The flashback sequence which opens the film immediately highlights that this particular cannibal film is going to be radically different to the jungle adventures of Cannibal Holocaust (1980) and Cannibal Ferox (1981). This sequence is set in Vietnam as Captain Norman Hopper (John Saxon) and his platoon scoure the jungle for their imprisoned comrades. The two POW’s Charlie Bukowski (Giovanni Lombarde Radice) and Tom Thompson (Tony King) are so thankful to be released that one of them takes a big bite out of Hoppers arm. Unfortunately their time as Vietnamese POW’s has resulted in them becoming cannibals. The film never adequately explains how this happens, but it doesn’t really matter because we get to see plenty of shooting and the liberal shots of a soldier using a flamethrower. This sequence is marred somewhat by the cheapskate tactic of including library footage from the Vietnam War which is clumsily edited into the film. Visually at least the film gets on a more even keel when the actions shifts to Atlanta, Georgia. Hoppers nightmares are not the only manifestation of a mind troubled about events in Vietnam. The raw meat in his fridge becomes awfully tempting to him, and when seduced by the prick tease girl next door he has a little nibble on her. Meanwhile Bukowski is walking the streets (the film implies a failure in the psychiatric profession, but doesn’t have time to develop this critique) and pretty soon he’s dining on exposed human flesh. It doesn’t take long for the old Vietnam gang to get back together and pretty soon the cannibal contagion is spreading. Its up to seasoned veteran cop Captain McCoy (Wallace Wilkinson) to make the sure the spread is contained.

This film has more in common with zombie films than cannibal films. The rabies like disease that turns normal people into cannibals is really the disease of returning Vietnam veterans. The film doesn’t make any overt statement about this, but its fairly clear that the problem is the veterans themselves. The film offers no redeeming image of those who fought in the conflict, but instead seeks to emphasise their difference. They are all psychologically scarred by the conflict, but writer Dardano Sachetti goes a step further by suggesting the time spent in Indochina has altered the physical and cellular make up of these people. In this respect Cannibal Apocalypse belongs to a sub-genre of films dealing with returning Vietnam veterans that also includes Coming Home (1978), The Deer Hunter (1978) and First Blood (1982). In the shape of John Saxon the film has a protagonist with genuine pathos who is tortured by both guilt and the realisation of his difference. Radice also puts in a great performance as Bukowski whose demise in the sewers of Atlanta is the most memorable scene in the film. The labyrinthine tunnels and passageways of the sewer system offers an effective metaphor for the strangulating atmosphere of the Vietnam jungle, but just as effective is the urban nightmare of the inner city. This is as much a film about returning veterans failure to readjust to the concrete jungle. What elevates this above much of the product being produced in Italy at the time is the brilliant action scenes and numerous shootouts. Margheriti shows a real flair in his composition of these sequences that is distinctly lacking in the quieter moments of dialogue exchange. Not as gory or as violent as many of its contemporaries Cannibal Apocalypse has nevertheless endured considerable censorship over the years. Misleading title aside this is a solid and entertaining film which has more in common with Hollywood action films than the sadistic cannibal sub-genre which it is often placed in.

The film documents the efforts of Sir Hugo Cunningham (Robert Stephens) in his bid to gain immortality via the entrapment of The Asphyx. The Asphyx only comes into existence at the moment of death, so this affords the film a number of interesting sequences such as Cunningham electrifying himself to the point of death. The Asphyx itself is a piece of mystical nonsense, but its importance lies in propelling the narrative forward. It functions in much the same way as an Hitchcockian MacGuffin. The film isn’t really about The Asphyx but instead about one man’s efforts to control life and death, to gain power through the manipulation and control of nature. Cunningham’s initial motivations are powered by an objective desire to ensure that society advances in a progressive and liberal fashion (his outrage at a public hanging is evidence of this). Unfortunately the objective appeal of immortality soon makes way for a series of highly subjective decisions which lead to death and tragedy. Cunningham is a tragic but driven scientist who has buried one wife, and watched his son and fiancé perish in a boating accident. His zealous determination to continue the Cunningham line and immortalise his daughter Christina (Jane Lapotaire) and his adopted son Giles (Robert Powell) soon takes over any benevolent motivations that Cunningham may once have harboured.

The accidental death of Christina plunges Cunningham and Giles into a dilemma which is violently resolved with the suicide of Giles. The cold and implacable performance of Robert Powell makes this scene something of a surprise, and its place in the narrative seems somewhat contrived and inappropriate. With his Asphyx safely away behind a combination lock, the digits of which died with Giles, Cunningham faces a life of tortured immortality. The morality of most films that deal with immortality is that the condition is a curse rather than a utopian ideal. Cunningham is punished for playing god and belongs to a long line of well to do scientists who ultimately lack the maturity to deal with the forces they have unleashed. The 1872 Victorian setting places the film firmly into the Age of Reason and the modernism that was embraced in the name of this cause. Its attitude to science and technology is a cautious one – offering brilliance and hope in the shape of Cunningham’s moving pictures, but tragedy and death in the shape of the trapped Asphyx.

The film is book-ended by two sequences in modern day London. They add very little to the proceedings, apart from an absurd final image of the hideously aged Cunningham being crushed between two oncoming vehicles. But even these tacked on moments are invested with emotion and pathos by the gerbil (the first creature made immortal by Cunningham) being the only thing to which Cunningham as an emotional attachment. The film is perhaps a little philosophically weak and fails to follow through the metaphysical issues it raises, but credit must go to Brian Comport for a screenplay overflowing with ideas. The cinematography by celebrated DOP Freddie Young is outstanding at times, and it is essential that the film is enjoyed in its original aspect ratio and in a sufficiently decent print. If you can handle the deliberate and measured pace of the film and are interested in ideas rather than actions then there will be much in The Asphyx of interest.

By the time Corman decided to divert his attentions to an adaptation of the H. P. Lovecraft short story The Case of Charles Dexter Ward he already had House of Usher (1960), Pit and the Pendulum (1961), Premature Burial (1962), Tales of Terror (1962), and The Raven (1963) behind him. It’s more than conceivable that Corman was a bit bored of Poe. But AIP were not bored of Poe and inspired by box office receipts the production company decided to market Corman’s latest horror picture as another Poe film. With a few scant lines from the obscure poem The Haunted Palace appearing on screen, Lovecraft suddenly became Poe. AIP would go on to do this a number of times during the 1960’s – Witchfinder General (1968) became The Conqueror Worm and The Oblong Box (1969) has no relation to the short story after which it was named. Lovecraft was very much the heir to Poe’s throne in literary terms and it would have been a fitting tribute if AIP could have segued from Poe into the cosmic terrors of Lovecraft. Unfortunately it wasn’t to be and Lovecraft wasn’t utilised at all in the marketing of The Haunted Palace.

Vincent Price gets the opportunity to play two characters here – the soppy and pathetic Charles Dexter Ward and the infinitely more interesting Joseph Curwen – a man who is burnt at the stake by the villagers of Arkham for his love of the black arts. Over a century after this vigilante deed Ward arrives in Arkham to claim his inheritance – a suitably gothic and eerie palace handed down to him by his warlock ancestor. After enduring the indifference of a superstitious populace Ward finds himself in conflict with the spirit of Curwen whose force of will enables him to inhabit the body of the feckless Ward and continue the plans that were interrupted a century before by the torch wielding locals. Curwen is aided and abetted in his task by Simon (a bloated Lon Chaney Jr.) in their bid to harness the cryptic powers of the Necronomicon and open a passageway for the old gods to return to our world and once again hold dominion. Chaney Jr is badly underused and apart from a few eerily lit moments adds little to the film apart from his obvious marquee value. Price on the other hand gets to ham it up and dominates proceedings, delivering his wicked lines of dialogue with the sadistic relish for which he became popular. Corman makes use of an evocative portrait of Curwen, a work of art which glares down at all who enter the palace, the burning eyes fixing Ward in their glare, communicating both control and bodily possession.

The village of Arkham is well rendered, with a number of enjoyably hysterical scenes taking place in the ironically named Burning Man Tavern. Here we get to see the mob mentality develop amid an increasing tempo of supernatural events, the least of which are two excellent revenge murders and a surreal moment in which mutated descendants of the original mob surround Ward in a bid to make him leave. Curwen’s thirst for vengeance is soon forgotten however as he successfully revives his long dead mistress (the film wastes a lot of time with this) and when Curwen finally gets around to the true purpose of his quest the film is virtually over. Curwen fails to fully carry out his revenge and Chaney Jr’s character simply vanishes from the film. We don’t see enough of the old gods, who appear almost as an afterthought as the film forgets earlier developments and rushes headlong into the typical Corman ending – a building on fire. The film benefits from first rate art direction courtesy of Corman regular Daniel Haller and an outstanding musical score from Ronald Stein. Apart from one or two major plot weaknesses The Haunted Palace is easily one of the most stylish and enjoyable of Corman’s 1960’s gothic horrors.

The desolate London setting is eerily evocative as Colin embarks on a series of bizarre episodes – he survives an attempted mugging, unwittingly ventures into a gruesome cellar in which a nutcase is keeping female zombies captive, survives the violence and brutality of a vigilante gang dedicated to the destruction of his kind, and is eventually kidnapped by a gang who turn out to be led by his sister. Throughout these episodes Price and his dedicated crew ladle the gore around liberally to ensure that Colin doesn’t pull its punches when it comes to scenes of violence. After his initial bemusement Colin is more than happy to join in with his fellow diners, but his attachment to an MP3 player suggests he is not entirely a lost cause. By the halfway stage the film lurches from its meandering episodic narrative structure to suddenly emerge as a highly emotive and touching exploration of familial breakdown. Colin becomes a tragic figure of epic proportions as he pathetically scratches the window to attract the attention of a sister who will soon succumb to the zombie disease. The film then bravely shifts to a flashback which shows all the events leading up to Colin’s fateful encounter with his brother in their kitchen. The narrative comes full circle as Colin trudges through the snow to the flat of his girlfriend, as he finally achieves his placement in a suddenly chaotic universe.

Only on occasion does Price deviate from the perspective of Colin, and these moments are among the weaker aspects of the film. A rather strange scene for example sees a number of people trapped in a house full of zombies, it is a nonsensical scene only there for purposes of graphic bloodletting. Fortunately such concessions to the marketplace are few and far between and Colin generally speaking adheres to its own set of internal logistics. The lack of dialogue, the profusion of poorly lit sequences (the night time scenes especially suffer), and the general poverty of the film may put some viewers off. But the importance of Colin lies in its relationship to the sub-genre it sits in, rather than the means of its production and distribution.

Book of Blood is not a masterpiece. In fact it is a largely underwhelming and uninspiring film that lacks the visceral punch one is accustomed too in a Clive Barker adaptation. Instead writer/director John Harrison opts to go down the atmospheric haunted house route – aiming perhaps for the thick and cloying mood of The Others (2001) or The Orphanage (2007). It is a brave strategy in a current marketplace overflowing with sadistic torture and gut crunching mayhem. In such a film the pressure on dialogue, performance, and suspense is increased exponentially and Book of Blood falls down in all these key areas. Harrison’s screenplay conflates the Barker short stories ’The Book of Blood’ and ’On Jerusalem Street’ and part of the films unevenness comes from this clumsy attempt to fuse together two stories. The narrative proposes the idea that on a parallel plane to our own exist highways of the dead, and on these highways are intersections. The house where the bulk of the action is situated is on one of these intersections. The film is told in the form of a flashback as Simon McNeal (Jonas Armstrong – BBC TV’s Robin Hood) explains the circumstances of his transformation into a living book of blood too a man who has been paid to relieve him of his skin.

This decision to tell the story this way reduces a great deal of suspense as we approach the narrative armed with the knowledge of McNeal’s eventual fate. This leaves us with just a series of ghostly apparitions to look forward too. Unfortunately the intersection is a mess of unconvincing digital effects, and one of numerous elements of the film that are a let down. McNeal’s attempts at hoaxing the spectral events seem utterly pointless, especially in light of the fact that the house does have a genuine ghostly presence. The paranormal investigator Mary Florescu (Sophie Ward) is a dreadfully dull creation whose character trajectory from academic researcher to scribe of the undead to someone who pays to acquire McNeil’s skin doesn’t ring true, and the potential thematic value of exploring the lengths an academic might go too in order to push their heads above the parapet set by their contemporaries is fumbled by a screenplay determined to create a villain where one doesn’t really exist. The performances are ponderous and humourless which is a surprise considering the vein of black humor that runs through much of Barker’s work. Perhaps the worst crime of Book of Blood is to be completely unmemorable. Barker’s material has a habit of clinging resolutely to one’s psyche, so that short stories one might have read fifteen years ago remain festering in the subconscious. This film had the potential to stand out, but a combination of desultory performances, mishandled digital effects, and weak atmospherics, damages this film beyond repair.

Mclean burst onto the international scene with the gruelling sadism of Wolf Creek (2005). A film that took advantage of the torturous territory opened up by Saw (2004) and Hostel (2005), in order to offer a terrifying glimpse into a landscape that can swallow people up and leave no trace of their whereabouts. Mclean partly returns to this in Rogue, but this time it is the rivers, waterways and tributaries of Australia’s Northern Territory that prove difficult to escape. Mclean is concerned with the investigation of the pretence of civilisation – the thinness of community and of society, a reminder of the slender veneer that separates us from the world of sadistic torturers and killer crocodiles. In this sense Mclean is tapping into fears that emerge from the cosseted age of modern technology and suburbia – and if he continues to develop and refine this theme Mclean will become a major figure within the horror genre.

Rogue is perhaps the least auspicious vehicle for any kind of authorial argument in Mclean’s cinema. The film follows an outsider in the shape of American travel writer Pete McKell (Michael Vartan), he is a cynic whose latest assignment has taken him to a boat trip in the Kakadu National Park. His outsider status is over-emphasised and as a result the clichés begin to pile up as we are introduced to a multitude of boring characters aboard the boat. And then not a lot happens…however we are asked to admire the landscape, and the rich vegetation, canyons and clear blue skies are photographed beautifully by Will Gibson. The daylight scenes are simply glorious, and it becomes clear that the landscape is really the main character of this film. After following a mysterious flare (we never get to find out who shoots this flare and why) the boat ends up in territory that is overflowing with myths and legends. This idyllic paradise is then shattered by the arrival of your not so friendly neighbourhood crocodile, and the holidaymakers find themselves waylaid on a small island which will inexorably be covered by the tide. The main criticism of the film is in the infrequency of the crocodile attacks and the singular failure to invest the beast with the brooding presence that made Jaws such a terrifying cinematic experience. Up to this point however the film has built slowly but soundly towards a climax that is both ludicrous and impressive. We get to see plenty of the crocodile in its lair, and if earlier examples had failed due to a misuse of digital effects the crocodile here is very impressive.

This is a very competently made horror film, and in many ways it is far more enjoyable than Mclean’s earlier endurance tester Wolf Creek. The two films have shown that the director can innovate within generic conventions as well fall foul of cliché and predictability. This suggests that somewhere within Mclean is a horror masterpiece waiting to be born. Rogue lacks the subtlety and intelligence of Black Water, but is a very adept exercise in genre construction and confirms the continuing promise of is Australian director Greg Mclean.

There is quite a difference between Freddie Francis the DOP and Francis the director. It is a paradox of his career that he was able to excel himself visually in the films of others and produce such indifferent results in his own films. The low budgets didn’t help of course, nor the interference of know it all producers. The only horror film he made that can compare to the visual brilliance of The Innocents (1961), The Elephant Man (1980) and The Straight Story (1999) is the Amicus production The Skull (1965). He had a very low budget then, so really there is no excuse for the flat, drab, unadventurous and unattractive horror films he made. Perhaps it was a case of contempt for the genre, or perhaps ineptitude? The Evil of Frankenstein does suffer from this drabness and paucity of visual enjoyment, but it is also a failure at a narrative level. A pointless flashback sequence which questions the continuity and thus the veracity of the first two films is one such blunder. A blunder on this occasion that can be attributed to the screenwriter Anthony Hinds. The film isn’t a total aesthetic failure though. The Baron’s laboratory in the flashback is the most impressive seen in the cycle, but this is mere decoration that fails to cover up for the stupidity of the sequence in the first place.

Any film featuring Peter Cushing has some redeeming qualities, but even the ever dependable Cushing struggles with the liberties taken with the Frankenstein character. He comes across as a petty crybaby, his quest this time merely a childish vendetta against those that destroyed his work and drove him into exile. On this occasion the Baron seems as much if not more concerned with the theft of his possessions than he does with discovering the secret of life. His relationship with the hedonistic hypnotist Zoltan is an interesting angle that remains unfulfilled. The make up for the creature isn’t a patch on The Curse of Frankenstein, but its not a disaster. It affords the film a very striking moment when we see the Creature entombed in a glacier (a plot development that is however utterly ludicrous). The inclusion of a feral deaf mute girl intended to function as a double for the Creature is also another half baked avenue. All these elements could have provided the film with interesting themes, but when left to limply hang as they do, they function more as pointless baggage. Even the usually reliable set design and art direction feels dated and tired adding little to the proceedings. In 1967 Terence Fisher would return to helm the fourth film in the series Frankenstein Created Woman, a far more successful and rewarding venture all round and The Evil of Frankenstein would begin its slow drift into the semi-obscurity it deserved. However its status as an ill conceived aberration makes it worth viewing.

Frumkes had previous filmmaking experience with his excellent documentary Document of the Dead (1985) – an on set exploration of the making of George A Romero’s Dawn of the Dead (1978). The remainder of the crew of Street Trash were all pretty much first timers and students. Despite this and the obvious low budget this is a very cine literate film which shows great generic knowledge in the manner it goes about upsetting the conventions of the form and our own expectations. Quite simply Street Trash is a film that is impossible to predict. This remains Jim Muro’s only credit as a director, but the accomplished use of the steadicam in the film has seen him go on to work on films such as Terminator 2: Judgement Day (1991), JFK (1991) and Crash (2004). The first example of this is in the opening chase sequence as we follow the films ostensible hero Fred (Mike Lackey – who was also responsible for much of the outlandish special make up effects) being pursued after a bit of thievery. This introduces an aspect of the film which remains throughout – an attention to cinematic detail. This is a rare low budget horror film that places huge importance on the camera (angles, position, movement), composition, framing, and editing.

The narrative itself has quite a complex structure. The story is content to explore the milieu of the vagrants (including a very atmospheric junk yard), before it introduces the alcoholic beverage Viper, which causes all kinds of body popping and melting mayhem. The best sequence is a superbly choreographed steadicam sequence which ends with a vagrant flushing himself down a disused toilet! The illegal booze is just an excuse for the effects, but it lends itself well to a narrative that is meandering, episodic, and for large parts interested in exploring a gallery of grotesque characters – this includes the highly strung cop Bill (Bill Chepil) who has a penchant for throwing up on people he has just battered near to death. To confuse matters we also have a Vietnam veteran in the shape of the psychotic Bronson (Vic Noto) who is prone to having flashbacks and rules the junkyard like a giant rat atop a throne of garbage (the sequences in Vietnam are one of the weaker aspects of the film – possibly influenced by Troma‘s gruelling Vietnam veteran nightmare Combat Shock (1986)). Towards the end of the film Bronson is the character the narrative turns on as a kind of love triangle emerges, love is perhaps the wrong word Bronson is out to rape. Speaking of rape, the film includes a gang rape scene which is at odds with the tone of the film. As our ‘hero’ Fred is also involved this makes the scene one of the most problematic in the film. By contrast the scene in which a poor unfortunate is castrated, only then to have his penis used in a game of catch is brilliant in its audacity and fit’s the film perfectly.

The film completely rejects a political reading. It doesn’t attempt to redeem the homeless, instead it has great fun confirming all the fears that were emerging in late 80’s New York about the problem. Some might see this as irresponsible and to not tackle the issues head on perhaps smacks of social and political cowardice. Street Trash can be forgiven because a political message was the furthest thing from the filmmakers intentions. Instead it is content to wallow in the filth and trash of the streets. The film also has an inbuilt nostalgia for the Grindhouse distribution circuits, which by 1987 had been pretty much removed from the landscape of American cinematic distribution. The tone and spirit of the film has often seen it mistaken for, or compared too, the productions of Troma. But Street Trash not only stands apart, but is far superior to anything produced by that company. Be prepared to experience true horror anarchy, and wash it down with a bottle of Viper.

What seems most noticeable now is the lack of spectacle that features in the film. It has an understated quality that would soon seem outmoded and dated with the release of The Exorcist (1973) just a few months on the horizon. But this is a brave decision by filmmakers who seem intent on creating chills and scares rather than revulsion and horror. It offers the audience subtle scares and is one of the least physical of 1970’s horror films. It doesn’t succeed at all on an intellectual level, but neither does it try to resort to the ponderous moralising seen in The Exorcist and The Omen (1976). Because it doesn’t rely totally on special effects one or two sequences are a bit creaky and clichéd (airborne crockery and furniture, doors opening on their own, spectral footsteps etc). But audiences are compensated for this by the unfaltering seriousness of the performances. Even the usually manic over-acting of Roddy McDowall is kept in check in the first half of the film. He plays the only survivor of a previous expedition within Hell House. In the films final third his agitated qualities emerge at a time when the film is just beginning to drag. This is an excellent example of what can be achieved on limited resources. A handful of committed performances in a single setting can work very well at times.

However this is not a film devoid of some technical accomplishment. The regular establishing shots of an external view of the house enshrouded by fog are eerily conveyed, and the interior art decoration has a wonderfully baroque touch which hints at the debauchery that once occurred with the damned walls. Of particular note is the sound design. The efforts of Delia Derbyshire and Brian Hodgson of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop (most famous for its contributions to Doctor Who) create much of the films tension and atmosphere. This combines well with some inventive photography from Alan Hume who uses low angle shots, photographic distortion and a restricted frame all in service of subtle scares. Many horror films are remembered for individual sequences, but this is not so here. In this film the whole effect is the most important thing.

Unfortunately the single setting and minimum of characters means there are a number of static talky sequences. The director John Hough who also helmed Hammer’s stylish and enjoyable Twins of Evil (1971) is somewhat pedestrian in his direction. But this complements a general downplaying of the aesthetic presentation. The only thing that was irritating was the profusion of onscreen captions telling us the date and time. Other than this The Legend of Hell House is a thought provoking and effective haunted house story. Not quite up there with the likes of The Haunting, mostly due to the rather daft reason for the paranormal activity. Nevertheless a memorable effort by all concerned.

Like Paramount with the Friday the 13th series, major producer Tristar decided to get in on the slasher action with this film, but unlike Paramount they didn’t have the balls for the flack to follow. As a result Silent Night had a reasonable budget of $750,000, and the film has a visual look far superior to many of its contemporaries. The premise was also strong enough to tempt the successful and highly competent producer/director Charles E. Sellier Jr (creator of Grizzly Adams) to helm it. His direction is assured and on occasion innovative, his work with cinematographer Henning Schellerup creates a number of impressive set pieces, none more impressive than the infamous antler sequence. The writers try valiantly to create some depth here, and succeed in small measure to create a psychopathic protagonist who has an arc of development. This is done with extended sequences set firstly in Christmas 1971 (in which Billy Chapman is firstly terrorised by his insane grandfather and then witnesses the murder of his father, and the rape and murder of his mother by a nut job in a Santa suit). We then move to Christmas 1974, where Billy endures the strict regimen of a Catholic run home for orphans. Here he is tied to the bed, beaten, and forced to confront his festive demons by a cruel and sadistic Mother Superior. By the time we move to 1984 Billy seems fairly normal as he begins work at a toy store, but when he his asked to don a Santa suit for the Christmas promotion he soon forgets the generosity of the season.

There are some clever touches here such as Billy despatching his first victim with Christmas lights and the beheading of a sledding bully, but the moral undertone of the narrative is far too simplistic. It also fails to cover up the mean spirited nature of the film. This is a film made by adults who take every opportunity to cynically ridicule the festive season and present it as a time in which perverts, psychopaths, and sadists are abroad. The anti-catholic stance of the film whilst potentially commendable and interesting is ultimately a device to include more scenes of cruelty and sadism. The film makes a few cursory efforts to criticise the commercialisation of Christmas but these are secondary concerns to the set pieces. Admittedly the set pieces are excellent, and the special effects very effective, and this will please horror fans. But this fails to cover up the bad nature at the heart of the enterprise. Nevertheless despite these criticisms this author still remains totally mystified at the controversy this film caused on its initial US release. The film makes it clear that this is a narrative about a mentally disturbed guy who dresses up in a Santa outfit and goes on a killing spree – how this was construed as a film about Santa Claus himself slaughtering young people will forever remain a mystery.