Regional-Outback horror crammed into a giallo skeleton and fit with a gloved slaughter + all the shimmery steel/red herrings it brings, with distinct reminiscence in Psycho->Halloween slasherisms and similarly rendered cold from not only the grisly nature of murder in plain sight, but the futility of preventative (and any semblance of reactive, really) measures from badges in the face of death gone routine. Coda’s fascination stems from the peppery mettle of our two main protagonists, both whom aren’t necessarily undisturbed…

Supernatural haunt in the throes of island folklore hatched from guilt-ridden floorboards creaking with humidity, and a tongue-tied incapacity to articulate what the film’s palpable perspiration derives from. Gorgeous tracking shots and a careful balance of slow-burn suspense with illusions in the dark make this completely bewitching, scrambling for concrete explicability in the mystery coaxing us comparably to that of Blow-Up/Blow Out, but without a physical frame behind the victim’s attraction to latch onto, let alone define—the juice is in…

Who knew a Ouija board would be such a tenacious conduit for exploring brotherhood fallout and bridging the tear in its rift with the lowest of B-genre dispositions. Witchboard kicks off with what seems to have the volatility to go in any direction: a Final Destination precursor with supernatural demise picking off its offenders one by one; an obsessive/serial psychosis serving as the medium for something a little less ambiguous—ultimately what we get, though, is a horror-tinged drama that, despite…

The sorority girlies get caught in a web of Halloween-gone-Nightmare on Elm Street beneath the sweet, shining sun and the ceiling housing living room hypnosis both evoking a strange sense of nostalgia parallel to déjà vu, and the daze that accompanies this brand of stalker delirium. What would hardly be anything other than a sub-ordinary genre entry in the oversaturated craze of the 80s is almost shockingly palatable and just enough of its own flavor to remain intriguing and properly…

whew, what a mess. Barbarian strikes various interesting conversations more than capable of melding to horror in rewarding, visceral, and mentally/emotionally expressive ways: redlining, gentrification, moral vacuity, misogyny, and rotten byproducts of Reagan in suburbia into abandonment, and, it even assigns the presence of a hyper-violent figure as a ghastly thespian for the centerpiece of it all—yet, never once do any of these talking points mean anything, as genre tropes swallow the film whole within minutes, and regurgitate vignettes of forgettable…

such a sweet spot in horror, not only as a remarkable sequel that comes close to suring its original, but as one that properly turns its villainous icon into an allegory for mental illnesses that fall on deaf ears while simultaneously upping the nightmare realm through phenomenal practical effects and a keen eye for empowering survivors without losing itself to fantastical cheese—quite the mouthful, and quite the feat. Dream Warriors deeply defines its characters and thus enhances the familiar slumberscape while…