks.

This sequel to David Cronenberg's masterful 1986 remake is uninspired, uninvolving, and wholly unnecessary.

Even an experienced director would have his hands full making anything out of this script. Four screenwriters are credited, and as any movie buff knows, the more writers, the worse the movie. Nowhere Faustian, this one aspires to camp classic status, but lurches lamely into vile gross-out territory. [10 Feb 1989, p.48]