After dominating American television with their charmingly ghoulish antics, The Munsters made their leap to the big screen in 1966 with Munsters Go Home!Directed by Earl Bellamy, this colourful feature-length outing was the show’s first foray into cinemas, and it captured all the elements that made the TV series so beloved—quirky humour, heartwarming family dynamics, and classic monster tropes.
Munsters Go Home! sees the Munster family leaving their spooky American abode and traveling to England to claim their ancestral home, Munster Hall, after Herman Munster (Fred Gwynne) inherits the family estate. What follows is a lighthearted clash between the monstrous Munsters and their more refined British relatives, complete with comic misunderstandings, a scheming rival family, and some trademark wacky hijinks.
The film retains the charm of the original series, particularly through Gwynne’s lovable performance as the clueless yet kind-hearted Herman and Yvonne De Carlo’s stoic portrayal of his vampire wife, Lily. But, unlike the black-and-white world of the TV show, Munsters Go Home! was shot in full colour, giving fans a new visual perspective on the creepy family. For some, this shift added a new layer to the Munsters’ classic look, but it also exposed the limitations of bringing a 30-minute TV format into a feature-length film.
While Munsters Go Home! doesn’t reach the heights of the original series’ wit, it successfully delivers the kind of family-friendly horror-comedy that The Munsters were known for. The film’s humour, much like its small-screen counterpart, stems from the contrast between the Munsters’ ghoulish appearances and their otherwise normal, suburban family life.
In the context of 1960s pop culture, Munsters Go Home! reflects the era’s love for playful takes on horror and monsters, cementing its place as a nostalgic favourite. Though not a game-changer for cinema, it offers an endearing glimpse into a family that’s always felt right at home with audiences.
Released at the height of the British Carry On series’ popularity, Carry On Screaming stands as a cheeky parody of classic horror films, blending comedy with the macabre in a way that only the Carry On team could. Directed by Gerald Thomas, this 1966 entry remains one of the series’ most memorable for its clever spoofing of the Hammer Horror films and Universal Monster features that were all the rage at the time.
The plot revolves around the dastardly Dr. Watt (played with fiendish glee by Kenneth Williams) and his monstrous sister Valeria (the ever-dominant Fenella Fielding), who create human-like mannequins from real people. The film’s horror tropes are familiar, but they’re twisted into comedic gold, with the absurdity of the Carry On brand on full display.
Carry On Screaming makes excellent use of its gothic horror influences—its fog-drenched sets and creaky mansions evoke the Hammer films that it lampoons. Yet, instead of fear, it mines laughter, as Detective Bung (Harry H. Corbett) bumbles his way through the mystery. The film also manages to poke fun at monster-movie clichés like the Frankenstein figure (Oddbod), with a lighthearted charm that appealed to 1960s audiences. Fielding’s sultry performance as Valeria, with her deadpan delivery, remains a standout and one of the most iconic roles in the Carry On catalogue.
In the wider context of the series, Carry On Screaming feels both nostalgic and fresh, reminding viewers of the playful irreverence the franchise was known for, while also marking one of its final creative high points. Though it may not have had the same cultural impact as some of its predecessors, its witty fusion of horror and humour has cemented it as a cult favorite among both horror and comedy fans alike.
Anna Kendrick’s directorial debut, Woman of the Hour, takes on a chilling real-life story—Rodney Alcala, the infamous “Dating Game Killer.” In 1978, Alcala appeared on the popular TV show The Dating Game in the middle of a brutal killing spree. Kendrick not only directs but stars as Cheryl Bradshaw, the unwitting contestant opposite Alcala (Daniel Zovatto), whose charm on-screen masked his true, horrifying nature. It’s a fascinating premise, blending the glitz of a Hollywood game show with the sinister undercurrent of a serial killer hiding in plain sight.
What Woman of the Hour gets right is its ability to shock. The film doesn’t shy away from unsettling moments, particularly in the quieter scenes where Alcala’s sociopathic tendencies creep to the surface. Zovatto’s portrayal of Alcala is convincingly cold, and the moments of tension between him and Kendrick’s Bradshaw deliver the kind of unsettling atmosphere that one expects from a crime thriller. Kendrick’s nuanced performance carries Cheryl’s vulnerability and growing unease in the face of Alcala’s facade, making the character relatable and grounded in the surreal horror unfolding around her.
However, while the subject matter is disturbing, the film often feels too sugar-coated. There’s a Hollywood sheen that distracts from the gritty reality of Alcala’s monstrous acts. The stylized presentation of The Dating Game era, with its bright lights and campy format, clashes with the darkness beneath the surface. This juxtaposition feels deliberate, but the film doesn’t always balance it well, often glazing over the true terror of the situation. It’s as if Woman of the Hour is afraid to fully descend into the horror, opting for a thriller that plays it safe rather than delving deeply into the grotesque nature of Alcala’s crimes.
The movie works best when it lets the reality of Alcala’s actions bleed through the showbiz gloss. There are moments where the film breaks the bright exterior to hint at the true horrors Alcala was committing during the time. These moments are genuinely disturbing but too few and far between, making the film feel more like a dramatization than a full exploration of Alcala’s twisted psyche.
The Prognosis:
Woman of the Hour is an intriguing crime thriller with strong performances and an inherently fascinating true-crime angle. However, its reliance on surface-level thrills and polished presentation ultimately holds it back from becoming the gripping, deep-dive examination that the story demands. It leaves viewers with the unsettling truth of what Alcala did but doesn’t push far enough to leave a lasting impact. The film’s draw lies in its shocking subject matter, but it feels like a case of style over substance, never quite willing to peel away the layers of horror lurking beneath.
Saul Muerte
Woman of the Hour is currently streaming on Netflix.
“Azrael,” the latest action-horror from E.L. Katz, delivers a premise that sounds intriguing on paper—an eerie world devoid of speech, where a brutal female-led cult relentlessly hunts an escaped prisoner. Add the ever-captivating Samara Weaving into the mix, and expectations for some gripping, visceral action naturally rise. But while the film presents a brave, somewhat daring attempt to create a unique atmosphere, it ultimately falls short of delivering anything with real substance.
Weaving, known for her sharp intensity in past roles, undoubtedly carries the weight of the film on her shoulders. Her portrayal of Azrael, a woman fighting tooth and nail for survival, does bring some much-needed energy to the screen. When the action finally arrives, it’s clear that Weaving is skilled at kicking butt. Yet even her talent can’t save the film from its sluggish pace and lack of depth. It takes an eternity for the narrative to shift into gear, and by the time it does, the payoff feels disappointingly underwhelming.
The lack of dialogue is clearly intended to enhance the atmosphere, creating an unsettling and immersive world where silence is a weapon. However, the film’s over-reliance on this stylistic choice backfires. Without any meaningful verbal exchanges, the story begins to feel as barren as the film’s haunting wilderness setting. What could have been a tension-building device instead results in a narrative that often drags, leaving the audience feeling disconnected.
Visually, the film does have its moments. The desolate landscapes and stark imagery evoke a sense of isolation, and the concept of a voiceless world initially adds an eerie, unsettling layer. But these strengths aren’t enough to compensate for the weak character development and the rather predictable plot. The film meanders, and when it finally hits its stride in the action department, it’s too little, too late. Weaving is given far too few opportunities to shine, and the action sequences, though well-choreographed, lack the punch needed to make a lasting impact.
The Prognosis:
“Azrael” is a film with plenty of ambition, but it’s an example of how high-concept ideas require more than just a strong lead actor to succeed. It’s a brave effort from Katz, but without a stronger narrative core and more compelling action, it simply doesn’t have the gravitas to pull off the trick. Samara Weaving may be kicking butt, but even her powerful presence can’t elevate this film beyond its mediocre execution.
In the grand tradition of Italian horror cinema, An Angel for Satan (1966) marks one of the final films that harnessed the enigmatic presence of Barbara Steele, the British actress who became the face of Italian Gothic horror. Directed by Camillo Mastrocinque, this atmospheric piece takes its place as a late entry in the wave of eerie Italian cinema that made Steele a genre icon, but by this point, the formula that worked so well for her earlier roles begins to lose its potency.
Set in a small Italian village, An Angel for Satan tells the story of a cursed statue of a woman, believed to bring death and misfortune to those around her. Steele plays the dual roles of Harriet, a tormented woman who bears a striking resemblance to the statue, and Belinda, the mysterious figure carved in stone. The film delves into the psychological and supernatural consequences of Harriet’s strange connection to the sculpture, bringing the villagers to the brink of madness. The narrative unfolds with the traditional eerie ambiance found in Italian Gothic horror, with heavy doses of intrigue, paranoia, and unsettling sexuality.
As with most of her performances, Steele excels in evoking an eerie, almost hypnotic presence, playing the duality of her character with sophistication. Her signature intensity radiates through Harriet, who teeters on the edge of sanity, and her portrayal of the statue’s spirit, which teems with malice, is mesmerising. However, while Steele’s magnetic presence is undeniable, it can’t quite elevate the film above its derivative structure. By 1966, Italian horror had begun to lean too heavily on the tried-and-true formula of brooding castles, fog-drenched lakes, and tragic female leads. An Angel for Satan, though stylish in moments, feels like a fading echo of Steele’s earlier, more impactful films like Black Sunday (1960).
Visually, Mastrocinque does deliver the kind of atmospheric setting one would expect from Italian horror of the period, with a haunting score and meticulously crafted gothic backdrops. However, there is a sense that the creative energy that fueled Italian horror in the early 1960s was waning. The plot, while containing some interesting twists, lacks the bite and urgency needed to make it truly memorable. The pacing drags in places, and despite its supernatural elements, it feels too familiar—relying on themes and tropes that had been done with greater finesse earlier in the decade.
Barbara Steele’s star power undoubtedly shines through, but in An Angel for Satan, it’s a flicker rather than a flame. By the mid-60s, Steele had become synonymous with Italian horror, and while she continued to be cast in leading roles, the material she was given often struggled to match her talent. Her allure here, though still present, feels tethered to a genre in transition—no longer fresh, but not yet ready to fully evolve into something new, as the giallo era was just around the corner.
An Angel for Satan is a curio for fans of Italian Gothic horror and essential viewing for devotees of Barbara Steele, but it’s also a sign of the inevitable decline of the Gothic style that had made her a star. While not without its moments of eerie brilliance, the film is more of a swan song for a fading era in Italian horror—a period where Steele’s reign was still potent but undeniably starting to wane.
While An Angel for Satan is not without merit, it ultimately serves as a reminder that the Gothic Italian horror genre was ready for a change, and so, too, was its leading lady.
In the mid-1960s, when Japanese cinema was dominated by the cultural phenomenon of kaiju films like Godzilla and Gamera, Daiei Film took a bold step in combining the monster movie format with historical samurai dramas. Daimajin, the trilogy that arose from this fusion, delivered a genre-defying experience that stood apart from its kaiju contemporaries, creating an eerie, mythical aura rarely seen in giant creature features.
While the Daimajin trilogy might not have the same name recognition as Godzilla, it is significant for its impressive visuals, atmospheric storytelling, and unique setting. The fusion of feudal Japan’s historical turmoil with the giant, vengeful spirit of Daimajin (a stone statue that comes to life to exact justice) gave the films a distinctive tone. With themes of divine retribution and tyrannical oppression, the trilogy explored the darker side of humanity while delivering the kind of destruction that kaiju fans craved.
Daimajin (1966) – A Slow-Burning Myth with Spectacular Payoff
The first film, Daimajin, set the foundation for what would become a visually stunning and emotionally gripping trilogy. Directed by Kimiyoshi Yasuda, it begins as a classic samurai film—depicting the downfall of a noble family at the hands of a cruel warlord. The pacing of the film is deliberate, taking time to build tension as the oppressed villagers pray to their god for vengeance. The spectacle arrives in the final act when Daimajin, a towering stone idol, comes to life to rain destruction upon the warlord and his soldiers.
The film’s cinematography is stunning, capturing the landscapes of Japan with a painterly quality that juxtaposes beauty and terror. When Daimajin awakens, the visual effects, especially for the time, are impressive, blending miniature sets with practical effects that still manage to captivate modern audiences. The film’s slow build toward Daimajin’s wrathful destruction is what makes it so impactful, transforming the giant statue into a near-mythical force of nature.
Return of Daimajin (1966) – Larger Scale, Greater Stakes
Return of Daimajin, directed by Kenji Misumi, expanded on the first film’s mythos while upping the ante with more intense action and grander spectacle. Once again, the plot focuses on a tyrannical ruler terrorizing innocent villagers, this time with the stakes higher as Daimajin awakens to rescue a captured princess and exact revenge on the corrupt regime. The film’s larger scale is evident in its more elaborate set pieces, such as the visually arresting dam-bursting sequence, which marks Daimajin’s awakening.
Misumi, known for his work on the Zatoichi films, brings a sense of grounded humanity to the proceedings. The strong performances, particularly from the supporting cast, add weight to the moral tale at the film’s heart. This balance between human drama and supernatural terror distinguishes Return of Daimajin as a worthy sequel, though it treads similar narrative ground to the original. Once again, Daimajin’s awakening is a climactic spectacle of destruction, showing off the brilliant set design and practical effects.
Daimajin Strikes Again (1966) – A Climactic Journey
The third and final installment, Daimajin Strikes Again, takes a slightly different approach by focusing on a group of children who set off on a dangerous journey to free their fathers, who have been enslaved by yet another ruthless warlord. Directed by Kazuo Mori, the film shifts the focus from political machinations to a more personal, intimate story. This shift in perspective gives the film a refreshing energy, as the children’s bravery becomes the emotional core of the narrative.
Though the change in focus might seem lighter, the film retains the trilogy’s somber, oppressive atmosphere. When Daimajin awakens, the action is as thrilling as ever, though the formula by now feels somewhat familiar. However, the film’s final act, with Daimajin battling through a snow-covered landscape, remains a standout sequence in the trilogy. The cold, desolate backdrop adds a stark contrast to the fiery wrath of Daimajin, making for a visually striking climax.
Legacy and Influence
While Daimajin never reached the international acclaim of Godzilla or Gamera, its unique blending of genres and its commitment to practical effects have left a lasting impact on both kaiju and samurai cinema. The films stand as a testament to the creativity of 1960s Japanese cinema, a period that saw experimentation and innovation, especially in genre filmmaking.
The visual style, in particular, remains one of the trilogy’s strongest elements. From the majestic wide shots of feudal Japan’s countryside to the dark, brooding presence of Daimajin, the films exude an artistic quality that transcends their genre origins. The performances, too, particularly from the stoic villagers and tyrannical warlords, lend the films a gravitas that elevates the kaiju mayhem into something more meaningful.
Daimajin: The God of Vengeance
The Daimajin trilogy stands as a unique entry in 1960s Japanese cinema, merging the mythic with the monstrous to create a trilogy that is both visually captivating and thematically rich. While each film follows a similar formula, the execution of that formula is consistently strong, thanks to the skilled direction, powerful performances, and attention to visual storytelling.
For fans of kaiju films and Japanese period dramas alike, the Daimajin trilogy offers a fascinating blend of both, with the stone god serving as an avatar of divine justice—a force of nature that punishes the corrupt and protects the innocent.
Despite some repetition in its formula, the Daimajin trilogy remains a visually stunning, culturally rich series that deserves more recognition in the canon of Japanese genre cinema.
When you hear Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot is getting a new adaptation, there’s an immediate buzz for horror fans. After all, the 1979 miniseries set a high bar with its chilling atmosphere, notable moments, and David Soul’s iconic portrayal of Ben Mears. Sadly, this latest version tries to sink its teeth into King’s vampiric tale but lacks the vitality to make a lasting impression.
Directed by Gary Dauberman (Annabelle Comes Home), the 2024 Salem’s Lot promises a fresh, modern take on King’s story of a small town overtaken by ancient evil. There are fleeting moments of intrigue that tease the potential of the film, scenes where the atmosphere and menace feel tangible. These moments, however, are not enough to redeem an adaptation that feels strangely bloodless for one of King’s most terrifying novels.
The film suffers from an inability to give its cast anything meaningful to work with, despite the rich source material. The ensemble is solid on paper, but in practice, none of the actors have enough depth to bring the story to life. Even with characters like Ben Mears (played by Lewis Pullman) and the sinister Straker (played by Bill Camp), there’s a frustrating lack of emotional resonance. The result is a series of performances that feel flat, as though the cast was given little to sink their teeth into—despite King’s novel offering plenty of opportunities for real emotional and psychological heft.
Visually, the film often falls into familiar traps, delivering dark, moody settings without offering much innovation. There are glimmers of suspense, but the scares never truly land. It feels like the film is playing it too safe, rather than embracing the gothic horror and creeping dread that made Salem’s Lot so beloved. What we get instead is a product that looks slick but lacks any real heart—a soul-less retread of familiar territory. (Yes, David Soul, pun intended.)
The biggest disappointment is how the adaptation squanders King’s brilliant narrative about small-town evil and the creeping rot of corruption. Rather than leaning into the novel’s rich themes and psychological terror, the film relies too heavily on surface-level spooks. It lacks the depth that made both King’s novel and the 1979 miniseries so enduring. The filmmakers seem content with a pale imitation of the original, rather than delivering something that truly bites.
The Prognosis:
Salem’s Lot (2024) is a missed opportunity. It does just enough to lure you in, but leaves you feeling unsatisfied, much like the pale, lifeless creatures it tries to evoke. For diehard fans of King’s work, it may hold some interest. For everyone else, it’s a lesson in how even the most powerful stories can end up feeling anemic when the right spark is missing.
A fitting metaphor for this latest entry: like a vampire with no blood to drain, it ultimately fails to live.
Freddie Francis, the esteemed British cinematographer and director, made a notable return to the horror genre in 1966 with The Psychopath. Known for his impeccable visual storytelling, Francis elevates this otherwise standard thriller into something more atmospheric and unnerving. While it may not stand as a high point in the history of 1960s horror, the film benefits from Francis’ distinctive eye and strong performances from its cast, making it a memorable entry in the decade’s wave of psychological horror.
The plot centers around a series of mysterious murders, with each victim found near a doll resembling them. The link to a tragic past event involving a deceased war criminal adds a layer of intrigue as Inspector Holloway (Patrick Wymark) dives into the investigation. But the heart of The Psychopath is not just its narrative—it’s how Francis builds tension through his chilling visual style, bringing a rich, almost surreal atmosphere to an otherwise straightforward murder mystery.
Francis’ visual expertise shines throughout the film, particularly in the use of shadows and lighting to create an air of claustrophobia and tension. The way he frames key moments—particularly the scenes involving the dolls—lends an eerie, almost Gothic quality to the film, reminiscent of his earlier work with Hammer Films. His background as a cinematographer is especially evident in the beautifully composed shots and meticulous attention to detail in creating the unsettling mood.
The performances are also strong, with Patrick Wymark delivering a solid turn as the determined inspector. Margaret Johnston, as the unsettling Mrs. Von Sturm, is wonderfully creepy, bringing an icy presence to the screen that lingers long after the film ends. John Standing and Alexander Knox round out the cast, delivering performances that serve the tension well, even as the plot begins to wobble in places.
However, The Psychopath suffers from a script that doesn’t quite match the strength of its direction and performances. The story unfolds predictably, and while the mystery has moments of tension, it never quite breaks free from the genre tropes of the time. The pacing is uneven, and the film’s final act, while chilling, feels slightly rushed.
Despite these shortcomings, Freddie Francis’ work behind the camera is what truly gives The Psychopath its lasting impact. His ability to craft mood and tension through the lens is unparalleled, making even the most ordinary moments bristle with a quiet menace. In this way, the film rises above its limitations, showcasing once again Francis’ remarkable talent for transforming the mundane into the macabre.
While not the most innovative or terrifying film of the decade, The Psychopath remains a worthwhile watch, particularly for fans of Freddie Francis’ distinct visual style and those who appreciate the more atmospheric side of 1960s horror. It stands as a reminder of how style and atmosphere can elevate even the simplest of stories.
JT Mollner’s Strange Darling is a thriller that takes an intriguing approach to a familiar narrative, using a fractured, nonlinear structure to elevate its suspense. Set in rural Oregon, this tense cat-and-mouse game stars Willa Fitzgerald and Kyle Gallner, whose performances help keep the film grounded, even as the plot contorts and shifts like the twisted mind of the serial killer at its core. The use of six chapters to recount a serial killer’s spree, told out of order, adds a fresh spin on the genre but doesn’t entirely escape the trappings of its narrative gimmick.
One of the film’s strongest aspects is its storytelling device. The nonlinear arrangement keeps the audience on edge, forcing us to piece together events as they unfold out of sequence. This fractured perspective works well to heighten the sense of disorientation and paranoia, placing us in the characters’ shoes. Mollner’s script is tightly knit, allowing for moments of true tension and chilling revelations, and the shifts in perspective between the man and the woman engaging in this deadly game of pursuit add emotional depth to the thrills.
Giovanni Ribisi’s cinematography on 35mm film elevates the tension further. The grainy texture and moody visuals enhance the atmosphere, creating a haunting backdrop for the chaos that unfolds. Rural Oregon comes to life as a cold, isolated landscape—perfectly suited for the grim events that take place.
Fitzgerald and Gallner shine in their respective roles, with Fitzgerald balancing vulnerability and menace in a way that keeps her character unpredictable. Gallner’s performance carries a weight of darkness that lingers, making their dynamic a crucial point of the film’s success. The supporting cast, including veteran actors Barbara Hershey and Ed Begley Jr., add credibility and presence to the film, even in smaller roles.
However, the film’s nonlinear presentation becomes a double-edged sword. While it cleverly pulls the rug out from under the audience multiple times, it also leans heavily on this trick. The twist-heavy narrative begins to feel more like a puzzle box of shocks rather than a cohesive tale with deeper thematic resonance. It’s effective in its moments, but as the story moves toward its conclusion, the reliance on narrative twists somewhat diminishes the emotional impact.
Though its reliance on twists may occasionally feel like a crutch, Strange Darling captivates with its gripping performances and inventive structure. It’s a thriller that keeps you guessing and pondering long after the pieces have fallen into place.
MadS, premiering on Shudder Fri Oct 18th, delivers a unique and haunting cinematic experience, thanks to its audacious one-shot technique. The film tells a harrowing end-of-the-world story through a slow, decaying unraveling of both its characters and their reality. With its seamless visual style, MadS manages to capture a gripping narrative that is both unsettling and unnervingly intimate.
The story follows Romain, played by Milton Riche, a teenager who tests a new drug from his dealer before heading out for a night of partying. Things take a surreal and nightmarish turn when he picks up an injured woman on the way home. As the night spirals out of control, reality begins to fracture, plunging both Romain and the audience into a world of escalating chaos. This disorienting experience is heightened by the film’s single-take format, which immerses viewers directly in the action.
What sets MadS apart is how it masterfully manages its pacing. The one-shot technique could have easily felt gimmicky, but here, it enhances the story’s deeply unsettling atmosphere. The slow unraveling of Romain’s night—and his sanity—feels organic and relentless, with each moment of dread lingering uncomfortably long. The film’s technical precision allows every interaction and event to build tension, which only increases as Romain’s relationship with his girlfriend Anaïs (Lucille Guillaume) begins to fray under the weight of the night’s growing horror.
Milton Riche’s performance as Romain is both raw and captivating. He skillfully portrays Romain’s descent into fear and confusion, making the character’s unraveling feel authentic and deeply affecting. His gradual shift from casual indifference to desperate panic drives the film’s emotional core. Lucille Guillaume, playing Anaïs, brings a grounded intensity to her role, offering a fragile yet determined counterbalance to Romain’s increasingly erratic behavior.
The film’s technical prowess extends beyond its performances, as the one-shot approach works in tandem with moody lighting and a haunting soundscape to amplify the film’s surreal atmosphere. The unbroken, continuous shot offers no escape from the mounting tension, leaving viewers trapped alongside Romain as he navigates dark streets, ominous encounters, and the looming threat of an unseen, pervasive force.
While MadS dips into abstract and surreal territory, leaving parts of its story open to interpretation, this ambiguity works in its favor. The film thrives on its ability to create discomfort and uncertainty, making every moment feel unpredictable and charged with menace. Its dreamlike quality makes the viewer question what is real and what is the product of Romain’s altered state, adding to the growing sense of helplessness.
At its core, MadS is about the fear of losing control—over oneself, one’s reality, and the future. This exploration of chaos and disintegration, both personal and external, is captured in every frame, making it a haunting and thought-provoking film.
The Prognosis:
MadS delivers a chilling and captivating one-shot experience. Its unique style, unsettling performances, and slow-burn tension make it a standout feature on Shudder. For fans of immersive, psychological horror, MadS is a must-watch, offering a powerful reflection on the fragility of reality when chaos takes hold.
Surgeons of Horror 