Author Archives: surgeons of horror

Frozen Ambitions and Soulless Returns: Revisiting Wes Craven’s Chiller (1985)

21 Wednesday May 2025

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Four decades on, Craven’s made-for-TV sci-fi horror remains a flawed but fascinating blend of cryogenics, corporate greed, and cautionary terror.

By 1985, Wes Craven was still deep in the throes of building his horror legacy. Having just reshaped nightmares with A Nightmare on Elm Street, Craven pivoted into made-for-TV territory with Chiller, a cautionary tale that tiptoes into sci-fi horror. While it never reaches the stylistic or thematic potency of his best work, Chiller remains a curiosity worth revisiting—particularly on its 40th anniversary—for its oddball blend of futuristic fears and Reagan-era yuppie dread.

The premise is chilling in theory: a wealthy industrialist, Miles Creighton (Michael Beck), is cryogenically frozen following his death, only to be reanimated a decade later. But something essential is missing. His soul, it seems, didn’t make the journey back. What follows is a slow-burning descent into sociopathic cruelty as Miles—emotionless and spiritually hollow—reclaims his corporate empire with cold precision and increasingly inhuman behaviour.

Craven attempts to explore the intersection of science and morality, a theme that’s ahead of its time, especially with its allusions to cryogenics and post-death technology. Yet the execution often feels flat. The pace plods, the scares are minimal, and the dialogue teeters on the melodramatic. Still, beneath its TV-movie trappings, there’s a sinister subtext bubbling away—one that critiques 1980s capitalist hubris, the soulless nature of corporate power, and the terrifying idea that a man without a conscience might thrive in a world that rewards ambition over empathy.

There’s also a surprising thread of subtle, almost darkly comic undertones as Miles navigates the modern world with ice-cold detachment. Craven flirts with irony here, but never fully commits—leaving the film in tonal limbo.

While Chiller is far from essential Craven, its place in his filmography offers insight into the director’s restlessness and willingness to experiment, even on the small screen. For a deeper dissection of the film’s flaws and hidden charms, the Surgeons of Horror podcast delivers a thoughtful and entertaining autopsy, peeling back the layers of what could have been a more potent moral thriller.

The Prognosis:

Chiller serves less as a forgotten gem and more as a time capsule—one that freezes a moment in Craven’s career when he was still probing the boundaries of fear and consequence, even if the results didn’t fully thaw into form.

  • 40th anniversary retrospective by Saul Muerte

Letting Go Hurts: The Surrender Cuts Deep

18 Sunday May 2025

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Grief, guilt, and resurrection collide in this modest but emotionally raw Shudder original, anchored by Colby Minifie’s compelling performance.

Shudder’s The Surrender, directed by Julia Max, delivers a slow-burn horror that uses its modest means to tell a deeply emotional—and at times unnerving—tale of grief, guilt, and letting go. While the film initially struggles under the weight of its low budget, it gradually finds its footing as it surrenders itself to the emotional and psychological turmoil at its centre.

At the heart of the story is the fraught relationship between a grieving mother and her daughter Megan (Colby Minifie), as they wrestle with the sudden death of their husband and father. Desperate and broken, the mother enlists a mysterious stranger to bring her husband back from the dead. What begins as a misguided act of love quickly spirals into something much more brutal and unnatural.

The supernatural elements are understated at first, and admittedly, the film’s visual limitations are most noticeable in its early scenes. But what The Surrender lacks in spectacle, it more than makes up for in its performances—particularly Minifie’s. As Megan, she delivers a performance grounded in realism and vulnerability, guiding the audience through the stages of grief with raw authenticity. Her arc—resisting, confronting, and eventually accepting the horror unraveling around her—anchors the film and gives its title real weight.

Director Julia Max plays with mood and silence rather than jump scares, and the atmosphere becomes more effective the longer we sit in it. The film’s title becomes a double-edged term: surrender to grief, surrender to love, and ultimately, surrender to what can’t be undone.

The Prognosis:

While it never fully transcends its genre or budget, The Surrender is a thoughtful entry in the grief-horror subgenre that lingers in the mind more than expected. For those patient enough to give in, there’s something genuinely resonant beneath the blood and shadow.

  • Movie Review by Saul Muerte

The Surrender is streaming on Shudder from Fri 23rd May.

Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed: Hammer’s Bleak Descent into Moral Horror

16 Friday May 2025

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Peter Cushing delivers his darkest turn as Baron Frankenstein in Terence Fisher’s brutal, uncompromising portrait of ambition unmoored from humanity.

Few characters in horror history have undergone as grim an evolution as Hammer Films’ Baron Victor Frankenstein. By 1969, the once-charming and impassioned scientist had metamorphosed into something altogether colder, crueller — and never more so than in Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed. Marking one of the studio’s boldest and bleakest entries, Terence Fisher’s film plunges audiences into a chilling moral abyss, anchored by Peter Cushing’s most malevolent portrayal of the Baron.

From the outset, Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed is suffused with an atmosphere of stark brutality. Gone is the romanticised ambition of earlier installments; in its place stands a portrait of Frankenstein as a calculating sociopath, concerned only with his own vindication. Peter Cushing, always a master of understated menace, turns in a performance of extraordinary steeliness — chillingly urbane one moment, terrifyingly ruthless the next. His Baron is a man for whom human life is but clay to be shaped, discarded, or destroyed in pursuit of scientific triumph.

Fisher, who had been instrumental in defining Hammer’s gothic aesthetic, embraces a far colder visual palette here. The film trades ornate castles and vibrant colors for stark, drained settings — a reflection of Frankenstein’s spiritual desolation. Even the violence feels less operatic and more intimately brutal, culminating in moments that strip the mythos of any lingering romanticism.

Central to the film’s enduring controversy is the much-discussed scene in which Frankenstein rapes Anna (Veronica Carlson) — a moment absent from the original script and forced upon the production by studio pressure. Both Cushing and Carlson vehemently opposed the inclusion, and their disapproval seeps into the scene’s palpable discomfort. While ethically troubling, the moment undeniably darkens the character beyond redemption, underscoring the film’s unflinching portrayal of moral collapse. It transforms Frankenstein from a misguided idealist into a full-fledged predator — a monster not of nature, but of willful cruelty.

Carlson and Simon Ward, portraying the beleaguered couple ensnared in Frankenstein’s machinations, deliver affecting performances that heighten the tragedy. Carlson, in particular, lends a dignified pathos to a role burdened by the demands of a narrative far more nihilistic than Hammer’s previous outings.

Freddie Jones, in his first major film role as the tragic Professor Brandt, is a revelation. His performance captures both the physical fragility and the mental anguish of a man resurrected against his will, trapped within a stolen body and a crumbling mind. Jones infuses Brandt with a quiet dignity and simmering rage, crafting a character whose humanity serves as a stark rebuke to Frankenstein’s inhumanity. His confrontation with Cushing in the film’s final act offers a rare glimmer of emotional depth amid the relentless bleakness, elevating the story beyond pure gothic horror into something far more sorrowful and profound.

Thematically, Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed confronts the corrosion of empathy under the guise of scientific pursuit. It suggests that evil need not spring from grandiose ambitions but from the erosion of everyday decency. Frankenstein’s destruction of lives — not in moments of passion, but through cold, bureaucratic calculation — offers a horror far more enduring than any stitched-together monster.

The Prognosis:

Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed stands as a stark outlier within the Hammer canon — a film willing to fully reckon with the darkness its iconic character had always flirted with. Though marred by studio-imposed controversy, it remains a harrowing, essential entry in the Frankenstein cycle — a reminder that sometimes the true monster wears the most respectable face.

  • 1960s retrospective review by Saul Muerte

Final Destination: Bloodlines” Sends the Franchise Out with a Bloody, Belly-Laugh Bang

14 Wednesday May 2025

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Gruesome deaths, tongue-in-cheek humour, and one last haunting turn from Tony Todd give this unexpected final chapter a shockingly fun farewell.

Okay, so what number is this? FD 14? 80? Final Destination 482?

Meh, who cares.

To be perfectly honest, I really wasn’t expecting much from this, so did it deliver?
Drum roll… well, you’ll see.

The plot is: College student, Stefani, is plagued by the same super-violent nightmare  night after night so investigates to find out what’s the deal. Then blah de blah, something, something about cheating death and it coming back to get you.

IRL SPOILER ALERT: Death catches up with everyone in the end.

Starring… well, I don’t know. Other than Tony Todd (in his final role before his passing) reprising his usual role, there’s no big ‘stars’… unless you count the Maya Hawke lookalike. This obviously makes the cast extra-expendable when they meet their bloody end. And boy oh boy, did they not scrimp on the blood and gore!!!

Every death is gratuitously gore-rific. The audience at the screening, the sick puppies they were, erupted in absolute fits of laughter every time one of the characters was killed.

Again, sick puppies… myself included of course.

But that’s it too. It most definitely plays for laughs. The writers are comedy and/or horror specialists. Between them they are responsible for: “Abigail”, “Ready or Not”, “Spider-Man: Homecoming” to name but a few. And they’ve had a great deal of fun with the script for this.

The Prognosis:

For me, “Final Destination: Bloodlines” was a great surprise. The makers have promised this is the final chapter of the long-exhausted franchise but hooly dooly, what a way to go out.

Now let the franchise die and head to its final destination.

  • Movie Review by Myles Davies

Clown in a Cornfield Juggles Gore, Heart, and Teen Angst—but Drops a Few Balls

13 Tuesday May 2025

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Eli Craig’s stylish adaptation of the Bram Stoker Award-winning novel lands some bloody punches, but struggles to balance slasher thrills, meta commentary, and character depth.

Adapted from the 2020 novel of the same name by Adam Cesare. Clown in the Cornfield won the Bram Stoker Award for Best Young Adult Novel and was a prominent addition to the new wave of horror literature. Acquired by Shudder and pushed wider than one would expect for a Canadian teen slasher, the film has high aspirations and plenty to show for it.

Still grieving the loss of her mother, Quinn (Katie Douglas) has been transplanted from Philadelphia to the corn country town of Kettle Springs by her father, the new town’s doctor (Aaron Abrams). Hoping for a new start, they find the town, still stuck in the 90s, has a strange air about it. The adults all seem to have it out for the teens of the town, in particular the group lead by the Mayor’s son, Cole (Carson MacCormac). Much to the town’s chagrin Cole and his friends make internet horror videos, starring Friendo the Clown, the Factory and the Town’s Mascot. After one of their recent after hours shoots in the corn syrup factory, a fire mysteriously started and burned the whole thing down, putting half the town out of work and the teens in the crosshairs of a very angry clown.

A slasher lives and dies (and dies and dies) on its kills and in this teen slasher comedy Director Eli Craig brings his experience from the very fun Tucker & Dale vs Evil and the Adam Scott starring, Omen parody, Little Evil. While the killing is sparse to begin with, the violence ramps up towards the end in fun and inventive ways. There is a surprising amount of heart put into the film and the teen drama between the leads is engaging and affecting. One of the film’s weak points though is the supporting cast, the performances are held well but characters are so thinly drawn which only is highlighted because the leads have such life and depth to them.

Out of the whole Canadian cast, Kevin Durand is the biggest name here and really he’s more of a “Hey, I know that guy!” Durand plays the conservative Mayor obsessed with tradition and hard on the youth. While there isn’t a whole lot for him to do for most of the film’s run, there is one scene towards the end where he gets to really chew the scenery.

Together, Craig and cinematographer Brian Pearson (Final Destination 5, I Am Legend) bring a gorgeous look to the film, it’s probably one of the best looking teen horrors in a long while. Divorced from so many of the bad habits that have plagued the lower tier horror films of the last decade. The action is clear and you are always oriented in the scenes. I know this sounds like faint praise but there are so many slashers aimed at teens that just do not try and end up edited to pieces.

Unfortunately, the film suffers in the act of adaptation, too often you can feel a novel’s pacing and story squeezed into the brisk 96 minutes of the film’s run time. The tone fights with itself throughout flitting between classic slasher, meta comedy and teen drama, doing all three well when it’s happening on screen but all three never coalesce into a singular piece. Friendo never really gets the moments to elevate anywhere near to the likes of Jason or Freddy, or even Art the Clown for that matter. His design is not terribly interesting and the reveal of what’s really going on, while surprising at first, leaves the lore pretty thin and shallow to play in

The Prognosis:

The aspirations to be Scream for this generation are here; the mixture of horror and comedy, generational commentary, teenage cast. As an entry level slasher it does plenty right and with solid direction, inventive kills and charming performances but for more seasoned slasher lovers will be left wanting from Friendo the Clown.

  • Movie Review by Oscar Jack

A Melting Dream: Nightmare in Wax and the Lurid Echoes of Late ’60s Horror

10 Saturday May 2025

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Cameron Mitchell shines amid the decay of a flawed but fascinating low-budget oddity.

By the tail end of the 1960s, horror cinema found itself at a strange crossroads — straddling the last gasps of gothic grandeur while cautiously eyeing the burgeoning grit of a new era. Bud Townsend’s Nightmare in Wax (1969) sits awkwardly between these two worlds, offering a sordid yet visually intriguing piece that, for all its flashes of style, ultimately crumbles under the weight of its own limitations.

At its core, Nightmare in Wax is a lurid revenge tale. Cameron Mitchell — always a reliable hand in low-budget horror — lends the film its most convincing element, embodying Vince Renaud, a once-celebrated actor whose face has been horribly disfigured in a freak accident. Swallowed by bitterness and madness, Renaud retreats into the uncanny embrace of a wax museum, where his obsession with preserving beauty takes on an insidious literalness. Mitchell throws himself into the role with a bruised intensity, managing to elevate dialogue that, in lesser hands, would have collapsed into pure melodrama. His performance is a reminder that even within the most wayward productions, a committed actor can carve out something worth watching.

Visually, Nightmare in Wax occasionally brushes against something far more interesting than its narrative suggests. The cinematography, while often rudimentary, occasionally slips into unexpected pockets of stylisation. The flickering, chiaroscuro lighting of the wax museum sequences conjures a greasy, dreamlike atmosphere — a kind of sun-bleached noir sensibility that suggests a more ambitious film trapped inside the one we actually received. Shots linger just a touch too long on the deformed figures and melted visages, a grotesque fascination that, when paired with the film’s threadbare budget, achieves an uncanny, unsettling texture.

However, these moments are fleeting. The broader construction of Nightmare in Wax is messy and unfocused, with a meandering pace that undercuts its own tension. What might have been an incisive study of madness and celebrity decay is instead rendered clumsy by stilted secondary performances, ham-fisted exposition, and an aesthetic that lurches uneasily between pulp thriller and camp horror. Even the gruesome set-pieces, while conceptually fascinating, lack the polish and menace needed to make them truly memorable.

There is, to be fair, a certain tawdry charm in the film’s audacity — its waxen tableaux of frozen horror and its feverish, sun-drenched grotesquerie — but these alone cannot rescue Nightmare in Wax from its fundamental shortcomings. It remains a curious artifact: a film not without merit, but one whose flashes of inspiration are too isolated to coalesce into something enduring.

The Prognosis:

For those willing to sift through the wreckage, Cameron Mitchell’s performance and the occasional visual flourish offer a glimpse into the strange, transitional state of late-1960s horror. It’s a nightmare, yes — but one that flickers, briefly, with the strange, melting beauty of a dying dream.

  • 1960s Retrospective review by Saul Muerte

A Symphony in Splatter: Langley’s Butchers Trilogy Goes for the Jugular

10 Saturday May 2025

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Director Adrian Langley stays true to his blood-soaked roots in this gleefully gruesome third chapter.

In a genre that thrives on extremity, Adrian Langley’s Butchers trilogy has carved out its own brutal little niche—one not of narrative elegance or thematic innovation, but of bone-crunching, limb-lopping, nerve-shredding excess. With Butchers Book Three: Bonesaw, Langley stays the course, offering up another round of down-home horror where pain is inevitable and escape is unlikely.

Gone are the niceties of plot complexity or emotional nuance. In their place: sinew, shrieks, and gallons of the good stuff—practical effects and prosthetics that drip with a kind of DIY devotion rarely seen in modern horror. Langley doesn’t just lean into the gore; he practically does a cannonball into it. This time, his antagonist is a grotesque butcher on wheels, hacking through anyone in his way from the confines of his roving abattoir van. It’s ridiculous, yes, but it’s also grotesquely entertaining.

The story, such as it is, follows three women caught in the butcher’s path and a small-town sheriff who attempts to make sense of the carnage. There’s a familiar structure here—the cat-and-mouse setup, the slasher’s calculated chaos—but Langley’s real interest lies in the carnage itself. Heads roll. Limbs drop. The camera rarely flinches, and neither does the director.

Where the film stumbles is in its limited character development and tonal rigidity. The sheriff subplot adds some much-needed shape, but our protagonists exist mostly to scream, bleed, and be pursued. Still, in the context of a trilogy where spectacle has always trumped subtext, Bonesaw feels like a natural and—dare it be said—confident culmination of Langley’s rural carnage canon.

This isn’t horror that aims for atmosphere or metaphors. It’s red meat cinema—satisfyingly gnarly, grotesquely tactile, and proud of its splatterpunk DNA. In an era of glossy elevated horror, Butchers Book Three proudly remains low to the ground, in the dirt and the blood, where it has always belonged.

The Prognosis:

Not for the squeamish, but for gorehounds and genre loyalists, Langley delivers precisely what’s on the tin—if that tin were dented, rusted, and soaked through with blood.

  • Movie Review by Saul Muerte

Movie Review: Butchers

Movie Review: Butchers Two: Raghorn

The Island Fades into the Mist

10 Saturday May 2025

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Fernando Trueba’s sun-drenched thriller is a lethargic drift through secrets, sensuality, and squandered potential.

The Mediterranean sun may dazzle, the waves may glitter, and the cast may smoulder with generically attractive tension—but none of it can save The Island from becoming one of the more soporific cinematic experiences. Fernando Trueba, a director with an esteemed filmography, trades narrative vitality for languid ambiance in this inert psychological drama that unfolds like a long, humid sigh.

Set against the postcard backdrop of a Greek island, the film introduces us to Alex, a new waitress at a boutique seaside restaurant. With a femme-fatale allure and an air of mystery, she quickly captures the attention of Enrico, the chef, but is drawn instead to Max, the elusive American manager hiding something in his brooding stares and clenched silences. What follows is less a thrilling triangle than a series of glances, sighs, and ultimately, a glacial unraveling of a secret that arrives with the narrative urgency of a missed ferry.

Trueba clearly intends a slow-burn approach, but what results is barely a flicker. The plot trudges along with the weight of its own self-importance, mistaking inertia for introspection. The sexual tension, which should crackle, barely hums. Conversations are riddled with cryptic hints and evasive stares, yet the payoffs are few and far between. When revelations do come, they feel both undercooked and unearned—mere embers that fail to ignite.

Visually, The Island is polished, occasionally picturesque. The camera lingers lovingly on the sea and stone, the half-lit interiors, the salt-flecked skin of its cast. But the atmosphere, no matter how finely curated, cannot compensate for narrative void. You keep waiting for the film to snap into focus, to finally tap into its thriller DNA. Instead, it drifts—first into lethargy, then into complete emotional disengagement.

The performances are competent, but the characters remain archetypes rather than people. Alex is sultry but shallowly drawn; Max, the American enigma, is more mannequin than man; and poor Enrico spends most of the runtime in a state of aimless suspicion. The film attempts to explore obsession, betrayal, and the burdens of past sins, but only gestures vaguely toward each before retreating back into the blue haze.

The Prognosis:

The Island wants to be a sun-bleached neo-noir, a slow meditation on desire and consequence, but what we’re left with is a whisper of a film—beautifully composed, but hollow and soporific. Sometimes, secrets are better left buried. In this case, the film’s own narrative might have been.

  • Movie Review by Saul Muerte

Ride the Snake Slithers into Darkness, But Never Truly Strikes

10 Saturday May 2025

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Despite bold intentions and strong performances, this slow-burning psychological thriller is too meandering to leave a lasting bite.

Ride the Snake, the latest effort from British filmmaker Shani Grewal, attempts to crawl into the feverish subconscious of grief, guilt, and revenge, but ends up shedding more skin than substance. With an ambitious palette of references, the film isn’t lacking in aesthetic aspirations. Unfortunately, it’s precisely this reverence for genre greats that weighs the narrative down, muddying what could have been a searing, timely story of loss and reckoning.

At its core, the premise is loaded with potential. Harper (Suzanna Hamilton) and her daughter abduct the drunk driver responsible for the death of Harper’s husband, believing they’ve seized justice on their own terms. What follows is not the revenge thriller one might expect, but a slow, deliberate psychological descent. The pacing dares to crawl, not sprint. And while restraint can be a virtue, here it flirts too closely with inertia.

Hamilton, best known for her haunting turn in 1984, delivers a performance of quiet intensity. Her portrayal of Harper teeters between vulnerability and steel resolve. Michael Maloney also anchors the film with a weary charisma that keeps certain scenes afloat, particularly when the tension begins to sag. Madhav Sharma, too, brings subtle gravity to his supporting role, though he is underutilised.

Where Ride the Snake does strike a chord is in its atmospheric tension. The visuals are brooding and textured, soaked in bleak palettes and long, oppressive silences. Grewal and his cinematographer seem deeply attuned to visual storytelling—but perhaps too much so. At times, the atmosphere feels like an end in itself rather than a complement to the story. There are echoes of genre classics everywhere, but they never quite congeal into something distinct or urgent. It’s a film that gestures toward menace without ever fully embracing it.

Yet, beneath the uneven pacing and the sometimes self-conscious aesthetic, there’s something commendable. Grewal’s comment about the difficulties of casting British/Asians in non-stereotypical roles speaks to a real and persistent issue in UK cinema. In that regard, Ride the Snake is a step forward—not because it tokenises its characters of colour, but because it simply allows them to exist in complex, human roles. The film’s universality lies in its grief, in its moral murk, and in the desperation that grief can provoke.

The Prognosis:

For all its noble intentions and atmospheric flourishes, Ride the Snake ends up coiling in on itself. It never quite delivers the psychological punch it promises. The suspense simmers but rarely boils. The horror stays at arm’s length, more suggested than felt. In the end, it’s a film that mourns deeply but moves too slowly—and struggles to find its own voice amid the echoes of cinematic ghosts.

  • Movie Review by Saul Muerte

Ride The Snake is currently streaming on Amazon Prime.

The Ugly Stepsister Finds Her Voice in the Shadows

10 Saturday May 2025

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This darkly feminist fairy tale slow-burns its way through vanity, envy, and the societal curse of beauty.

In Emilie Kristine Blichfeldt’s icy, melancholic The Ugly Stepsister, the velvet drapes and soft golden glows of the fairy tale kingdom mask something far more corrosive: the bitter ache of envy, inadequacy, and the impossible pressure to be seen. It’s a film that peers behind the glass slipper and turns the looking glass back on us—audiences raised on ideals of beauty, charm, and happy endings for the fairest of them all.

The titular “ugly” stepsister, Elvira (Lea Myren), is not the cackling caricature of pantomime lore. Played with aching restraint, she’s a quiet storm of desperation and longing—her plainness not exaggerated but perceptibly measured against the luminous perfection of her stepsister, who seems preordained to capture the prince’s attention. The film’s magic lies not in spells or transformations, but in its psychological excavation of a woman unraveling under the weight of expectation and invisibility.

Blichfeldt wisely avoids overt parody or satire. Instead, she leans into the fairy tale structure only to slowly erode it, exposing the emotional and societal cost of a world built on outward beauty. In Elvira’s quiet glances, her tightening posture, and her increasing willingness to bend morality in pursuit of admiration, we witness something tragic: not a villainess in the making, but a reflection of how warped self-worth becomes in a world that equates beauty with value.

The film’s pacing is deliberate, sometimes to a fault. It takes its time—almost too much—in building its portrait of simmering resentment and warped aspiration. But the stillness serves a purpose: The Ugly Stepsister is less concerned with plot propulsion than with emotional erosion. This is no Cinderella story, even if it steals her ballgown. It’s a study in marginalisation—of being the one never chosen, never seen, and never allowed to dream on her own terms.

Though the production design is gorgeously oppressive—regal and cold in equal measure—it’s the thematic spine that resonates: the film’s commentary on the female experience within patriarchal beauty myths. Elvira’s descent isn’t driven by malice, but by an internalised belief that to be loved, she must first be looked at. It’s a bitter irony that in pursuing visibility, she must become someone—something—unrecognisable.

The Prognosis:

The Ugly Stepsister doesn’t always land its punches with perfect clarity and might frustrate viewers expecting a more dramatic reversal or fantasy payoff. Blichfeldt isn’t rewriting a fairy tale—she’s exhuming it, pulling up what’s been buried beneath centuries of curated perfection.

In this world, beauty is not a blessing. It’s a prison. And for those left outside its gates, the fairy tale is a nightmare told in soft pastels and sharpened smiles.

  • Review by Saul Muerte