Ted V. Mikels’ The Astro-Zombies is the kind of movie that revels in its own absurdity, serving up a bizarre cocktail of dismembered bodies, reanimated killers, and international espionage. While it’s far from a masterpiece (or even a coherent film), its sheer B-horror audacity and pulpy visuals have a way of sticking in the mind.
Anchored by John Carradine’s portrayal of the mad scientist Dr. DeMarco, the film spins a wild tale involving killer robot-zombies powered by solar energy, a trail of female murder victims, and an eclectic mix of spies—from Chinese communists to Mexican secret agents. It’s a lot to cram into a low-budget thriller, and the result is predictably chaotic. Plot threads come and go with little regard for logic, and the performances range from hammy to outright wooden. Yet, there’s a certain charm to its unpolished enthusiasm, a quality that endears it to fans of offbeat cinema.
What The Astro-Zombies lacks in storytelling finesse, it makes up for with its striking concept and visuals. The titular astro-zombies, while clunky in execution, are undeniably memorable with their grotesque, Frankensteinian appearance. Mikels imbues the film with a retro-futuristic aesthetic, all garish lighting and crude laboratory setups, that captures the spirit of 1960s B-movies.
For all its flaws—and there are many—it’s hard to entirely dismiss The Astro-Zombies. There’s an undeniable charm to its hodgepodge of ideas, even if the film ultimately stumbles under the weight of its ambition. While its appeal is niche, those with a taste for campy, low-budget horror might just find themselves entertained by this strange little relic of the 1960s.
John Rosman’s New Life presents itself as a high-stakes thriller laced with mystery and apocalypse. With Sonya Walger and Hayley Erin anchoring the film, their commendable performances provide much-needed gravity to a narrative that struggles to find its footing. Unfortunately, even their efforts can’t fully redeem a story that drags its way through prolonged build-up before stumbling into its climactic moments.
The plot follows a mysterious woman on the run and a resourceful fixer tasked with tracking her down. Their entwined fates drive the film’s central tension, but the execution is hindered by pacing issues and an over-reliance on cryptic storytelling. While the promise of apocalyptic stakes looms in the background, the narrative spends too much time spinning its wheels, leaving viewers yearning for something—anything—to justify the drawn-out setup.
When the film finally pivots to a zombie/plague-like outbreak, it injects a much-needed sense of urgency. The chaotic and visceral energy in these moments hints at what the film could have been had it embraced this intensity earlier. Unfortunately, by the time the action kicks in, the payoff feels like too little, too late, leaving the audience more exhausted than exhilarated.
Despite the lacklustre pacing, Sonya Walger and Hayley Erin stand out as the film’s saving grace. Walger brings a steely determination to her role, while Erin portrays vulnerability and resilience with equal skill. Their dynamic holds the viewer’s attention even as the story falters, offering glimpses of what could have been a more compelling character-driven thriller.
Rosman’s direction showcases moments of visual flair, particularly in the film’s apocalyptic sequences, but these flashes of brilliance are undermined by a script that stretches thin. The potential for a gripping, high-stakes narrative is evident but remains unrealised, bogged down by a lack of momentum and clarity.
New Life ultimately feels like a missed opportunity—a story with intriguing elements and strong performances that’s let down by uneven execution. While the film’s latter half provides some excitement, it can’t quite overcome the sluggish pacing and underdeveloped narrative that precedes it.
If you’re a fan of slow-burn thrillers and compelling lead performances, New Life might hold some appeal, but for most, it’s likely to be a frustrating watch.
Saul Muerte
New Life will be streaming in Shudder from Monday 27th Jan.
In 2005, Greg McLean’s Wolf Creek unleashed a chilling new chapter in Australian cinema, a psychological horror that tore through audiences with its unflinching brutality and unsettling realism. Two decades later, the film’s harrowing impact remains undeniable, cementing its place as an iconic piece of modern horror. Though divisive for its slow-burn pacing and visceral violence, Wolf Creek thrives on its darkly warped core and the unforgettable menace of John Jarratt’s performance as the sadistic Mick Taylor.
Set against the backdrop of Australia’s desolate outback, Wolf Creek begins with an eerie calm. McLean’s deliberate pacing immerses viewers in the idyllic yet isolating beauty of the terrain, lulling them into a false sense of security as three travelers—Ben (Nathan Phillips), Liz (Cassandra Magrath), and Kristy (Kestie Morassi)—set off on an adventure. It’s not until they cross paths with Mick Taylor, an unassuming yet unhinged local, that the film’s true terror takes shape.
John Jarratt’s portrayal of Mick Taylor is the cornerstone of Wolf Creek’s enduring legacy. Drawing inspiration from real-life Australian crimes, Jarratt transforms Mick into a disturbingly charismatic monster, combining a disarming sense of humour with an undercurrent of sadistic cruelty. His every laugh, leer, and word carries an air of unpredictability, making him one of horror’s most terrifying villains. Jarratt’s chilling performance anchors the film, ensuring Mick Taylor remains a haunting figure in the annals of horror cinema.
Despite criticisms of its slow start, McLean’s direction proves masterful in its escalation of dread. The film’s first act may take its time, but it serves a purpose: establishing the characters’ humanity and grounding the story in an almost documentary-like realism. This measured buildup amplifies the horror when it arrives, plunging the audience into an unrelenting nightmare that feels disturbingly plausible.
Wolf Creek also marked a turning point for Australian cinema, revealing a darker, grittier side of the national identity. Far from the sun-soaked landscapes and laid-back charm often associated with Australia on screen, McLean’s vision is one of isolation, vulnerability, and predatory danger. The vast emptiness of the outback becomes a character in itself, both beautiful and menacing, amplifying the film’s sense of helplessness.
The success of Wolf Creek spawned a sequel, Wolf Creek 2 (2013), and a television series, allowing audiences to dive deeper into Mick Taylor’s twisted world. A long-rumored third installment remains a tantalising prospect, proof of the franchise’s lasting appeal. Though each expansion of the Wolf Creek universe adds layers to its narrative, the original remains unmatched in its raw power and visceral impact.
As Wolf Creek turns 20, its legacy as a defining entry in horror cinema is undeniable. Greg McLean’s audacious storytelling, combined with Jarratt’s terrifying performance, created a film that sticks in the mind. Whether you revisit it for its shocking brutality, its exploration of Australia’s darker underbelly, or its unforgettable villain, one thing is certain: Wolf Creek is as haunting today as it was two decades ago.
In the year 2000, Psycho Beach Party surfed onto screens with a peculiar mix of sunny beach party vibes, 1950s pastiche, and psychological camp horror. Directed by Robert Lee King and based on Charles Busch’s off-Broadway play, the film is as much a parody as it is a love letter to the B-movies of old. While it might not ride the wave of cult classics, it boasts a remarkable ensemble cast and a quirky approach that both elevates and anchors its appeal.
One of Psycho Beach Party’s undeniable strengths lies in its casting—a veritable treasure trove of talent who went on to dominate the small screen. Lauren Ambrose (Six Feet Under) leads as Chicklet, the plucky yet troubled teenager with a personality disorder that takes centre stage. Her performance balances sweetness with a sharp edge, embodying the absurdity of the script without losing its charm.
Supporting her are the likes of Thomas Gibson (Criminal Minds), delivering a hilariously suave turn as Kanaka, and Amy Adams (Sharp Objects, Enchanted), who injects her role as Marvel Ann with a mix of humour and naïveté that showcases her early promise. Additionally, Nicholas Brendon (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) flexes his comedic muscles as Starcat, while Charles Busch himself makes a fabulous appearance as the glamorous and mysterious Captain Monica Stark.
The cast’s commitment to the film’s absurdity is what keeps it afloat, infusing the campy dialogue and melodramatic twists with genuine enthusiasm. Watching these now-familiar faces play in this exaggerated sandbox is a joy, even if the film itself doesn’t always deliver on its potential.
Psycho Beach Party is a patchwork homage to the beach party and horror films of the 1950s and 1960s, with a healthy dose of camp humour thrown in. The bright colours, exaggerated performances, and tongue-in-cheek dialogue create an atmosphere that feels both nostalgic and self-aware. This off-kilter approach makes the film stand out, leaning into absurdity with a knowing wink to its audience.
However, that very campiness proves to be a double-edged surfboard. While its playful tone is engaging, the film sometimes overindulges in its parody, losing narrative cohesion along the way. The mix of genres—teen beach comedy, psychological thriller, and slasher satire—feels at times chaotic rather than complementary. The split personalities of Chicklet serve as a metaphor for the film itself: wildly entertaining in moments, but struggling to unify its disparate parts.
Two and a half decades later, Psycho Beach Party remains an intriguing oddity. Its flaws prevent it from reaching the heights of other genre parodies like Rocky Horror Picture Show, but its charm and the sheer star power of its cast ensure it isn’t forgotten. For fans of camp cinema, the film offers plenty to enjoy, even if it doesn’t fully live up to its potential.
With its eclectic cast and bold stylistic choices, Psycho Beach Party rides the line between homage and satire, ultimately creating a film that’s as messy as it is endearing. While it may not make every wave, it’s worth catching for the nostalgia and the fun of seeing these stars before they became household names.
When American Psycho hit theaters in 2000, it was met with the same blend of fascination and outrage that had followed Bret Easton Ellis’ infamous 1991 novel. Directed by Mary Harron and anchored by Christian Bale’s career-defining performance, the film delivered a sharp-edged critique of consumerism, vanity, and the excesses of the 1980s. Twenty-five years later, its biting social commentary and darkly comedic tone continue to resonate, ensuring its status as both a cultural touchstone and a lightning rod for controversy.
At its core, American Psycho is a brutal dissection of an era defined by greed and superficiality. Patrick Bateman, Ellis’ monstrous creation, is the embodiment of Wall Street excess—a man who cares more about business cards and pop music than human life. Harron’s adaptation masterfully translates Ellis’ satirical critique of capitalism to the screen, dialing back some of the novel’s more graphic elements while doubling down on its absurdist undertones.
Christian Bale’s portrayal of Bateman is nothing short of extraordinary. Bale brings a chilling intensity to the role, capturing Bateman’s duality as a seemingly polished yuppie whose mask of sanity slips into chaotic violence. His performance treads a fine line between menace and humour, making Bateman both repellent and perversely compelling. Whether he’s delivering a deranged monologue about Huey Lewis and the News or obsessing over his flawless morning routine, Bale’s commitment to the role elevates Bateman into an unforgettable cinematic villain.
Harron’s decision to lean into the dark comedy of Ellis’ material was a masterstroke. By amplifying the absurdity of Bateman’s world, the film becomes more than a horror story—it’s a pitch-black satire of a culture that prizes appearance over substance. The now-iconic sequences, like Bateman’s maniacal dance with an axe to “Hip to Be Square” or his near-hysterical jealousy over a colleague’s superior business card, are as unnervingly funny as they are disturbing. These moments of exaggerated humour underscore the film’s critique, revealing the grotesque emptiness of Bateman’s life and the society that enables him.
Adding to the film’s enduring appeal are its meticulously chosen pop culture references. The soundtrack, featuring 1980s classics from Whitney Houston, Phil Collins, and New Order, is integral to the narrative, reflecting Bateman’s warped psyche and his obsession with surface-level perfection. These cultural touchstones ground the film in its era while adding layers of irony to Bateman’s disconnection from reality.
Yet, American Psycho has never been far from controversy. The novel’s graphic depictions of violence sparked outrage upon its release, and the film faced similar scrutiny, with critics debating whether it was a condemnation or celebration of its protagonist’s depravity. Harron, however, always viewed Bateman as a satirical figure—a hollow man reflecting a morally bankrupt world. That ambiguity, while polarising, is part of what keeps American Psycho relevant and endlessly discussed.
Two and a half decades later, American Psycho stands as a razor-sharp exploration of identity, power, and the masks we wear. Harron’s direction, Bale’s electrifying performance, and Ellis’ provocative vision coalesce into a film that is as thought-provoking as it is unsettling. Love it or hate it, American Psycho demands attention, proving that sometimes, monsters are the perfect mirrors for our darkest truths.
The 1968 anthology film Spirits of the Dead (Histoires extraordinaires) brings together the talents of three European auteurs—Roger Vadim, Louis Malle, and Federico Fellini—to adapt the macabre tales of Edgar Allan Poe. What emerges is a trio of distinct yet interconnected visions, each exploring existential dread, moral decay, and the haunting spectre of the human condition. Elevated by an outstanding cast, the film is an intriguing, if uneven, entry into the anthology genre, showcasing how European sensibilities can bring Poe’s gothic imaginings to life.
The anthology boasts a stellar ensemble cast, whose performances anchor the film’s ambitious explorations. Jane Fonda dazzles in Vadim’s Metzengerstein, playing the cruel and capricious Countess Frederique. Her transformation from cold-hearted aristocrat to a haunted, guilt-ridden soul is as mesmerising as it is chilling. Peter Fonda, cast as her distant cousin and object of obsession, brings a quiet dignity that starkly contrasts with Jane’s volatile energy.
In William Wilson, directed by Louis Malle, Alain Delon embodies the titular sadistic officer with unnerving precision. His torment at the hands of his doppelgänger (also Delon) highlights the psychological depth of Poe’s tale. Brigitte Bardot’s supporting role as a card-playing temptress adds an unexpected layer of glamour to this dark parable of guilt and morality.
Finally, in Fellini’s Toby Dammit, Terence Stamp delivers an unforgettable performance as a disillusioned actor spiraling into madness. Stamp’s haunted expressions and erratic demeanour perfectly capture the surreal and nightmarish tone of Fellini’s segment, a loose adaptation of Poe’s “Never Bet the Devil Your Head.” His interactions with the Devil, personified as a sinister child, are both grotesque and strangely poignant.
Each segment of Spirits of the Dead tackles themes of identity, power, and existential collapse, albeit in wildly different styles. Vadim’s Metzengerstein is steeped in gothic decadence, reflecting on the destructive power of unchecked desire and the inescapability of fate. While its pacing occasionally falters, the visual opulence—from lavish costumes to eerie, smoke-filled landscapes—renders it an immersive experience.
Malle’s William Wilson takes a more restrained approach, employing stark visuals and a taut narrative to delve into the duality of human nature. The moral struggle of Wilson and his ultimate reckoning underscore the existential quandaries at the heart of Poe’s work, even as the segment’s subdued tone contrasts with the more extravagant entries.
Fellini’s Toby Dammit is a surreal and satirical masterpiece, brimming with the director’s signature flair. The segment transforms Poe’s cautionary tale into a psychedelic fever dream, replete with grotesque imagery and biting commentary on fame and artistic disillusionment. Fellini’s bold, idiosyncratic vision may overshadow the other segments, but it leaves an indelible impression.
Visually, Spirits of the Dead is a sumptuous affair. From Vadim’s lush, romantic landscapes to Malle’s austere compositions and Fellini’s kaleidoscopic grotesquery, the film offers a rich tapestry of styles that reflect the directors’ unique interpretations of Poe’s themes. The musical score, composed by various artists, further enhances the atmospheric dread permeating each story.
As with many anthology films, the unevenness of Spirits of the Dead is both its strength and its weakness. The shifts in tone and style between segments can be jarring, yet they also highlight the versatility of Poe’s narratives and their capacity to inspire wildly different interpretations. While not every segment achieves perfection, the film’s ambition and the performances of its exceptional cast ensure its place as a fascinating artifact of 1960s European cinema.
In revisiting Spirits of the Dead, one is reminded of the timeless allure of Edgar Allan Poe’s tales and the creative possibilities they offer. This anthology stands as a testament to the enduring power of collaboration and the ways in which distinct artistic voices can coalesce to explore the darkest corners of the human psyche.
Few films embody the essence of the 1970s Italian giallo scene quite like Armando Crispino’s Autopsy (Macchie Solari). This macabre gem not only weaves a gripping murder mystery but also drenches it in the feverish, sun-scorched paranoia of its Roman setting. Half a century later, Autopsy remains a haunting exploration of obsession, trauma, and the sinister intersection of science and faith.
Set during an oppressive heatwave, the film follows Simona Sanna (played with icy brilliance by Mimsy Farmer), a young pathologist obsessed with distinguishing suicides from murders for her thesis. Simona’s world is thrown into disarray when a young woman connected to her philandering father is found dead in an apparent suicide. Teaming up with Father Paul Lenox (Barry Primus), the victim’s priestly brother, she embarks on a labyrinthine quest to uncover the truth.
What begins as a clinical investigation quickly spirals into a hallucinatory descent. Crispino blurs the lines between logic and madness, crafting an atmosphere that’s as suffocating as the Roman sun baking its characters alive.
The film’s unsettling tone is amplified by Ennio Morricone’s score, which combines eerie whispers, discordant strings, and unnerving vocalisations. Morricone’s work here is a masterclass in auditory unease, immersing viewers in Simona’s fractured psyche.
Crispino’s direction leverages the giallo’s visual trademarks—lurid colour palettes, striking cinematography, and gruesome set pieces. The morgue scenes are particularly effective, juxtaposing clinical sterility with grotesque detail.
Autopsy delves deeper than the standard giallo fare, exploring themes of mortality, guilt, and the fragility of human connection. Simona’s profession as a pathologist isn’t just a plot device; it’s a metaphor for her attempt to dissect the inexplicable chaos of life and death. Her growing bond with Father Lenox adds a layer of spiritual tension, as the priest’s faith collides with her scientific detachment.
The film’s use of solar flares as a narrative device is both inspired and unnerving. Crispino ties the sun’s erratic behavior to the characters’ unraveling sanity, making the heatwave feel like an omnipresent antagonist.
While Autopsy didn’t achieve the same level of fame as some of its contemporaries, it has earned a devoted following among giallo enthusiasts. Its fusion of psychological horror and murder mystery sets it apart, offering a chilling alternative to the more stylised works of Dario Argento or Mario Bava.
Fifty years on, Autopsy still holds its power to disturb and intrigue. It’s a film that invites repeated viewings, each time revealing new layers of meaning and menace. For fans of the genre, it’s a must-watch; for newcomers, it’s an unsettling introduction to the giallo’s darker, more cerebral side.
In the pantheon of 1980s horror, Ghoulies occupies a curious niche—a film that rode the wave of tiny terrors popularised by Gremlins yet found its own peculiar identity through campy occult shenanigans and low-budget charm. Directed by Luca Bercovici in his directorial debut and co-written with producer Jefery Levy, Ghoulies became a modest success and spawned an enduring, if uneven, franchise. Four decades later, the film remains a testament to the quirky appeal of 1980s horror.
The film centres on Jonathan Graves (Peter Liapis), a young man who inherits a sprawling estate once owned by his late father, Malcolm (Michael Des Barres). Discovering that his father was a satanic cult leader, Jonathan becomes seduced by the estate’s dark secrets, setting off a chain of supernatural events. The titular Ghoulies—miniature demons summoned through Jonathan’s occult experiments—quickly shift the tone from sinister to absurd, making for a movie that is equal parts horror and black comedy.
Bercovici makes the most of the film’s gothic setting, leaning heavily into occult iconography and eerie atmospherics. While the budgetary constraints are apparent, the film compensates with enthusiastic performances and a playful tone that doesn’t take itself too seriously. The practical effects used to bring the Ghoulies to life are delightfully kitschy, striking a balance between grotesque and endearing.
The film’s strength lies in its willingness to embrace the absurd. With a script that wavers between earnest supernatural horror and campy humour, Ghoulies often feels like it’s trying to be several movies at once. This tonal inconsistency can be jarring, but it also adds to the film’s charm. The standout moments involve the Ghoulies themselves—mischievous little creatures that provide both scares and laughs.
The cast delivers performances that range from serious to tongue-in-cheek. Peter Liapis brings an earnest intensity to Jonathan, while Lisa Pelikan offers a grounded presence as Rebecca, his increasingly concerned girlfriend. Michael Des Barres revels in his role as the sinister Malcolm, exuding an over-the-top malevolence befitting the film’s heightened tone. A young Mariska Hargitay makes her film debut here, hinting at the screen presence that would later make her a household name.
Released in the shadow of Gremlins, Ghoulies often drew comparisons to its higher-budget counterpart. However, it carved out its own legacy as a B-movie staple, thanks in part to its iconic marketing—a Ghoulie popping out of a toilet on the poster. This image alone cemented the film in the cultural memory of 1980s horror fans.
While Ghoulies lacks the polish or depth of its contemporaries, it embraces its B-movie identity with gusto. Its success spawned three sequels, each leaning further into comedy and absurdity, ensuring the Ghoulies would become a fixture in the horror-comedy subgenre.
The Prognosis:
Four decades on, Ghoulies remains a charmingly campy artifact of 1980s horror—a film that thrives on its eccentricities and its ability to entertain despite its flaws. While not a masterpiece, it’s a fun, nostalgic trip for fans of practical effects, occult-themed horror, and the quirky weirdness of 1980s genre cinema.
It might not have reached the cult status of Gremlins or Critters, but Ghoulies deserves its place in horror history as a delightfully offbeat entry into the world of pint-sized terror.
Michael Reeves’ Witchfinder General stands as a stark and unsettling masterpiece, a final testament to a director whose talent was tragically cut short. Released in 1968, the film is a harrowing depiction of societal decay and unchecked authority, channeling the horrors of the real-life atrocities committed by Matthew Hopkins, the self-proclaimed “Witchfinder General” during England’s tumultuous Civil War period. Though Reeves’ career spanned only a handful of films, this work solidified his place among horror cinema’s most daring voices.
At just 25 years old, Michael Reeves displayed an incredible aptitude for crafting atmospheric and thought-provoking horror. Witchfinder General was to be his magnum opus, blending historical commentary with visceral terror. Tragically, Reeves passed away shortly after the film’s release, leaving audiences to ponder what other groundbreaking works might have followed. His death remains one of cinema’s greatest losses, as his potential seemed boundless.
In Witchfinder General, Reeves strips away the gothic flourishes typical of the genre and instead presents a raw, unflinching portrayal of human cruelty. The stark cinematography captures the bleak English countryside, juxtaposing its beauty with the barbarity of Hopkins’ actions. The result is a film as much about historical tragedy as it is about psychological horror.
Vincent Price, an icon of horror cinema, was cast as Matthew Hopkins, a choice that initially caused friction between actor and director. Reeves reportedly clashed with Price, believing the veteran actor’s tendency toward theatricality would undermine the film’s grounded tone. The young director pushed Price to deliver a restrained and sinister performance, resulting in one of the actor’s most chilling portrayals. The tension between Reeves and Price ultimately birthed an unforgettable characterisation—Hopkins is a cold, calculating predator, wielding religious authority as a weapon for personal gain.
Price later acknowledged that Reeves had pushed him to new creative heights, and their contentious collaboration is now seen as pivotal in achieving the film’s haunting power. Hopkins’ quiet menace, a testament to both Reeves’ direction and Price’s adaptability.
Set against the backdrop of the English Civil War, Witchfinder General uses its historical setting to comment on the fragility of societal order. The film portrays a country in chaos, where Hopkins exploits fear and superstition to enrich himself and indulge his sadism. Reeves’ depiction of mob mentality and the abuse of power resonates beyond its 17th-century setting, serving as a scathing critique of authority figures who exploit vulnerable communities.
The historical Matthew Hopkins’ reign of terror saw countless innocents tortured and executed under the guise of purging witchcraft. Reeves does not shy away from the brutality of these acts, presenting them with unflinching realism. The film’s violence shocked audiences upon release and remains deeply unsettling, underscoring the horrors that can arise when societal structures collapse.
Despite its troubled production and initial controversy, Witchfinder General has endured as a landmark in horror cinema. It is frequently cited as one of the most significant British horror films, and its influence can be seen in subsequent works that blend historical settings with social commentary. The film’s unrelenting tone and moral ambiguity challenge viewers to confront the darker aspects of human nature.
Michael Reeves’ swan song is both a powerful artistic statement and a sobering reminder of his unrealised potential. With Witchfinder General, he crafted a film that transcends the horror genre, embedding itself in the annals of cinematic history as a chilling exploration of power, fear, and humanity’s capacity for cruelty. While we can only speculate on what might have come next, Reeves’ legacy endures through this extraordinary work.
Adolfo J. Kolmerer’s The Calendar Killer is a thriller that weaves a gripping premise with social commentary, even if it doesn’t entirely escape the shadow of predictable tropes. Based on Sebastian Fitzek’s best-selling German novel, the film offers a dark, high-stakes story about impossible choices and the fight for survival.
The narrative unfolds through two intertwined perspectives: Klara (Luise Heyer), a woman forced to choose between killing her husband or losing her own life, and Jules (Sabin Tambrea), a night shift operator at a telephone safety helpline who becomes her last hope. This dual structure keeps the tension alive, as the film oscillates between Klara’s escalating danger and Jules’ frantic attempts to save her. The setup is undeniably engaging, and Kolmerer’s direction ensures a moody atmosphere that underscores the film’s darker themes.
What sets The Calendar Killer apart is its unflinching exploration of domestic violence, grounding the thriller in a stark reality that adds emotional weight. Klara’s struggle is as much about her immediate survival as it is about escaping the long shadow of abuse, and Heyer delivers a nuanced, harrowing performance that anchors the film.
However, the film struggles under the weight of familiar genre conventions. The pacing falters in the second act, as twists that should shock instead feel telegraphed. While the central premise is compelling, some of the character decisions and plot developments lean too heavily on well-worn thriller clichés, diminishing the impact of the story’s more innovative elements.
The Prognosis:
Despite these shortcomings, The Calendar Killer remains an entertaining watch, thanks to its gripping premise, solid performances, and atmospheric tension. It may not redefine the genre, but it offers a chilling reminder of the real-world horrors that inspired it. For fans of psychological thrillers, it’s a decent entry, albeit one that leaves room for improvement.
Saul Muerte
The Calendar Killer is currently available on Amazon Prime.
Surgeons of Horror 