In 1983, the Director Of Public Prosecutions published its first list of movies which were tagged with the tabloid-friendly label of Video Nasties. These cinematic outliers were deemed to have the power to deprave and corrupt and, if the title in question had been successfully prosecuted under the Obscene Publications Act of 1959, any dealer stocking it could be fined or jailed. In one case, involving Romano Scavolini’s Nightmares In A Damaged Brain, one of its distributors was sentenced to eighteen months in prison (eventually reduced to six months on appeal, but sheesh).
It was a heady time, driven by moral outrage, framed as a battle for the very soul of the United Kingdom, and the seventy-two films that appeared at one time or another on that DPP list attained a level of notoriety their filmmakers never expected (unless, arguably, you were Umberto Lenzi). Thirty-nine remained banned; thirty-three were dropped from the list. All of them became must see items, of course.
As the memory of those crazy days fades and those of us who lived through the Nasties era scratch our heads and wonder what all of that hysteria was about, did those movies actually threaten the fabric of society as we knew it? Let’s take a look at one of them…
AXE (1974, dir. Frederick R. Friedel)
*** THIS REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS ***
A trio of sharply dressed hoodlums – Steele (Jack Canon), Lomax (Ray Green) and Billy (director and writer Friedel completing his triple-threat status) – leave a trail of devastation in their wake before finding an ideal place to hide out for a while. Said place is a remote farmhouse, where a young woman called Lisa (Leslie Lee, embodying rural unconventionality) looks after her disabled grandfather and takes care of the daily chores on the homestead, including killing the odd chicken with the titular implement, an impassive look on her face the whole time. If these guys think they’re going to take advantage of her, they’re dead wrong.
Originally released in late 1974 as Lisa, Lisa, distributor Harry Novak of Boxoffice International Pictures saw the potential of tapping in the exploitation film market with a change of title, and the newly monikered Axe hit the screens four years later. It’s a title with which Friedel was not particularly enamoured, as it gave the game away regarding what was to come, but it was the UK cinema release which took the prize for least subtle renaming in the form of California Axe Massacre, clearly done to capitalise on a different massacre with a different weapon of choice over in Texas. By the way, the movie was shot in North Carolina.
If you turned up at the flicks for a massacre in either state at the time, you were probably going to be disappointed, although there is slightly more axe-related damage in this one than Leatherface got to dole out with the saw. Axe is more concerned with an examination of isolation and the strangeness of the environment than explicit bloodshed. The characters are all fascinatingly enigmatic, having scant backstory and developing little over the course of the wafer-thin plot. Canon and Green are remorseless, brutish types and hence the viewer will be waiting for them to come to a sticky end. Friedel’s Billy is the more sympathetic youngster of the group and dogged by the guilt of his actions, knowing full well that his accomplices will leave neither Lisa nor her gramps alive before they clear out, but conflicted as to whether or not he should – or will be able to – intervene.
That point proves to be moot as Lisa doesn’t take kindly to impolite, gun wielding city folk invading her turf, especially ones who think all females are fair game. The 1999 UK DVD release of this movie attained what it previously had failed to grab – an 18 certificate – but that came at the cost of losing nineteen seconds of Lomax attacking a sleeping Lisa. The British Board Of Film Classification were, and still are, wary of allowing material containing sexual violence to pass uncut, although the 2005 re-release saw those cuts waived as the Board re-assessed the power of Axe to shock and offend.
Conceptually, it is a disturbing sequence, but it’s given context by the fact that it doesn’t focus on the assault itself, instead prolonging the scene for just long enough to give the audience a clear sight of the straight razor Lisa has taken from a drawer, unbeknown to Lomax, generating the suspense of when/if she’s going to use it on him. It’s horrible, but there’s none of the gloating, unpleasant, violence against women tropes you might find in other Nasties. Lomax has totally underestimated his prey and now his corpse is being chopped up in the bathtub. Serves him right.
Of course, with Lomax missing – Billy having unwittingly carted the various bits of him up to the attic in a steamer trunk – it’s time for Steele to try his chat up routine on Lisa, which goes just about as well as you’d think and sets the scene for a chilling climax, as it dawns upon Billy as to the catastrophic mistake he and his associates have made by holing up there. Put it this way, it might put you off tomato soup for a short while.
With artwork suggesting a gorefest and a synopsis suggesting a gorefest, it’s surprising to find that Axe is a strikingly shot piece with attractive compositions and a languid pace that makes the brief, brutal jolts of violence all the more potent. Even with a runtime of just sixty-six minutes, nothing is hurried – even the opening and closing credits – and the lack of urgency may prove a stumbling block for those wanting the story to stop faffing about and get to the gory action. Despite the main thrust of the tale being a young woman committing disgusting acts of violence against intruders, it all feels resolutely unexploitative, serving up a cautionary tale of how male hubris and exceptionalism is met with the ultimate response.
It is very low budget. It is rough around the edges. The performances are patchy. The focus on atmosphere over action will have some folks thinking it’s just too dull for words, especially as the DPP declared it obscene, and that will surely make for a blood-soaked evening’s entertainment. However, Friedel has an eye for framing and, considering the grimy goings-on, the settings possess an oddly beautiful quality. The guy had never worked on a film prior to this and, for a debut, it’s a more confident effort than some of the less polished technical aspects might suggest. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a genuine shame that Friedel didn’t go on to make a ton of other movies because, for all of its faults, this is a weirdly compelling one and like none of its other Nasties cohorts.
One night. One cinema. Six movies. Are you ready for Freddy?
That was the more than tempting carrot dangled in front of hungry horror fans by Sheffield horror festival Celluloid Screams, here breaking out of its extended weekend format to bring one of several events it will be holding this year outside of the main event. Cell’s previous overnighters have featured five unrelated films, but with an extra title on the slate to work through Krueger’s history, how would it affect those brave/stupid enough (delete as applicable) to take on the challenge? Considering the premise of the series, it was apt to use the tagline “Don’t fall asleep” but did I, or anyone else, drift off before the evening, and most of the following morning, was through?
When you’re about to embark on a such an undertaking at the flicks, preparation is key. Plenty of sleep the night before. A relaxing day leading up to that six film endurance test. Of course, because I am an idiot, I stuck to neither of those, having double billed They Will Kill You and Ready Or Not: Here I Come the evening before, getting home late and getting to sleep even later. I was awake a few hours later in order to get the train into Birmingham, where I watched the matinee performance of jukebox musical Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert, before catching a train back to Sheffield and grabbing food in the city centre before heading to the Showroom.
Getting there an hour before the start allowed for some downtime. Another all-nighter had been scheduled, covering the extended version of the Lord Of The Rings movies, and those folks were getting ready to go into The Fellowship Of The Ring as I rocked up. It felt like that’s where the grown-ups were heading, leaving the rest of us to indulge in that dirty horror stuff. Celluloid Screams supremo Rob Nevitt and programmer/social media head honcho Lucy Swift were also there so we were able to have a chat about upcoming spin-off festival Culture Shock and this also allowed me to profess my undying love for Possession, which is on this year’s line-up.
The usual suspects arrived as the start time drew near and there was the usual chat about which Elm Street movies we liked, which ones we didn’t, which ones we couldn’t actually remember and just who would be the first to start snoring in the auditorium. We did not have to wait long.
A selection of retro ads – unfortunately, it’s no longer possible to get the big taste of Westler’s hot dogs – and a slew of era-appropriate trailers set the scene for Wes Craven’s franchise starter, now sporting a comparatively genteel 15 rating and with a strange, almost comforting glow of nostalgia attached, as opposed to its 1980s reputation of unrelenting terror in a VHS box.
It still works. It’s well written, decently acted – even if there’s a whiff of Grease casting about the supposed mid-teens of the piece – and Robert Englund, whom many of us knew as the benign, bumbling alien Willie from the superior miniseries (and not so superior TV series) V, flipped the script and propelled himself to genre icon by giving us a murderer with a genuine sense of menace and complete lack of remorse, yet to be saddled with the wisecracking persona of later outings.
It doesn’t hang about either, detailing its protagonists economically and sufficiently before we launch into the dreamscape action. Folks will draw attention to a young Johnny Depp (here given an “introducing” credit, which gives an idea of the star power the industry saw in him) but it’s the killing of Amanda Wyss’ character Tina Gray which still shocks to this day. The likeable friend of Heather Langenkamp’s Nancy is brutally slashed and dragged along the walls and ceiling of her bedroom before her bloody body is unceremoniously dumped on the carpet. Dead silence in the cinema…
…except for someone snoring. Someone is snoring, in the first half of the first movie. Krueger would have had their guts for garters.
SUNDAY 29TH MARCH, SHOWROOM CINEMA SCREEN 4, SHEFFIELD: 12:15 AM
A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET 2: FREDDY’S REVENGE (1985)
Between the first and second Freddy fear fests there’s the longest interval the audience will be able to take in the whole of the marathon, with the gaps between films becoming less and less as the marathon kicks into gear to sort out the insomniacs from knife glove fodder. I chat with various folks who’ve obviously seen all six movies before and there’s a worry spreading across the group that The Dream Child could be the destroyer, because none of us can remember much about it.
For anyone wishing to stay in their seat for the entire event, there’s a wealth of franchise-related content on screen between each cinematic entry, including interviews, video game levels, music videos and ads. I took the opportunity to stretch my legs and peruse the memorabilia near the box office. In my case, this meant looking at the VHS case for unofficial spin off Nightmare On Sex Street and arsing about with a facsimile of the prop telephone that has the tongue emerging from it. Don’t @ me.
Freddy’s Revenge is a sequel that everyone expected in terms of making more cash for New Line Cinema, but few people expected in terms of its tone, opting for a story of supernatural possession as the family of teenager Jesse Walsh, played by Mark Patton, moves into the old Thompson house and finds that dodgy electrics are the least of their problems. Jesse is plagued by visions of the crispy killer of kids, telling the poor lad to kill various folks on his behalf.
This is the one which, apparently, has a gay subtext. Subtext be damned, this is all text, from the sequence of Jesse throwing dance moves in his bedroom to a visit to a very specific kind of bar to high school coach (and bully, natch) Schneider, being tied up in the showers by spectral forces and having his buttocks whipped with a towel. The romantic subplot between Jess and Kim Myers’ Lisa does little to convince otherwise and the shock ending of the first gets another run out here, only in a school bus, rather than a car.
And yet, there’s plenty about this film that’s fascinating. There’s clearly a drive to do something different, even if a lot of it doesn’t quite come off. The effects are pretty decent, even if a late in the day meltdown is frustratingly underused. Patton is a thoroughly likeable lead and, had there been any justice, this should have been a star making turn. Director Jack Sholder had already made a great little chiller called Alone In The Dark in 1982 and was only a couple of years away from making the classic sci-fi/horror/action mash-up The Hidden, so this is an interesting bridge between the two.
There are creepy moments along the way and Freddy’s gatecrashing of a BBQ party shows Sholder is adept at handling chaos but, like Jesse himself, Freddy’s Revenge seems a trifle confused about what it wants to be. That said, I heard no snoring during this one at all, which makes me think this one is due an intriguing revisit for those of you who haven’t seen it for a while.
I feel that arsing about with the prop phone a second time is unnecessary and someone else is looking at the VHS box of Nightmare On Sex Street with a sense of bewilderment, so I grab a quick coffee and notice that someone is purchasing a ticket for the remainder of the marathon. There’s no temptation to tell them they’ve missed the best one because a) I’m not that kind of bellend you find in the horror community (I’m a totally different kind of horror community bellend) and b) they haven’t missed the best one as far as I’m concerned. That one is about to be screened. We are still concerned about The Dream Child.
The clocks have gone forward and the Elm Street universe has looked backwards to re-enlist Heather Langenkamp as original final girl Nancy Thompson, now a hotshot grad student and an expert in the area of dreams (well, duh). Wes Craven is back as co-producer and also on co-writing duties, alongside a certain Frank Darabont amongst others. It’s also the assured directorial debut of Chuck Russell, kicking off an impressive three-movie run, following this up with The Blob and The Mask. If you rate Arnie action-fest Eraser, make that a four-movie run. As I said, an impressive three-movie run.
Nancy’s new gig at the Westin Hills Psychiatric Hospital has her cross paths with Patricia Arquette’s Kristen Parker, who has the ability to pull others into her dreams. This is useful when facing off with Freddy, as Kristen drafts in Nancy herself for an early dreamscape escape and then extends the team to include the surviving kids of those who murdered Krueger, all of whom are patients of Craig Wasson’s Dr. Gordon at the facility and ready for a bit of group therapy/arse kicking.
Amending the rules of the game without breaking them, Dream Warriors is tons of fun from start to finish, introducing an engaging bunch of new faces before having Englund turn their hopes and fears against them. Arquette is, as you’d expect, excellent, but the supporting cast are just as adept, particularly Jennifer Rubin as the “beautiful and bad” Taryn and Laurence Fishburne (in his “Larry” days) as sympathetic institution employee Max.
Adding some seniority to the proceedings are Wasson and a returning John Saxon as Nancy’s father Don, no longer a detective and seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle, but coming good in the third act as Gordon and Don are involved in a real world race against time to find Freddy’s bones and give them a proper burial before the Dream Warriors are wiped out. Don’s demise is not all that much of a shock, but there’s some surprise in the major casualty being Nancy herself, taking a glove to the guts before Krueger is banished once more, with the survivors set up to take the fight to Freddy in another inevitable continuation.
That person who purchased a ticket for the final four films was asleep within minutes of Dream Warriors rolling. I guess it beats checking into a hotel.
A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET 4: THE DREAM MASTER (1988)
There’s something about Dream Warriors which always peps me up. And at five in the morning with still three films to go, that’s a good thing. I chat with a few folks who’ve also taken a walk up to the kiosk for supplies. I think it’s time for a strategic coffee and a wander before heading back into Screen 4. Few of us can remember a lot about The Dream Master but the general consensus is that it was better than The Dream Child, which is poking its head over the horizon, ready to send us to the Land Of Nod.
What I could remember about the fourth instalment is that it was directed by Renny Harlin and that Patricia Arquette didn’t return, her character of Kristen being played by Tuesday Knight. Joey and Kincaid, the other folks who made it out of part three, were still played by Rodney Eastman and Ken Sagoes respectively.
Kincaid makes a lot of the early running in this one and is of course killed off, because reasons. Joey also goes out with a bit of a whimper, leaving Kristen and her new friend group to take on Freddy, who has been resurrected via Kincaid’s dog taking a fiery leak on the Krueger grave. Fans of the first movie may feel that the flamethrower jet of piss is exactly what Brian Helgeland and Scott Pierce’s screenplay has done to the chilling origin story, but on we go.
To be fair, The Dream Master is more enjoyable than I remembered or expected it to be. Renny Harlin had directed the atmospheric, if slightly plodding, Prison the year before and his persistence with/outright hassling of New Line Cinema head Robert Shaye finally landed the Finn the Freddy gig, and he continued his directorial ascent through popular, big budget actioners Die Hard 2 and Cliffhanger before coming unstuck with unpopular, big budget actioner Cutthroat Island.
In keeping with returning Elm Street alumni not lasting particularly long, Kristen is killed off by Krueger, but not before she passes her powers to Alice (Lisa Wilcox), a timid sort who you just know is going to turn into a badass as the tale progresses. The way this is achieved is at least handled in an interesting way, with Alice inheriting the skills and personality traits of the friends of hers who are killed by Freddy so, for instance, when the guy with the martial arts skills gets bumped off, Alice breaks out the karate moves and so on.
The list of would-be victims this time don’t have the character development or personality of those in Dream Warriors, save for Toy Newkirk as Sheila, the resident science and maths expert who doesn’t fall into all of the usual geek clichés, but is unceremoniously (and annoyingly) suffocated midway through the proceedings, leaving some of the blander folks to eat up the remainder of the screen time. That said, Wilcox is very good in the lead and is up to the task of portraying the increasingly multi-layered Alice. The climax, despite some excellent prosthetic effects work, is a bit of a damp squib which ultimately relies on remembering the text of a poem called The Dream Master. Soon as that memory comes back, Freddy’s toast. Again. Still, you do get a giant cockroach along the way.
Some definite pockets of snoring in this one across various parts of Screen 4. As for me, so far, so good, but I’m not exactly looking forward to the next one. This could be the one that breaks me.
One of the most disturbing things about all-nighters is wandering back into a foyer and realising that it’s light outside. At this point, you feel as if the event should be over. It’s now daytime, after all. I am immediately transported back to Celluloid Screams’ very first all-nighter, which ran hideously over schedule and meant that the final movie – Lamberto Bava’s superb Demons – didn’t roll its end credits at just after nine in the morning. I had watched all of the previous day’s Cell line-up as well and by the time I staggered out onto Paternoster Row, I was concerned the sunlight would cause me to burst into flames. Long story short, I went for breakfast, then had a whole thirty minutes of sleep before taking a shower for what felt like several hours and then making it for the screening of Der Fan at 1:00pm. Great days.
However, I’m older and, it appears, no wiser, because there are still two Nightmares to go, with the worrying spectre of The Dream Child now hanging directly over the noticeably wearier audience. I’m taking no chances here – a splash or two of cold water to the face, then a black coffee to accompany me back into the auditorium.
Alice and Dan (Danny Hassel), having survived the previous movie, get to at least start the movie in happy relationship mode, but this is turned on its head in fairly short order as Alice has a vision in which she imagines herself to be Amanda Krueger on the night she was attacked by the patients in an asylum. Of course, Freddy is back for a fifth go at a new pack of unwitting targets, this time using the pregnant Alice’s unborn baby as a conduit to attack her new but dwindling set of friends and this time, she doesn’t even need to be asleep.
Apparently Stephen Hopkins, the director of The Dream Child, doesn’t think much of the finished product, citing a schedule which was rushed and extensive cuts made by the MPAA to the gore. I get where he’s coming from but, having been worried about falling asleep during this one, it’s actually not that bad. The tone is darker than that of The Dream Master, the production design is effective, what you do see of the effects is very good indeed and the performances are decent across the board, with Wilcox once again being the standout.
Delving into the mythology gives this Elm Street entry a different feel to any of the other movies in the series and it doesn’t just slide into being a series of set pieces in which Freddy gets to murder someone, although there’s plenty of room for some imaginative slayings in this one. However, the atmospheric trips into the world of Amanda Krueger and the more kinetic, splattery jaunts into that of her troubled son Fred don’t always sit well together, meaning that the pacing sometimes feels off and the tone doesn’t hold across the piece. The numerous rewrites and a ridiculously short shoot probably didn’t help either.
During some early exposition, I did sense that I was about to drift off and drained the half cup of coffee I had left to stave off the snoozing but, on the whole, I didn’t mind The Dream Child. There are some intriguing ideas which are unfortunately underdeveloped, but it avoids being a lazy re-tread of what had gone before, which deserves at least some credit. The less flashy, more plot heavy bits took out a few folks but hey, the marathon had been going for around nine hours at that point, so it was understandable.
Oh, and Hopkins was given Predator 2 to direct off the back of this, so someone out there recognised his directorial chops, even if the critical and box office reception to The Dream Child was relatively underwhelming.
Having stayed awake through The Dream Child, I was reasonably confident of making it to the end without having a kip as I hadn’t seen Freddy’s Dead for a while, but remembered enjoying it. I was pretty sure we weren’t going to get the 3D Freddyvision experience for this particular screening but, even so, it was all downhill from here, or so I hoped. The folks who had wandered up to the foyer seemed to be getting their second wind and I hadn’t seen anyone give up and leave the cinema so this was a hardy flock of souls, to be sure.
The gap between the end of The Dream Child and the beginning of Freddy’s Dead was just ten minutes, so there was just about time to catch breath before Rachel Talalay’s series closer, which picks up “ten years from now” in an Ohio town called Springwood where Freddy has murdered everyone under eighteen, except for one (un)lucky teenager who sustains a head injury and ends up at a shelter for troubled youths where Lisa Zane’s Dr. Maggie Burroughs works.
Maggie tries to unlock the memories of the amnesiac teen by taking a road trip to Springwood, but things quickly go awry and the doc is pulled into the world of Freddy, unaware that she has a connection to the Elm Street killer and the scene is set for one last showdown. In Freddy’s mind. In 3D!
Well, actually, not in 3D. As I mentioned previously, I thought Freddy’s Dead would be shown “flat” and this proved to be the case. I have seen it in the version where you get to put on the crappy red/green cardboard specs and I have seen it without the bins and, although the initial 3D viewing was a novelty, I’d rather not get a headache and I’m fine with enduring various items and effects being pushed towards the lens in a slightly artificial way. It’s nowhere near as overt as the plethora of stuff being shoved into your fizzog when you watch the 2D version of Friday The 13th Part 3.
As for the film itself, I have a fairly large amount of affection for Freddy’s Dead. It spins the plot off into various offbeat directions and a lot of the humour lands without detracting from some nifty kills. The callbacks to the previous movies are all woven into a story which actually works and there’s a tendency to embrace its more creatively daft moments, while still managing to unnerve in several places, chiefly the flashbacks where the urban, unburned Englund proves to be the father and husband from Hell.
The tagline “They saved the best for last” isn’t true – could it ever have been? – and it was never going to satisfy a legion of fans who were waiting to see Freddy die in the most prolonged and spectacular fashion, but the final act is an enjoyable one, Zane makes for an appealing protagonist and you have the great Yaphet Kotto dispensing advice from the sidelines. Add to this a cracker of a cameo from early Krueger victim Johnny Depp and some of the ickiest ear violation since Chekov got his lug invaded in Star Trek II: The Wrath Of Khan and you’d have to be a curmudgeon to find absolutely nothing to like during its trim runtime, even when the approach is as wacky and, at points, downright irreverent as this.
Okay, so maybe having Freddy quoting a line from The Wizard Of Oz while he’s flying on a broomstick alongside an airliner is going to irk the purists but, six movies in, maybe it was time to be irksome and I very much like the cut of Talalay’s gib here. If you are one of those folks pining for the high points of those earlier movies, the end credits provide a potted history of the Elm Street saga and you can point to the screen and say how much better it was before they decided to make a second one.
Also, to the naysayers, I don’t recall hearing anyone snoring during Freddy’s Dead, so that whole “worst of the lot” tag slapped on it from some quarters was not replicated in Sheffield.
After sticking around to be a part of the Survivor’s Photo, which demonstrated that the NOES marathon attendees were at least coherent, if not exactly bright-eyed and bushy tailed, I had time to burn (rather than a school janitor) before heading to the railway station and a mug of strong tea seemed the perfect accompaniment to reflect upon the festivities.
Should you do this kind of thing? Absolutely.
Will you regret it? Almost instantly. Your arse will almost certainly be numb. Your legs will feel like they belong to someone else and you will suddenly not be able to think straight, even though you think you’re thinking straight. However, once those feelings have subsided and once you’ve managed to catch up on your sleep, you’ll realise that both the cinema and the horror community is built for nights like this.
You’re part of a weird family that comes together for this kind of occasion. Few other people will understand why, but it’s not about them. It’s about a horrifically scarred murderer offing innocent folks over the course of half a dozen films and appreciating the meta undertone of not falling asleep during a franchise where its characters die when they doze off. And if you survive the night, you’ve beaten Freddy in your own unique way.
Thanks must go to Celluloid Screams Director Of Programming Rob Nevitt for organising the event and putting together all of the between film entertainment. Rob’s efforts to keep the Celluloid Screams regulars and willing newbies amused over the years must be recognised. There was talk of other potential all-nighters and one offs, the most bizarre suggestion being Guest Fest, in which 2014 Dan Stevens starrer The Guest plays repeatedly over a twenty-four hour period. Do you know what? I’d probably get a ticket for that one.
Freddy (Thom Mathews) is a new employee at the Uneeda Medical Supply Warehouse in Louisville, Kentucky. Supervisor Frank (James Karen) attempts to give this thoroughly unglamourous form of employment some umph by taking Freddy to the basement, where drums of a toxic gas called 2-4-5 Trioxin have been stashed by the military. Frank accidentally breaks one of the drums and the gas is unleashed, making Frank and Freddy unwell, but rejuvenating a cadaver which is being stored in a nearby meat locker. Warehouse owner Burt (Clu Gulager) joins Frank and Freddy as they attempt to deal with the reanimated corpse, but that’s just the start of their troubles…
Having recently covered a forty-fifth anniversary screening of The Fog, it’s time for the same bunch of folks to feel ancient all over against as life begins for Dan O’Bannon’s comedic, irreverent, lightly punk rock flavoured take on Night Of The Living Dead, postulating the events of that classic as a fictionalised version of an actual event which took place. This causes its central characters to question what works and what doesn’t when it comes to disposing of the undead. This also leads to the line “You mean the movie lied?” It’s not a bad question, Burt.
Away from the increasing chaos at Uneeda, Freddy’s sweet, innocent girlfriend Tina (Beverly Randolph) and a bunch of their friends are waiting for him to finish work and, as this is a horror film, they choose to while away this time at the local cemetery. For anyone well versed in this flick, this is the point at which Linnea Quigley does what Linnea Quigley did in many an 80s title, which is disrobe. As much as the story tries to give Quigley’s character some kind of motivation for dancing naked on a gravestone, it’s the flimsiest of excuses and she’s still dancing naked on a gravestone no matter how much you try to (un)dress it up (down). Hey, gratuitous nudity was very much the order of the day in that decade and we can all recoil in 2025-inflected horror at it now.
As a matter of fact, Freddy’s circle of friends is somewhat incongruous, mixing odd takes on society’s fringe types in the form of Spider and Mark Venturini’s permanently angry, inaccurately monikered Suicide with tropey, virginal squares such as John Philbin’s Chuck. These folks would not hang out together and would certainly not hang around in graveyards for a couple of hours to kill time while their mate finishes their shift. Still, TROTLD isn’t here for accuracy in either its characterisations or its fleet-of-foot, verbally adept zombies. It’s a knockabout mash up of impressive gore effects and broad comedy, with the Karen/Mathews double act bringing the chuckles and a surprising amount of pathos, come the final act.
Modern horror fans won’t be watching through their fingers – it’s not especially scary and it hasn’t dated nearly as badly as some of its other stablemates from that decade – but it rattles along, puts the prosthetic work front and centre and has a couple of cracking running gags. Also, the joke with the eye chart will never fail to raise a laugh from me and the dialogue in the foreground carries on just long enough for the viewer to read all of it (although you’ll probably find yourself squinting if you don’t see it on a big screen). Very much like Night Of The Living Dead, this return comes complete with its own climactic kicker, although this one is less of a slap in the face than George A. Romero’s original punchline, despite this one’s destructive, darkly comedic resolution.
Whether or not this counts as genuine punk rock – and I’ve a feeling that a lot of Brits will think the movie is far too polite to earn that label – The Return Of The Living Dead is still tons of fun forty years on. The practical effects alone would make it worth a watch, but there’s a knowing, often wry script from O’Bannon, running with Russo and Streiner’s seminal storyline to offbeat effect. Yes, there’s increasing wailing from Mathews and Karen as they realise their exposure to the Trioxin may have some terrifyingly permanent side effects, but for every moment in the second half which confuses volume with impact, there are several others which will have horror fans guffawing, applauding the effects, or both. Overall, you may be in little danger of splitting your sides but if you are, this has the answer: Send more paramedics!
The Return of the Living Dead (2025) featured at this year’s Celluloid Screams Festival.
Dre (Katy O’Brian) is an event organiser, DJ and general fixer at Bushwick’s Yum club, which is all set to bring in the punters with a drag show featuring top notch headliner Yasmine (Dominique Jackson). However, the draw of a more lucrative gig for Glitter Bitch Vodka has Yasmine heading for the hills – well, heading for a glitzy promo tent – and Dre is left with a spectacular hole in the evening which veteran performer Ginsey Tonic (Nina West) is wary of trying to cover. Enter Sam (Jaquel Spivey), who has left the world of drag behind and is working at a local hospital, which is also where we find Dre’s wife Lizzy (Riki Lindhome). Stay with me…
Sam and Dre have history, because Sam left Dre in the lurch at a previous show and the idea that Sam could sashay back in to save the day doesn’t exactly fill Dre with confidence. Could it be time for the sassy, up and coming Nico (Tomas Matos), aka Scrumptious, to bring the star quality? Ginsey is definitely not besties with the headstrong Nico and would rather rely on Sam to make a glorious comeback, but Sam isn’t even sure of themselves. Also, regardless of the talent roster, will the show go on at all? There’s an inconvenient outbreak of a zombie virus about to hit the city. With me? Good.
This isn’t a George Romero movie – along the way, you’re literally going to be told that, by a key player in the canon – but it is a Tina Romero movie, who picks up the baton from her father, respects the legacy but switches to a lane which is very much her own, resulting in a zombie flick that’s both reassuringly familiar and bracingly fresh. There’s siege action from Night, the importance of cultural touchstones from Dawn and musical cues direct from Day, but all of this is seamlessly woven into a genuinely inclusive, frequently amusing and unshakably modern take on that serviceable, decades-old premise.
As much as Queens Of The Dead plants its extravagant heel in LGBTQ+ territory – I mean, come on, look at the title – the overriding message is one of understanding, unity and finding common ground. The movie’s one obviously straight character Barry (Quincy Dunn-Baker) is set up as the unreconstructed bigot and figure of ridicule, but the story reveals him to be much more than that as he tries to adapt to a world of pronouns he can never seem to get right first time. That said, there’s a softer edge to this than George’s often harsh takes on the world, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t political, it’s just wrapped in a suitably matching velvet glove.
Like any successful movie in the Romeroverse, characters are given space to breathe and this may prove a sticking point for those hankering for unrelenting battles with the undead. There is gore but the levels of splatter are relatively low, with the battles often leaning into the humour of the outrageous situations rather than mining them for outright horror. That doesn’t mean the sense of fun dissipates the tension, as our ragtag band of erstwhile zombie killers are sufficiently developed to create a sense of genuine worry whenever they’re placed in peril.
O’Brian is possibly the best known of the cast after her superb turn in Love Lies Bleeding and certainly gives a fine performance here, but the role isn’t afforded extra attention merely because of who she is. Dre is part of the wider ensemble in a story which dishes out its standout moments in even-handed fashion. In particular, the relationship between West and Jackson is warm and lovely and there’s a feeling of lived, affectionate history as they reunite for what turns out to be the biggest show of their lives.
For anyone who hasn’t seen a George A. Romero zombie flick – no judgement here, but is there anyone who hasn’t seen a George A. Romero zombie flick? – the nods to previous movies aren’t intrusive and even the most obvious, featuring the city’s rather dubious Mayor, is both brief and chucklesome. It’s also nice to see a Gaylen Ross cameo, a reporter by the name of Jill Cardille, as well as a second act scene stealer from Margaret Cho as the no-nonsense Pops, some hilarious, impromptu lyrics invention from the sweet Kelsey (Jack Haven) and the affecting journey – in all senses of that phrase – of the transitioning Jane (Eve Lindsey)…there’s plenty going on here, but the plot plates are kept spinning with some skill.
Queens Of The Dead may not spill the guts with the regularity and elan of Dawn, nor does it have the apocalyptic chill of Day but it’s rather fabulous in its own way, forging a unique identity and providing a thoroughly accessible view of drag culture. Although it’s a film which has the word Dead as a prominent component of both its title and action, you’ll find a constantly life-affirming piece, ultimately choosing hope rather than Hell on Earth. If the series is to continue, Tina’s grasp of the overriding framework is as impressive as you’d expect, but also has the confidence to bring her own experiences to bear. I think George would really enjoy this one.
Queens of the Dead (2025) was this year’s opening film at Celluloid Screams UK.
Mickey (Stephen Reilly) is a labourer who wants much more out of life. When he meets Kenny (Johnny Wilson) in a bar, he finds himself with a sideline gig of peddling drugs for gang boss Luther (Peter Hirst) but Mickey wants much more than that and, if he’s going to take risks, he’d like to be at the top of the tree rather than being thrown scraps from up on high. Does Mickey have what it takes to wipe out everyone standing in his way and fall to the top?
Once again, we’re on those mean streets of London and we’re back in gangster territory, but Fall To The Top brings a more regional flavour to the usual diet of booze, drugs, knives and shooters. It takes me right back to the shot on video stylings of Mancunian movie mogul Cliff Twemlow’s delirious 80s crime epic GBH. Yes, this one was filmed in 4K rather than VHS – affordable camera tech has moved on – but all of that decades-old grunge, grime and gumption to make something from nothing is resurrected in an all hands on deck, genuinely guerrilla filmmaking project.
Up front, I need to say this. Fall To The Top is rough around the edges and if some of its technical side happens to feel like the cast and crew were learning on the job, well, they were learning on the job. If you’re looking for the sheen and polished wisecracking of an early Guy Ritchie caper, you won’t believe your mince pies. This is scuzzy, off the cuff stuff. It also has Paul Chuckle as the fever dream version of The Terminator. You can go back and read that last sentence again to check you didn’t just have a stroke.
Given that this movie was made on a wing, a prayer, and the hope that something even vaguely coherent would be the result, the finished product does end up being more than vaguely coherent. Despite there being zero budget for elaborate action set pieces (or, indeed, zero budget for much of anything), the team behind this throw themselves into it with a great deal of heart and, although in my view the shootouts need judicious trimming, the crunchy fight sequences often land a lot better than I’d expected.
Performance wise, Reilly seems to be going for a bit of Jimmy Cagney – not a bad choice – and there’s one particular moment of violence which is a bit of an unexpected gut punch, literally. The cast is extensive and lacking in experience but hey, if you’ve got your mates involved, why not give them roles, even if the roles are to be killed off by no-nonsense criminal types? Hirst and Wilson are the standouts, the former bringing a level of quiet menace to his role as the kingpin and the latter giving a charismatic and amusing turn as the eminently practical and often exasperated Kenny.
This isn’t the kind of fare that you’d see at your local Odeon. Those brought up on a diet of studio output are going to be utterly bewildered by Fall To The Top, and that’s even before Chuckle shows up. When he does show up, as a fixer called The Jackal, it’s a delirious cameo that has to be seen to be believed. It’s his gift to you (to me, to you, to me, to you). I am never taking that line out of this review.
Lo-fi this most certainly is and the proceedings, certainly in the second half, lean less into plot diversions and more into a procession of so many folks dying that you wonder if there’ll be anyone left to sell any drugs at all by the credits. The inevitable fate of the increasingly vicious and substance addled Mickey is offset by a darkly amusing, late in the day switch which is accompanied by one act and one line of dialogue that, regardless of your thoughts on the previous carnage, ought to at least make you think that moment is nicely played.
Fall To The Top is unpolished to the point that, if you’re not into low, low budget exploitation flicks and filmmaking on the hoof, it may not chime with your idea of cinema and that’s fine. For me, there’s always something fascinating about the alchemy of just getting a movie made and screened, doubly so if it’s done with enthusiasm and not driven by the cynicism to make a quick buck out of whatever happens to be the latest trend. This could definitely benefit from another pass at the edit, but this also has more bags of coke than the final scene of Scarface, a hilariously succinct explanation of how drug trafficking works and there’s one half of Chucklevision right there, on screen, portraying an agent of chaos. If that doesn’t have you at least slightly interested, I don’t know what to tell you.
Fall To The Top featured at this year’s Spirit of Independence Film Festival in Sheffield, UK.
Tattoo artist Tales (Lorn McDonald) is living in his place of work after being kicked out by his girlfriend. In the middle of the night, he’s awoken by a phone call from a guy called Truth (Michael Akinsulire) who represents a well-known figure who needs some new ink right now and has heard Tales is the man for the job. Having accepted the request, Tales is surprised to discover that his latest client is none other than music star of the moment Tummy (Orlando Norman) and asks for a selfie. To the chagrin of Tales, Tummy refuses, which triggers the beginning of an increasingly strange battle of wills as Tales makes it his mission to end the night with that precious selfie in his possession…
Getting to the heart of the matter in double quick time, placing the protagonists in a powder keg of a situation where both physical and mental escape turns out not to be an option, Ciaran Lyons’ film may be small in physical scale but big on ideas, interrogating masculinity itself by means of an ongoing psychological tussle between Tales and Tummy, the former taunted by the latter’s repeated, one line instruction. Tales must abide by said instruction if he has any chance of getting the coveted selfie and Tummy doesn’t appear to be budging in his commitment to challenging Tales over the course of what could be a very long day.
Initially, Tummy appears to be the laid back, softly spoken aggressor, taunting Tales with a reward he hasn’t even promised and may never actually give but as the story moves on, so does the dynamic between the pair, leaving the viewer questioning not only what the hell is going on and what may or may not transpire but also who has the genuine ego problem. Along the way, we’re introduced to the women in Tales’ complex and often disastrous love life, tellingly heard at a distance down a phone line or listened to behind a locked shutter, as is the case with recent romantic interest Shimmy (an excellent debut from Gudrun Roy) who has a lot to say about their relationship.
Tummy Monster is a film that rarely heads in obvious directions and, as such, folks waiting to see if the plot drags in violence and torture porn – which it could lazily and quite easily have done – will be thrown by the lack of claret-soaked face-offs. It’s the dialogue which does the real damage as Tales’ takes on himself and those around him are laid bare by someone at the opposite end of society’s spectrum. It’s elevated further still by a dazzling performance from McDonald, with Norman as a capable and crafty foil for the increasingly unhinged antics which unfold.
Laugh out loud funny at times, nail chewingly tense at others, Tummy Monster is an impressive, genre flipping calling card for Lyons, helming his first feature with confidence and flair. The interactions between the three leads are sharp without ever being silly, which is an achievement given the increasingly ludicrous bind Tales realises he’s in, leading to a last act which reminded me of an even better Locke and replacing concrete with someone particularly special in our (anti-)hero’s life.
Homing in on the not-exclusively – but often destructive – male drive for competition and recognition, plus the inevitable fallout which often comes with both of those, the tale hits hard when contrasting Tales and Tummy’s approaches to their creative lives and their very different views of notoriety. There’s a cautionary note of being careful what you wish for running through this, embodied by Tummy’s powerful, rueful moment of reflecting upon people not being interested in his life beyond the public persona and Tales’ griping about not being appreciated for his artistry.
Tummy Monster may initially come across as bizarre, brash and bawdy but there’s intelligence, heart and wisdom at its core. Like Tales’ cultural icon turned nemesis, there are points at which you will feel your buttons are being pushed, but that’s all part of the experience and, in my book at least, there’s nothing wrong with being tested in this way. It also winds up with a doozy of a payoff which may leave you wondering whether to spew or snort. Endlessly talky? Perhaps. Endlessly entertaining? Yes.
Tummy Monster (2024) featured at this year’s Spirit of Independence Film Festival in Sheffield, UK.
After the death of her father, Charlotte (Kelsey Cooke) faces a mountain of debt and the prospect of losing the fabulous holiday villa she currently resides in. Via social media, she hooks up with Danni (Sophie Ablett) who joins her in sunny Spain and the two concoct a plan to stream – and charge for – camgirl content which will hopefully generate the necessary cash to pay off the house, keep the wolves from the door and give Charlotte a happy ever after. However, they can’t do this alone and soon they’re joined by three very different online personalities in order to satiate online demand and generate a whole pile of money. What could possibly go wrong? Plenty, as you’ve probably guessed.
The tagline for The Quiet Ones is “They went viral. Then things got violent.” These two things both happen, but not in the way you might be expecting. Writer/director Nicholas Winter’s thriller, complete with an all-female cast, steers well away from the kind of material that a similarly-themed 1990s straight to video erotic thriller would have charged headlong into. If Greg Dark had taken the same story structure but focused on a bespoke VHS tape venture featuring tailored content provided by Shannon Whirry and Delia Sheppard, the BBFC would have chopped several minutes out of it before it even hit the shelves (even then, all of the rental copies would have probably been knackered after a couple of months). Here, there’s no nudity, very little bloodshed and it’s all resolutely unexploitative.
So, if you’re still with me after I’ve revealed that, does the distinct lack of sleaze make for an odd viewing experience? Actually, it doesn’t. The story is more concerned with the gradual breakdown in communication between the five women involved as the stakes are upped and an element of genuine danger comes into play. The escalating competition between Danni and first draftee Brylee (Isadora Leiva) in terms of who’s going to make the most money by the end of the month is never going to end well, with Brylee posing a serious threat to Danni’s territory and an increasingly nervous Charlotte just along for the ride.
Rounding out the five is sweet, innocent Violet (Sofia Shallai) and jet-setting Fabienne (Alina Tamara), pairing off with Danni and Brylee respectively, playing into different kinks of audience, both online and in the cinema. The fact that these archetypes are likely to annoy each other is hardly downplayed but the flashpoints don’t always lead to the expected explosion – there’s a final act for that kind of thing. That said, there’s a decent build of tension and the performances are fun, particularly Ablett and Shallai’s mismatch of a double act. Cooke is good, too, in a guarded, grounded role which means she doesn’t get to cut loose as much as her generally wilder housemates, but essays a convincing line in standing on the sidelines looking more and more concerned as things slide out of control.
The look of The Quiet Ones is impressive. The cinematography is glossy and the visual effects conjure not just the technology of this decade, but also the spirits of video games past, with fun, 8-bit style character introductions and selections. Often, there’s plenty happening on screen which mirrors the world of the influencer, but the general vibe isn’t shoved down the viewer’s throat and there’s no rush to either condone or condemn, more that this is how “reality” is now and it’s how we all deal with it.
Arguably, the payoff isn’t as strong as it could have been. The tip over into ultimately lethal behaviour is almost instant, which doesn’t allow enough time to fully take in the sudden shift. However, the final, chaotic confrontations are still fine for a few chills and the rather cold, almost throwaway ending is a nice touch. If you’re looking for unfiltered sex and violence, The Quiet Ones is going to leave you hanging, but its surprisingly chaste approach may prove a paradoxically provocative one for some. If you’re asking where all of the nudity is, it’s in those Greg Dark films. This is still an adult thriller, but not quite as we’ve previously seen the genre.
The Quiet Ones screened as part of this year’s Spirit of Independence Festival in Sheffield, UK.
Having knocked it out of the park twice in a row with 1976’s Assault On Precinct 13 and 1978’s Halloween (three times if you count 1974’s Dark Star, which I do), it’s safe to say that John Carpenter had folks clamouring for his next project. For some, it was a surprise that, after the nigh on perfectly assembled shock machine which propelled Jamie Lee Curtis to S-tier scream queendom, his next project would be an atmospheric, slow burn of a ghost story.
The notices were middling, to say the least, as reviewers took aim at the plodding pace, lack of a decent villain and a piece bogged down by too many storylines. Few people hated it, but few people loved it. As the years passed, The Fog steadily garnered a cult following and, as a result, subsequent re-appraisals of the movie have been much kinder to it. It made number seventy-seven on Time Out’s 2010 list of the top one hundred horror films. Carpenter himself has a lot of affection for the film, even though it’s not his personal favourite and the desire for a redo with higher production values was one of the factors which led to the 2005 remake. So, forty-five years on, are we talking a genuine classic, or a serviceable shocker boosted by a wave of nostalgia?
Firstly, regardless of issues that could be levelled at the pacing, it’s difficult to criticise the look and feel of The Fog. The 2.35:1 format accentuates the sweep of the piece and the opportunity for the viewer to sit back and appreciate the beauty of the compositions is welcome. It may take a while for the titular, spooky weather front to hit, but its slow creep towards Antonio Bay is still good for a few jolts before the main event of the final act.
It’s possible that Carpenter is a little too in love with this world and wants you to soak up as much of the community vibe as possible rather than actually getting on with things. This doesn’t lean on the dependable tick-over of Halloween’s body count, although the occupants of a trawler are killed off early on to establish that Blake and his fellow spectral sailors on the Elizabeth Dane aren’t mucking about. The lore specifies that six must die, which admittedly puts a dampener on the proceedings for anyone expecting a climactic, no holds barred, spirits versus Antonio Bay smackdown.
Another rule governing the ghouls getting their revenge on is a restrictive murdering period of just midnight to one o’clock. This hamstrings the story in that we know there’s not going to be any additions to the roster of kills until the killing hour swings around but the script, by Carpenter and Debra Hill, mines chills and shocks from the investigations of Nick Castle (see what they did there?), played by Tom Atkins in the first of his “shag the hitchhiker and solve the mystery” double bill. Before Tom charmed the pants off Stacey Nelkin in Halloween III: Season Of The Witch, Jamie Lee Curtis – weirdly underused here as screamy, supporting object of protection that is Liz – was the one to say yes to the Atkins diet.
Perhaps the reason that some of the characters feel underwritten is that there’s so many of them fighting for space in what is generally a straightforward plot. Antonio Bay’s one hundredth anniversary celebrations are given regular focus as Kathy Williams and her capable sidekick Nancy attempt to keep the festivities on track and, to be fair, Janet Leigh and Nancy Loomis make for an engaging double act. However, switching from a nail-biting scene of a body rising from the slab and closing in on the permanently unaware Liz to the latest issue with the town’s event planning isn’t necessarily a recipe for generating tension.
It’s to Carpenter’s credit as a filmmaker that such a slim tale feels like it has far more meat on its bones and we all know that the guy can put together a suspense sequence in his sleep. This is particularly evident as Blake’s boys close in on the main players, including now iconic genre figure Stevie Wayne, the town’s DJ, played by Adrienne Barbeau. Stevie’s main crime seems to be broadcasting light jazz and big band tunes for seven hours of an evening, but the lighthouse from which she spins the platters that don’t matter is a beacon for those salty phantoms. Her scramble up to the rooftop and subsequent battle with two hook wielding attackers still cuts the mustard all these years later, as does the Night Of The Living Dead-inflected assault on the church of Hal Holbrook’s Father Malone.
Holbrook is, as always, excellent, but he’s often relegated to doling out exposition or prophesising doom for both himself and his flock. Even so, he manages to make an impact, as does the superb John Houseman, turning up in a lovely cameo to set the pre-titles table with a scary campfire story. Elsewhere, the Carpenter rep company is on below the line duty, with Charles Cyphers playing a weatherman called Dan O’Bannon (see what they did there?) and George “Buck” Flower as the seagoing Tommy Wallace (see what they did there?). Darwin Joston also shows up, relocating from Precinct 13 to play a doctor whose surname is revealed to be Phibes (!) during the end credit crawl.
Perhaps the lukewarm reception of this, both from critics and audiences, drove Carpenter to more action-heavy territory for his next movie, the peerless Escape From New York. However, there’s much to commend The Fog, most notably the visual impact of a slow moving, but nevertheless inescapable threat and a motley crew of superbly silhouetted, leprosy infected seafarers whose nightmarish visages are merely glimpsed and otherwise left to the imagination of the watcher.
In keeping with Halloween,The Fog also swerves any genuinely gory business but still manages to provide several frissons with its brief, jarring – but essentially bloodless – violence. It also lands a final, grim punchline as someone who can’t believe just how they survived the night suddenly discovers they won’t. You’ll probably see it coming just as much as the poor sod on the receiving end of something sharp doesn’t, but that doesn’t stop it from being fun.
The Fog may sometimes creak as much as the boards of the Elizabeth Dane, but there’s no denying that it still works beautifully as a compelling horror piece which refuses to wallow in blood and guts. You may not be as terrified as those early 1980s cinema goers – who themselves may have been expecting more of the unrelenting, seat grabbing tension of Halloween – but it continues to be creepy in all of the right places, backed up with another fine Carpenter synth score. To anyone reading this, look across the water, into the darkness. Look for The Fog.
The Fog (1980) screened as part of this year’s Spirit of Independence Festival in Sheffield, UK.
In 1988, paranormal investigators Mick Sutherland (Myles McEwen) and Archie Charlesworth (Ripley Stevens) are called to the home of one Elizabeth Blair in order to confront a series of unexplained phenomena unlike any they’ve seen in their burgeoning careers as detectives of the supernatural. Over the course of seven days, the pair will uncover the mystery surrounding this deadly force, threatening not only the bond between them but their very lives. This is Case 13.
Directed by McEwen and Stevens, who also assume various other behind the camera duties, Nightfall would initially appear to be walking in the ghostly footsteps of familiar, metaphysical thriller fare, but soon diverts into a disturbing yarn with its own offbeat style, at least for the first hour in any case. The visuals, sound design, performances and distinctive character details all work to create an eerie, sparse, unnerving world in which flamboyant jump scares are replaced by the disquieting thrum of an entity floating on the edges of reality. Although, to be fair, there’s a couple of pretty big jump scares as well.
It helps that Sutherland and Charlesworth aren’t your usual travellers into the unknown, as they awkwardly trudge around haunted locales, possessing more of a kinship with the spirit world than the flesh and blood humans they occasionally need to question. The contrast between them is stark, too. Sutherland is logical, rational, organised. Charlesworth is a clairvoyant who’s thoroughly uncommunicative in normal conversation, but possesses the gift/curse of being able to speak in a psychic language, hearing messages from the other side, few of them good. It’s a far cry from, say, the multiplex-friendly, retro glamour of the Warrens in the Conjuring movies and there’s a fascinating dynamic between our two heroes which holds the interest far beyond the creaking doors and flickering lamps.
McEwen is also on writing, cinematography and editing duties, so do those multi-hyphenate tendencies have a detrimental effect on any department? Not at all. Nightfall is crisply cut together, mixing not only various grades of footage but possessing both a cinematic and a documentary eye for detail, contrasting the beautiful and the mundane. The screenplay throws in some reliable touchstones, but the proceedings never feel as if there must be a seat-grabbing shock every ten minutes.
The introduction of a countdown, with the main thrust of the tale dropping the viewer into Case 13 a week before the confrontation which truly stamped their career cards, may immediately give rise to thoughts of wanting to get to the denouement, but the detours are strange, engagingly creepy and give the necessary depth to our occasionally dynamic duo. A deftly curated soundtrack, ranging from a sweet but, in this situation, ominous choral piece through to sampled scratches of dialogue and industrial buzzing serves to maintain the level of discomfort.
The final quarter of an hour does ditch some of the more esoteric stylings for some good old creeping around a dark house and waiting for the next noise to ring out, but even that hackneyed found footage staple seems fresher and more chilling here. Perhaps that’s down to the overriding lack of hyperbole in the piece and a pair of protagonists whose vulnerability ramps up the concern of the audience, particularly during a moment when Mick realises that they’re in genuine danger and may be hopelessly out of their depth.
If the climax leans into more recognisable genre beats, including a smash to black as all hell breaks loose, Nightfall pulls the rug again, switching to an enigmatic closer which may thwart those weaned on the “jump/scream/credits” triumvirate but fits the eldritch template of this project perfectly. The unwillingness to spell everything out – or, at some points, spell almost nothing out whatsoever – gives the film its curious power. Without the budget for huge, destructive set pieces or CGI spirits from the other side, Nightfall trusts in imagination and atmosphere to make the watcher glance anxiously behind them. For a good proportion of its eighty minutes, it succeeds and I hope that this isn’t the last we’ve seen of Mick and Archie, or indeed Myles McEwen and Ripley Stevens.
Nightfall: A Paranormal Investigation screened at this year’s Spirit of Independence Festival in Sheffield, UK. For more details, check them out on Instagram.
So goes an early voiceover by Carrie (Rainey Qualley), who is working on a book about the local legend of Pig Hill, centred around mutant, porcine creatures who are supposedly responsible for a string of young women going missing. We’ve already seen the latest of these disappearances in the cold open, in which a couple foolishly heads to the titular area for a romantic detour that turns bloody rather quickly.
Carrie is putting her life together after splitting from husband Ben, a matter which is further complicated by the fact that Carrie’s brother Chris (Shiloh Fernandez) happens to be Ben’s business partner. Chris is protective of his little sister, driving her to and from the women’s shelter at which Carrie volunteers, the latest arrival being the pregnant Paula (Isabella Brenza) who claims have escaped Pig Hill but now has a pig baby inside her…
Kevin Lewis previously helmed Willy’s Wonderland, a movie I didn’t get on with. However, none of my criticisms were anything to do with the direction and, working from a twisty Jarrod Burris script and with agreeable contributions from a solid cast, this one held my interest far more than Nic Cage versus animatronic enemies. If you were wondering, Rainey Qualley is Margaret’s sister, both the family resemblance and acting chops being present.
Starting out like a slasher film, moving into smalltown drama before launching into creepy investigation thriller, then taking a swerve towards grimy kidnapping fare and finally landing in depraved, psychological trauma, Pig Hill is nothing if not ambitious in its mixing of genre and tone.
It’s based on a novel by Nancy Williams and this may be a major reason that it’s more focused on its main protagonists than many stories of this type would be, playing out extended scenes between either Carrie and Chris or Carrie and recently returned Andy (Shane West), their initial catch-up at a bar introducing a spritz of will they/won’t they romance to the already loaded genre cocktail. Andy, surprise, has his own predictably tragic backstory, but West is more than personable enough to make the gruesome but also faintly ridiculous tale work and there’s an accurately awkward chemistry with Qualley which makes them a fun pairing.
Meadville proves to be a supporting character itself, full of folks attempting to get by but restricted by both the limitations of opportunity and, of course, the possibility that human/pig hybrids are waiting to pluck them out of the night. Jeff Monahan’s shabby, strange but well-meaning Reggie and R. A. Mihailoff’s unhinged Red offer both ends of the Meadville oddball spectrum. Mihailoff, also on producing duties, provides most of the first half’s obvious (too obvious?) suspect activity, bolstered by the fact that he also played Leatherface in the third instalment of that franchise.
For anyone expecting a sizeable body count, Pig Hill is more concerned with delving into the central mystery than just piling up corpses. However, there are a handful of moments which are startingly, unrelentingly nasty and will disturb those looking for a clue-laden crime tale and violence which is more of the suggested kind. Anyone in a queasy mood by around the seventy five minute mark is likely to get the full-blown ick, which in itself is a bold move, but leaves the viewer with an unpleasant taste, regardless of Qualley’s terrific work in that climax.
If anything, there’s too much going on Pig Hill for some of it to land properly and the tonal lurches may ultimately lose the audience, which would be a shame because, overall, this is a curious mix of storytelling styles that is worth sticking with if you have a strong constitution. At one point, there’s some skulking around accompanied with some amusing, Scooby Doo style nervy humour which leads to a bloody fight and ends up someone getting a cleaver embedded in the back of their head. If you’re good with that switch in mood, the rest of this movie should keep you gripped. For everyone else, look away immediately after the line “I told you to kill it.”
Pig Hill may veer off in too many directions to result in a piece of work that’s fully coherent, but I can’t fault the keenness of the filmmakers in their desire to confound the expectations of those watching it. It’s a mix of the sweet and the sadistic, the puzzling and the perverse. The swings taken are admirable, but they also may be the reason that you may be left wondering who it was made for.
Pig Hill (2025) featured at this year’s London FrightFest.
1892. California. It’s then and there we find novelist Emma Strand (Scottie Thompson) holidaying with artist husband Albert (Connor Paolo) and doing their best to enjoy a day on the beach when they meet George Ford (Jilon VanOver) and his wife Lillian (Vivian Kerr). After a mannered and somewhat awkward chat, the four end up at the house of the Fords for dinner, despite the fact there’s a storm brewing, both figuratively and literally.
Putting these four people under one roof is hardly the best of ideas for any number of reasons. Emma and Albert’s marriage appears to be under some strain. George just happens to be Emma’s previous husband and there’s a definite spark between them. To top off this most testing of evenings, Lillian suggests holding a séance in order to communicate with their daughter Hazel, who has recently passed away. Not wanting to agitate the fragile Lillian, the rest agree. Now, what’s going on with those creepy looking dolls and unexplained noises around the place?
Taking its inspiration from a play by August Strindberg, Séance’s limited locations, small cast and emphasis on interpersonal interaction over generic horror action could easily be adapted for that particular arena but director/writer/performer Kerr’s flair for a dimly lit, nighttime wander around a shadowy Victorian mansion or a woozy, tragic flashback plant this firmly in the realm of the cinematic experience.
For a movie which such a title, the actual séance doesn’t occur until over a half hour into the movie and it’s over in a few minutes. However, the brittle connection between the foursome and the unfailing politeness of Victorian society paves the way for the ritual, then informs the behaviour of the increasingly fraught four afterwards as the puzzle deepens. Does the spirit of Hazel still reside in the house, as Lillian believes?
The fact that Séance doesn’t behave like your average haunted house movie, nor does it even attempt to scare the audience out of its wits, may prove an issue with those who expect the level of unease generated by such titles as The Haunting. There are a couple of jump scares, but there’s a feeling they’re included just to keep the viewer on their toes and supply genre nods as a reward for sticking with the tangled relationship drama and character development.
For me, the tangled relationship drama and character development is what sets Kerr’s film apart from the pack. The pacing is deliberate, the reveals controlled, the atmosphere charged with potential peril. All four protagonists are given the time to show themselves, every one of them painted in realistic shades of grey, making decisions which will raise questions as to their motives and possible involvement in the mystery.
Make no mistake, everyone on screen is doing great work here, but special mention must go to the superb Scottie Thompson. It’s almost impossible to take your eyes off her when she’s part of a scene, her face a picture of female strength in a patriarchal society but hinting at the turmoil under that surface. In many ways, she’s the de facto heroine of the piece, but she’s also thinking about leaving husband number two for ex-husband number one.
Kerr’s Lillian is initially presented as the bereaved, psychologically damaged archetype but this, like so much of the film, is also something of a front as we discover the details of her personality and her marriage to George. Speaking of George, VanOver is emblematic of the wealthy men of that era – gregarious and willing to provide, but also unable to fully come to terms with modern, self-sufficient women such as Emma whilst still desiring them. As for Paolo, his Albert is a mess of suppressed emotion and wouldn’t hurt a fly – or would he?
The final act amplifies both the Gothic melodrama and the horror but, once again, it’s on Séance’s own terms, swerving the gore and the screaming to interrogate a matter that’s unfortunately as prevalent today as it was back then, forcing the characters and the watcher to re-evaluate their positions in this strange story. The payoff is measured but satisfying and even if the final shot introduces one last chill that’s arguably unnecessary, it did make me smile.
Séance may not play to the jump scare crowd but if you’re looking for unhurried, intriguing development of well-defined, realistically flawed characters battling both the supernatural and the stifling moral code of the time, this is a wonderful way to spend eighty five minutes. The production design is attractive, the writing is sharp, the cast is exemplary. Vivian Kerr has crafted an uncommonly absorbing horror tale with intelligence and heart.
