It has a CRUSH on you! When an accident involving a folding machine at an old laundry happens, detective John Hunton investigates. As his investigation progresses, he begins to suspect the machine is possessed by a demon from Hell.
By 1995, director Tobe Hooper had long cemented his legacy in horror history with The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) and Poltergeist (1982), while Robert Englund had become an icon as Freddy Krueger. Their reunion in The Mangler—an adaptation of a lesser-known Stephen King short story—should have been an exciting horror event. Instead, it became one of the more peculiar and divisive entries in all their careers.
It’s not every day that a movie about a possessed industrial laundry press makes it to the big screen, but that’s exactly the kind of bizarre energy The Mangler brings. The film exists in a world of exaggerated performances, over-the-top set pieces, and a plot so ludicrous that it straddles the line between horror and dark comedy. Englund, buried under grotesque makeup as the sadistic factory owner Bill Gartley, chews the scenery with relish. Meanwhile, Ted Levine, fresh off The Silence of the Lambs, lends his gravelly, weary presence to the role of the skeptical detective who slowly realises that there may be supernatural forces at play.
Hooper leans into the absurdity, crafting a grimy, oppressive atmosphere that feels reminiscent of his early work, albeit with a more surreal, almost operatic quality. However, the film struggles with pacing and tone—moments of genuine horror are often undercut by unintentional comedy, making it an acquired taste even for die-hard horror fans. The practical effects and gore are commendable, but the story itself stretches believability to the breaking point, even for King’s standards.
Despite its many flaws, The Mangler has developed a small cult following over the years, thanks in part to its sheer audacity. While it never reached the heights of Hooper’s greatest works, it remains a fascinating oddity in ‘90s horror, a relic from a time when studios were still willing to gamble on the outlandish. For those willing to embrace its madness, it’s an entertaining, if deeply flawed, slice of supernatural horror.
Osgood Perkins has built a reputation for moody, atmospheric horror (The Blackcoat’s Daughter, I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House), crafting eerie slow burns that settle under your skin. So it’s baffling that his adaptation of Stephen King’s The Monkey swings so wildly in the opposite direction, embracing an oddly comedic tone that is both its saving grace and its Achilles’ heel.
The film follows twin brothers who, after discovering a cursed wind-up monkey, become entangled in a series of grotesque and improbable deaths. Decades later, the sinister toy resurfaces, forcing the now-estranged siblings to confront their past—and the murderous primate—before its deadly rhythm consumes them completely.
As someone who was deeply impacted by King’s short story during my formative years, this adaptation feels like a tonal misstep. While Perkins injects moments of dry, almost absurd humour that occasionally land (I’ll admit, I chuckled more than once), the film never fully commits to either horror or comedy, leaving it feeling strangely weightless. The sense of dread that should accompany a tale about an unrelenting, supernatural force is missing, replaced with an offbeat energy that doesn’t quite fit.
Visually, The Monkey does retain some of Perkins’ signature flair. There are pockets of eerie imagery, particularly when the toy is in motion, its drum banging in ominous slow motion as its glassy eyes seem to bore into the characters’ souls. However, the film’s pacing stumbles between moody horror and slapstick absurdity, undercutting its tension just as it starts to build. Instead of letting the horror breathe, it often pivots to a joke or exaggerated reaction, as if second-guessing its own scares.
The performances do their best to sell the concept, with the lead actors committing to the madness, but there’s a disjointedness to the storytelling that prevents any real emotional weight from forming. Without a stronger anchor—whether it be a grounded sense of familial trauma or a truly nightmarish atmosphere—the film lacks the staying power of both Perkins’ previous work and King’s original story.
With The Monkey, Perkins seems to be playing against type, but instead of reinventing the demonic toy subgenre, he fumbles it. The film claps along to its own beat, but much like the monkey itself, the rhythm grows tiresome—thumping away long after the terror has worn off.
Few horror films have had the seismic impact of George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968). A micro-budget, black-and-white nightmare, the film forever altered the portrayal of zombies in cinema and ushered in a new era of socially conscious horror. More than just an exercise in terror, Night of the Living Dead is a politically charged masterpiece that reflects the anxieties of its era while setting the foundation for the modern zombie genre.
Redefining the Undead
Before Night of the Living Dead, zombies in popular culture were largely tied to the voodoo mythos, as seen in films like White Zombie (1932) and I Walked with a Zombie (1943). Romero and co-writer John A. Russo stripped the concept down and rebuilt it into something far more terrifying: relentless, flesh-eating ghouls with no master to control them. These undead creatures, driven by an insatiable hunger, served as an unsettling mirror to the living, an idea that would be expanded upon in Romero’s later Dead films.
Political and Social Commentary
What sets Night of the Living Dead apart from many of its horror contemporaries is its deep well of social and political commentary. Though Romero often insisted that the casting of Duane Jones as Ben—the film’s intelligent, level-headed protagonist—was not an overt political statement, it was impossible to separate his presence from the racial tensions of the time. Ben’s ultimate fate, gunned down by a posse of white men who mistake him for a zombie, is a chilling echo of America’s violent racial history, particularly in the wake of the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X.
The film also taps into Cold War paranoia, with radio and television broadcasts offering conflicting theories about the zombie outbreak. The apocalyptic tone, coupled with government incompetence and misinformation, reflects the growing distrust in American institutions during the Vietnam War era. There is a sense of nihilism at play, where survival feels uncertain regardless of how rational or prepared one may be.
Themes of Fear and Isolation
At its core, Night of the Living Dead is a study in fear—both of the unknown and of each other. The film’s claustrophobic setting, a rural farmhouse besieged by the undead, intensifies the growing tensions among the survivors. Personal conflicts—embodied in the power struggle between Ben and the cowardly Harry Cooper (Karl Hardman)—highlight how, even in the face of an external horror, humanity’s greatest enemy may still be itself. The breakdown of cooperation and trust among the group underscores a bleak message: civilisation crumbles not just due to external threats, but because of internal divisions.
Legacy and Influence
Upon its release, Night of the Living Dead shocked audiences with its unflinching violence, nihilistic tone, and unorthodox approach to horror. While initially controversial—particularly due to its graphic scenes and bleak ending—it has since been recognised as a watershed moment in horror cinema. The film laid the groundwork for countless successors, from Romero’s own Dawn of the Dead (1978) to contemporary hits like The Walking Dead and 28 Days Later (2002).
More importantly, it demonstrated that horror could be both viscerally terrifying and intellectually stimulating, using the genre as a lens through which to examine societal issues. Over five decades later, Night of the Living Dead remains as haunting and relevant as ever, a grim reminder that the true horror lies not just in the monsters outside, but in the darkness within humanity itself.
A young magistrate recalls three tales of heinous crimes committed by women, and the brutal punishments that ensued.
A Cinematic Descent into Ero Guro: Few filmmakers pushed the boundaries of Japanese cinema in the 1960s quite like Teruo Ishii. Known as the godfather of Japanese exploitation cinema, Ishii was instrumental in popularizing ero guro—a genre blending eroticism and grotesquerie, often rooted in historical or supernatural themes. Shogun’s Joy of Torture is one of his most infamous films, an anthology of sadistic punishments, brutal executions, and twisted morality tales that shocked audiences upon release.
The film is structured as three separate stories, each delving into themes of power, oppression, and the consequences of transgression in feudal Japan. These vignettes are marked by graphic depictions of torture, sexual violence, and extreme suffering, making it one of the most unsettling films of its time. Yet, beneath the extreme content, there is an undeniable artistry at play. Ishii’s masterful use of color, lighting, and atmosphere elevates Shogun’s Joy of Torture beyond mere shock value, crafting an experience that is as visually arresting as it is disturbing.
This film emerged at the dawn of Japan’s pink film movement, a wave of softcore erotic films that would dominate the nation’s underground cinema for decades. Unlike standard pink films, which leaned more toward romantic or comedic erotica, Ishii’s work was unrelentingly dark and often tied to historical narratives, reflecting the oppressive nature of the past and the inescapable suffering of its victims. Shogun’s Joy of Torture is particularly notable for its depiction of institutional cruelty—whether from the state, religious authorities, or social customs, Ishii presents a world where brutality is the status quo.
Though controversial, Shogun’s Joy of Torture was a precursor to the rise of more extreme Japanese cinema in the decades to follow, influencing filmmakers such as Takashi Miike. It remains a difficult watch, even by today’s standards, but for those interested in the intersection of horror, history, and ero guro aesthetics, it stands as a landmark of the genre.
Both The Ghastly Ones and Shogun’s Joy of Torture exemplify the outer limits of 1960s horror and exploitation cinema, albeit from very different cultural angles. Where Milligan’s work found itself caught in the wave of moral panic that swept through the UK in the 1980s, Ishii’s film helped shape the future of Japanese underground cinema. Both films challenge viewers with their content, making them fascinating case studies in censorship, controversy, and the evolution of genre filmmaking.
Mad creatures of the night existing only for sensual sadistic moments of human slaughter! Three sisters must spend three nights on an eerie island to inherit their father’s fortune. A deformed man leads them to the estate where horrors await.
Andy Milligan’s The Ghastly Ones is an oddity in the realm of horror cinema, a sleazy and grimy piece of exploitation that, while low-budget and technically amateurish, found itself enshrined in infamy as one of the notorious “video nasties.” When the UK’s Director of Public Prosecutions compiled a list of banned films in the early 1980s, The Ghastly Ones was among the titles deemed too extreme for public consumption. But how did this modestly made film wind up alongside some of the most controversial horror films of its era?
One of Milligan’s most notorious works, The Ghastly Ones stands as a testament to his unapologetically crude and nihilistic style. Known for his erratic camera work, grating dialogue, and gruesome depictions of violence, Milligan was a filmmaker who operated on the fringes of respectability. This film is no exception. It blends elements of gothic horror and grindhouse sleaze, using its limited resources to create an atmosphere of decay and depravity.
What cemented The Ghastly Ones as a video nasty was its unrelenting depiction of sadism and mutilation. While some of its peers on the list, such as The Evil Dead or The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, were films of technical skill and thematic weight, Milligan’s film was a crude, unpolished fever dream of carnage. The inclusion of lingering shots of gore, crude special effects, and an all-around unsettling tone ensured its place in the annals of censorship history. Unlike some of the other video nasties, which gained a cult following, The Ghastly Ones remains a film that only the most dedicated of exploitation fans seek out.
While it may not hold the same level of esteem as some of its video nasty contemporaries, The Ghastly Ones is a fascinating piece of horror history, both as an example of Milligan’s warped vision and as a film that managed to stir enough outrage to be banned in the UK. Today, it remains a curiosity—an obscure but significant entry in the era of censorship battles that defined 1980s horror fandom.
Josh Ruben’s Heart Eyes (2025) continues the director’s increasing track record of blending horror with sharp comedic sensibilities. With a strong cast featuring Olivia Hoult, Mason Gooding, Jordana Brewster, and Devon Sawa, the film injects energy into a genre that thrives on familiar tropes but struggles to fully subvert them.
The film follows two co-workers working late on Valentine’s Day who find themselves mistaken for a couple by the elusive “Heart Eyes Killer.” What should have been a routine night of overtime turns into a desperate struggle for survival as they attempt to outwit a murderer with a romantic vendetta. Ruben, alongside the influence of Christopher Landon, crafts a thrilling yet darkly comedic atmosphere, elevating the film above standard slasher fare.
One of Heart Eyes’ strongest assets is its cast. Olivia Hoult and Mason Gooding deliver an engaging dynamic, their chemistry adding an element of screwball charm reminiscent of classic comedies like His Girl Friday, which fittingly plays at the local drive-in. Jordana Brewster and Devon Sawa add gravitas, balancing the film’s mix of humour and suspense. Each actor brings a spark that keeps the film’s momentum going, even when the script leans into predictability.
When it comes to slasher sequences, Heart Eyes delivers with some truly creative and intense set pieces. Ruben ensures that the kills are visually engaging and suspensefully executed, but the film often treads a fine line between homage and predictability. While it never loses its charm, seasoned horror fans may find the plot’s trajectory a little too easy to anticipate.
The Prognosis:
Heart Eyes is a fun, well-acted, and stylish slasher that balances humour and horror with flair. The chemistry of its leads and its nods to classic cinema add a refreshing touch, but it ultimately doesn’t push the boundaries of the genre enough to be truly groundbreaking. Nevertheless, it’s a solid entry in Josh Ruben’s growing filmography and a Valentine’s Day horror treat worth watching.
The year 2000 was a transitional time for horror—Scream (1996) had revitalised the slasher genre with its meta approach, but by the turn of the millennium, the self-aware horror trend was starting to wear thin. Enter Cut, an Australian entry into the post-Scream wave that embraces the familiar tropes while injecting a uniquely local flavour. With a modest budget, a playful premise, and some surprising casting choices—including pop icon Kylie Minogue and ’80s teen queen Molly Ringwald—Cut is far from a forgotten classic, but it does offer a fun, schlocky ride for slasher fans willing to embrace its rough edges.
At its core, Cut plays with the idea of a cursed film. The story follows a group of eager film students who attempt to complete an abandoned horror movie, Hot Blooded, which was left unfinished after its director was brutally murdered on set. As the students begin filming, they quickly realise that the film itself might be haunted—and that the masked killer from Hot Blooded may be more than just a character. What starts as a low-budget student project soon becomes a real-life bloodbath.
It’s a fun concept, riffing on the idea of cursed productions and the dangers of meddling with unfinished works. However, Cut never quite manages to go beyond the surface of its premise, leaning into standard slasher formula rather than fully exploring the more interesting implications of a film-within-a-film.
One of Cut’s biggest draws is its unexpected cast. Kylie Minogue appears in a brief but memorable role as the original film’s ill-fated director, giving the film a dose of star power in its early moments. However, it’s Molly Ringwald who truly stands out, playing Vanessa Turnbill, an actress from Hot Blooded who reluctantly returns to the set decades later. Ringwald brings some much-needed charisma and experience to the film, leaning into the role of a washed-up star who’s equal parts bitter and self-aware.
While the supporting cast is mostly filled with lesser-known Australian actors, there’s a sense that everyone involved is having a good time, even when the script doesn’t quite rise to the occasion.
Director Kimble Rendall (who would later work on Bait 3D) keeps things moving at a brisk pace, making the most of the limited resources. The film’s kills are gory enough to satisfy slasher fans, and while the special effects sometimes show their budgetary constraints, they add to the film’s scrappy charm.
The masked killer, known as “Scarman,” is a solid if unremarkable addition to the slasher villain roster. His design—a grotesque, stitched-up face—has potential, but the film never quite gives him a distinct enough personality or mythology to elevate him above the typical masked killers of the era.
Looking back, Cut is an interesting relic of its time. It leans heavily on Scream-inspired self-awareness but lacks the sharp writing or wit that made its American counterparts so memorable. Instead, it works best when embraced as a low-budget, locally made slasher that delivers enough fun moments to warrant a late-night viewing.
It may not have the legacy of Wolf Creek or other standout Australian horror films, but for those looking for a lesser-known slasher with an early-2000s vibe, Cut offers a nostalgic, if slightly uneven, experience.
The Prognosis:
Flawed but fun, Cut is a slasher oddity that benefits from its unique Australian setting, some unexpected casting choices, and a decent dose of bloody mayhem. It won’t be remembered as an essential entry in the genre, but it’s an entertaining curiosity for those who enjoy their horror with a bit of low-budget charm.
A quarter of a century has passed since Pitch Black crash-landed onto screens, delivering a gripping fusion of sci-fi, action, and horror that still holds its own today. In the years since, the film has spawned sequels, a devoted fanbase, and even further cemented Vin Diesel as a genre icon. But more importantly, Pitch Black remains a testament to the power of stripped-down, high-concept storytelling—proof that a simple premise, executed with precision, can stand the test of time.
The setup is deceptively straightforward: a transport ship carrying a diverse group of passengers crash-lands on a remote planet, forcing them to rely on the one man they fear the most—Richard B. Riddick (Vin Diesel), an escaped convict with surgically enhanced night vision. But as they struggle to survive, they quickly realise that Riddick isn’t the biggest threat. When the planet is plunged into total darkness during a rare eclipse, it becomes clear that they’re not alone—deadly creatures emerge from the shadows, picking them off one by one.
Director David Twohy crafted a film that defies expectations at every turn. What could have been a forgettable Alien clone instead became an exercise in atmospheric dread and moral ambiguity, where the supposed villain may be the only one capable of ensuring survival. The script is lean, the world-building is compelling without being over-explained, and the film wastes no time in establishing the stakes.
Riddick remains one of the most compelling antiheroes of modern sci-fi. Diesel, on the verge of superstardom at the time, gives a performance that simmers with controlled intensity. His Riddick is unpredictable, calculating, and, at times, genuinely terrifying. But as the film unfolds, it becomes clear that he isn’t just a brute force—he’s a survivor, and unlike the others, he understands the harsh reality of their predicament.
This role launched a franchise, leading to The Chronicles of Riddick (2004) and Riddick (2013), with a fourth installment, Riddick: Furya, in the works. While the sequels took the character in different directions, Pitch Black remains the most effective use of Diesel’s brooding screen presence, where his menace and reluctant heroism are balanced perfectly.
Beyond Diesel, Pitch Black is elevated by its supporting cast. Radha Mitchell delivers one of her best performances as Carolyn Fry, a pilot burdened with guilt and forced into leadership. Keith David brings gravitas as Imam, a man of faith struggling to reconcile belief with brutal reality. Cole Hauser plays the ruthless mercenary Johns, whose morality is as murky as Riddick’s, and Claudia Black—before her Farscape and Stargate SG-1 fame—adds depth in a smaller role.
One of the film’s strengths is how it handles its characters: no one is truly safe, and survival isn’t guaranteed. The film embraces the cruelty of its setting, reinforcing the theme that in extreme conditions, it isn’t just the monsters that are dangerous—human nature can be just as predatory.
Cinematographer David Eggby (Mad Max) gives Pitch Black a distinctive, almost surreal visual palette. The harsh, bleached-out daylight sequences contrast beautifully with the eerie, blue-tinged darkness, immersing the audience in an alien world that feels both hostile and eerily familiar. The decision to film in the Australian outback lends an authenticity to the barren landscape, making it feel truly isolated.
The creature design remains a triumph, blending practical and CGI effects to create monstrous, bat-like predators that feel genuinely threatening. The concept of light as both salvation and a fragile barrier between life and death adds an extra layer of tension, making every flickering torch or dwindling battery a source of dread.
Despite its relatively modest budget, Pitch Black has aged remarkably well. The film’s minimalist approach means it doesn’t rely on flashy effects or convoluted lore—it’s a tightly crafted survival thriller that still delivers genuine tension.
If there’s any flaw, it’s that Pitch Black set such a high bar that the later Riddick films struggled to recapture its magic. The Chronicles of Riddick attempted to expand the mythology but lost some of the rawness that made the original so compelling. Riddick (2013) brought things back to basics, but nothing quite matched the unpredictable intensity of Pitch Black.
But 25 years on, none of that diminishes its impact. Whether you’re revisiting it or discovering it for the first time, Pitch Black remains one of the best sci-fi horror films of the 21st century—lean, mean, and never afraid of the dark.
Abel Ferrara’s The Addiction (1995) is a vampire film like no other—more existential crisis than gothic horror, more philosophical discourse than blood-drenched carnage. Shot in stark black and white, it feels like an arthouse fever dream, blending horror with academia, addiction with enlightenment. At 30 years old, the film remains a fascinating, if occasionally pretentious, exploration of power, control, and oppression, anchored by a magnetic performance from Lili Taylor.
Kathleen Conklin (Lili Taylor) is a New York philosophy student whose life takes a sinister turn after she is attacked and bitten by a mysterious woman. As she spirals into an insatiable thirst for blood, she begins to see vampirism as more than just a physical affliction—it becomes a metaphor for oppression, complicity, and the nature of evil itself. Along the way, she encounters a seasoned vampire (Christopher Walken) who warns her of the dangers of surrendering completely to her cravings. But can she resist, or is she doomed to embrace the darkness?
Ferrara, never one for convention, uses vampirism as an allegory for addiction—whether to power, drugs, or ideology. The film’s dialogue is dense with references to philosophers like Nietzsche, Sartre, and Heidegger, which can sometimes feel like a graduate-level seminar more than a horror movie. But if you can push through the intellectual posturing, The Addiction offers a compelling and, at times, harrowing dissection of human nature.
Ferrara’s New York is a city of shadows, the grainy cinematography by Ken Kelsch lending a sense of grimy realism that recalls his earlier works like Bad Lieutenant (1992). The vampires here aren’t glamorous or seductive; they are sickly, ravenous, and desperate, resembling junkies more than supernatural beings.
Lili Taylor delivers a phenomenal performance as Kathleen, bringing both fragility and ferocity to the role. Her transformation from quiet intellectual to cold predator is gradual but chilling, culminating in scenes of nihilistic bloodletting that are as horrifying as they are thought-provoking.
Christopher Walken makes a brief but unforgettable appearance as Peina, a vampire who has learned to suppress his hunger. His cryptic monologues add to the film’s philosophical underpinnings, but his performance, dripping with Walken’s signature charisma, keeps things engaging rather than didactic. The supporting cast—featuring Annabella Sciorra, Edie Falco, Paul Calderon, and a young Michael Imperioli—further enriches the film’s grim world.
Thirty years later, The Addiction remains a divisive film. Some see it as a brilliant deconstruction of horror tropes and a biting commentary on societal power structures; others find it insufferably self-indulgent. But regardless of where one stands, there’s no denying its uniqueness.
Its themes—oppression, complicity, the cycle of violence—are as relevant today as they were in 1995. The film asks difficult questions: Can we resist our darker impulses, or are we all fated to succumb? Are we victims, perpetrators, or both? In true Ferrara fashion, no easy answers are given.
While The Addiction may alienate some with its academic-heavy dialogue and overtly intellectual leanings, those willing to engage with it will find a mesmerising, deeply unsettling film. Lili Taylor’s powerhouse performance, Ferrara’s uncompromising vision, and the film’s stark aesthetic make it a fascinating entry in the vampire canon—one that still bites, 30 years later.
Scott Derrickson’s The Gorge (2025) is a film brimming with promise, a high-concept action thriller that attempts to blend existential depth with pulse-pounding survival horror. Known for his ability to balance terror and emotion (The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Sinister, Doctor Strange), Derrickson crafts an ambitious narrative, but despite its stunning visual execution and compelling leads, the film struggles to fully immerse the audience before it reaches its true stakes.
Miles Teller and Anya Taylor-Joy bring a welcome chemistry to the screen, embodying two highly trained operatives assigned to opposite sides of a seemingly insurmountable gorge. Their dynamic is at the heart of the film, offering a blend of tension and reluctant camaraderie that gradually builds into something more profound. Teller’s rugged intensity contrasts well with Taylor-Joy’s ethereal yet steely resolve, making their interactions compelling even when the story falters.
The film’s core themes—uncertainty, forced isolation, and the necessity of connection—are its most intriguing elements. The gorge itself serves as both a physical and metaphorical chasm, a representation of the vast emotional and ideological distances that separate us. Derrickson is no stranger to exploring the psychological strains of confinement and survival, and The Gorge is at its best when it leans into this existential unease. The idea that we must plunge into the abyss together to find true connection is a powerful one, but the film often stumbles in delivering this emotional payoff.
The emergence of the mysterious evil lurking below should serve as the catalyst for a gripping second half, yet the film lingers too long on its setup. While tension builds effectively, the story meanders in its attempt to establish a connection between the leads, losing narrative momentum before the stakes fully materialise. By the time the horror takes centre stage, the audience’s investment feels slightly strained, making the ultimate conflict feel less urgent than it should.
The Prognosis:
Derrickson’s visual craftsmanship and the undeniable chemistry between Teller and Taylor-Joy elevate The Gorge, making it an intriguing but flawed experience. Its themes of human connection and survival resonate, yet the film struggles under the weight of its own philosophical ambitions, delaying the inevitable descent into true terror. By the time the audience is fully engaged, it feels as though the film has only just begun to reveal its true depths. A fascinating misstep, but a misstep nonetheless.
Surgeons of Horror 