Deafula stands as a fascinating piece of cinematic history, not so much for its storytelling prowess but for its groundbreaking approach to inclusivity. The film is the first and only vampire movie performed entirely in American Sign Language (ASL), a choice that both defines and elevates its otherwise formulaic narrative.
The story follows a theology student grappling with his vampiric transformation, a premise that leans heavily on genre staples without adding much originality. The performances, while earnest, often lack the polish needed to truly engage. Yet these shortcomings are overshadowed by the sheer ambition of the project. Peter Wolf’s decision to craft a film centered on Deaf culture in a genre that typically overlooks such representation is nothing short of commendable.
Visually, Deafula features moments of atmospheric charm, particularly in its use of shadows and gothic settings. However, the pacing is uneven, and the screenplay feels predictable, recycling well-trodden vampire tropes. Despite this, the film’s unique linguistic delivery ensures it remains captivating for viewers willing to embrace its quirks.
As it marks its 50th anniversary, Deafula is worth celebrating for its audacious attempt to broaden the boundaries of horror cinema. It may not transcend its budgetary or narrative limitations, but its pioneering spirit ensures it occupies a special place in the genre’s history.
Supernova is a textbook example of how a troubled production can derail even the most promising concept. Billed as a sleek sci-fi thriller, the film instead arrived as a fragmented, disjointed mess that left audiences—and its own cast—wondering what went wrong.
The behind-the-scenes chaos is almost more compelling than the movie itself. Walter Hill, a director known for his gritty, character-driven work, left the project amid creative disputes. Jack Sholder was brought in to salvage it, and eventually, even Francis Ford Coppola was tapped for re-edits. Despite these efforts, the result is a patchwork narrative that never gels.
The cast, including James Spader, Angela Bassett, and Robin Tunney, reportedly distanced themselves from the final product. It’s easy to see why: their performances feel stifled, victims of erratic direction and an incoherent script. Spader’s natural charisma is muted, while Bassett’s talent is wasted on a character given little to do.
Visually, the film oscillates between dated CGI and occasionally striking production design, but even its better moments are overshadowed by the narrative incoherence. What should have been a tense exploration of isolation and the unknown instead devolves into a nonsensical series of events culminating in an ending that feels both rushed and unsatisfying.
Thematically, Supernova had potential, with its exploration of humanity, technology, and the dangers of the unknown. Unfortunately, its lofty ideas are buried beneath the weight of its disastrous production. Twenty-five years on, the film stands as a cautionary tale of how too many cooks—and too little vision—can ruin a cinematic stew.
A fiendishly fun horror romp with a devilish twist
When Tales from the Crypt: Demon Knight hit theaters in 1995, it marked an audacious attempt to bring the beloved HBO anthology series to the big screen. Directed by Ernest R. Dickerson, the film delivers a chaotic blend of horror and humour, staying true to the spirit of its TV predecessor while carving out its own devilishly fun niche. Fast forward 30 years, and Demon Knight remains a cult favourite, celebrated for its wild premise, bold performances, and unapologetic embrace of over-the-top mayhem.
At its core, the film thrives on its straightforward yet irresistibly bonkers narrative. Ex-soldier Frank Brayker (William Sadler) carries an ancient key imbued with the power to keep the apocalypse at bay. The key’s primary pursuer is The Collector (Billy Zane), a demon as flamboyant as he is sinister, who stops at nothing to retrieve it. Their confrontation unfolds in a dilapidated boarding house in New Mexico, where Brayker must rally the house’s quirky residents to stave off The Collector’s unholy army. It’s a setup ripe for chaos, and Dickerson leans into the inherent absurdity, crafting a movie that balances gore, humour, and genuine tension with surprising finesse.
What truly elevates Demon Knight is its ensemble cast, who bring unrestrained energy to the material. William Sadler plays the weary Brayker with a quiet gravitas that anchors the film’s more outlandish elements, while Billy Zane revels in his role as The Collector, delivering a magnetic performance that walks a tightrope between charm and menace. Jada Pinkett Smith shines as Jeryline, a reluctant hero whose arc provides the film with emotional weight. The supporting cast, including CCH Pounder and Thomas Haden Church, add layers of humour and humanity, creating a dynamic group you can’t help but root for — even when their fates are sealed by the film’s grimly delightful sense of karmic justice.
Though undeniably entertaining, Demon Knight isn’t without its flaws. The pacing occasionally stumbles, particularly in the second act, where some of the boarding house antics begin to feel repetitive. Additionally, the film’s reliance on dated special effects, though charmingly nostalgic, can occasionally undercut its darker moments. That said, the practical effects and gruesome creature designs remain impressive, a testament to the era’s craftsmanship.
As part of the Tales from the Crypt brand, Demon Knight stands out for its ability to expand the series’ trademark mix of camp and horror into a feature-length format. It doesn’t shy away from its ridiculous premise but rather leans into it with gusto, resulting in a film that knows exactly what it is: a pulpy, gruesome, and darkly comedic thrill ride. Its legacy endures not because it redefined horror but because it embraced the genre’s possibilities with unapologetic glee.
Three decades later, Demon Knight holds up as a delightful slice of mid-‘90s horror fun. While it may not reach the heights of genre-defining classics, it succeeds in delivering a wildly entertaining experience that celebrates the outlandish and grotesque. For fans of horror that doesn’t take itself too seriously, it’s a “deadtime story” worth retelling.”
Brazilian cinema takes a stab at the anthology horror format in Trilogy of Terror (Trilogia de Terror), a collaboration between renowned directors Luiz Sérgio Person, Ozualdo Ribeiro Candeias, and José Mojica Marins. On paper, this film had the potential to be a landmark in horror, drawing on the stylistic and thematic sensibilities of three distinct auteurs. Unfortunately, the end result is an uneven collection of shorts that, despite flashes of creativity, struggles to maintain coherence or a satisfying level of tension.
The first segment, directed by Person, feels more like an existential drama wrapped in horror’s clothing. It’s a meditative, slow-paced exploration of dread, which is intriguing in theory but ultimately too meandering to captivate. While the cinematography shows glimpses of brilliance, the narrative lacks urgency or cohesion, leaving the audience adrift in a sea of disjointed ideas. Candeias’ segment, on the other hand, attempts to push the boundaries with its gritty, almost documentary-style approach. While it succeeds in capturing a grimy, oppressive atmosphere, it leans too heavily on shock value without delivering a meaningful payoff.
The final segment, helmed by the iconic José Mojica Marins (best known as “Coffin Joe”), is the most engaging but still falters. Marins injects his signature surrealistic flair, complete with macabre imagery and grotesque performances. However, the segment feels rushed and underdeveloped, leaving its potentially fascinating ideas half-baked. Compared to Marins’ standalone work, this short feels like a diluted version of his signature style.
Trilogy of Terror is a frustrating watch that hints at greatness but falters in execution. Its ambitious premise is undercut by inconsistent pacing, underwhelming storytelling, and a lack of synergy between the segments. Fans of Brazilian cinema or anthology horror may find some historical or academic value in watching this film, but for casual viewers, it’s unlikely to leave a lasting impression. Two stars for effort and moments of visual brilliance, but the trilogy ultimately fails to deliver on its terrifying promise.
Kaneto Shindō’s Kuroneko (Black Cat in the Bamboo Grove) is a haunting masterpiece of Japanese cinema that blends ghostly folklore, revenge, and heart-wrenching tragedy into a tale as elegant as it is unsettling. Released in 1968, this chilling horror drama unfolds in the Sengoku period, an era rife with war and moral decay, serving as the perfect backdrop for its story of loss, love, and vengeance.
The film begins with a brutal act of violence: a mother and daughter are raped and murdered by marauding samurai, their home consumed by fire. Left in the ashes, their spirits return as onryō—vengeful ghosts—manifesting as black cats that lure unsuspecting samurai to their doom. This chilling setup is a stark indictment of wartime atrocities, as Shindō uses the supernatural as a vehicle to critique human cruelty.
When the local governor learns of the mysterious deaths, he dispatches Gintoki, a fiercely loyal and hotheaded young warrior, to eliminate the ghostly threat. What follows is a beautifully tragic confrontation between Gintoki and the two spirits, who reveal themselves to be the vengeful mother and daughter. Bound by love and duty, Gintoki must face the devastating realisation of his connection to the ghosts, leading to a climactic battle that is as emotionally charged as it is visually stunning.
The cinematography by Kiyomi Kuroda is nothing short of breathtaking. Shindō and Kuroda craft a visual world that feels both otherworldly and deeply rooted in Japanese tradition. The bamboo forest, bathed in soft moonlight, becomes an ethereal stage for the unfolding drama. The interplay of light and shadow creates a dreamlike atmosphere, where every frame is as meticulously composed as a classical painting. The spectral appearances of the women, draped in flowing white robes and gliding across the screen, are hauntingly beautiful, embodying the eerie elegance that defines the film.
At its heart, Kuroneko is a story about love and loss. The bond between the mother and daughter, even in death, adds a poignant layer to the horror. Their revenge is not born of pure malice but of righteous fury against the injustice done to them. The film also explores Gintoki’s torn loyalties as he grapples with his duty to the state and his personal ties to the ghosts. This emotional complexity elevates the film beyond a mere tale of vengeance, making it a deeply human story.
The score by Hikaru Hayashi further enhances the film’s haunting quality, blending traditional Japanese sounds with a sense of otherworldly dread. The music is sparse yet impactful, heightening the tension and underscoring the tragic beauty of the story.
Kuroneko is not just a horror film; it is a meditation on the cyclical nature of violence, the consequences of war, and the indelible scars left on the human soul. It weaves together horror, romance, and social commentary in a way that few films achieve.
Kaneto Shindō’s ability to balance the macabre with the poetic makes Kuroneko a standout work of Japanese cinema. Its evocative storytelling, exceptional cinematography, and emotional depth ensure its place as a timeless classic.
As Leigh Whannell prepares to unleash his vision of Wolf Man on modern audiences, it’s worth reflecting on the cinematic journey of one of horror’s most iconic monsters. The Wolf Man has prowled across the decades, transforming with the times while maintaining his primal appeal. From the tragic figure of the 1941 classic to the varied reimaginings that followed, the legacy of the Wolf Man is a fascinating study in reinvention.
The Birth of a Legend: Lon Chaney Jr. and Universal’s Classic Era The Wolf Man’s journey began in 1941, with Lon Chaney Jr. donning the iconic fur in Universal’s The Wolf Man. Directed by George Waggner and written by Curt Siodmak, the film introduced audiences to Larry Talbot, a sympathetic protagonist cursed to transform into a werewolf under the full moon. Chaney’s portrayal of Talbot’s anguish gave the film its heart, and Jack Pierce’s groundbreaking makeup solidified the character’s image.
The success of The Wolf Man led to three sequels: Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man (1943), House of Frankenstein (1944), and House of Dracula (1945). These films further developed Talbot’s tragic arc, weaving his story into Universal’s monster crossover universe. Each sequel reinforced the character’s dual nature: a man tormented by his monstrous alter ego.
A Lighter Touch: Abbott and Costello and the Wolf Man By 1948, the Wolf Man had taken on a comedic edge, appearing alongside Frankenstein’s Monster and Dracula in Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein. Chaney reprised his role, playing Talbot as the straight man amidst the comedic chaos. The film’s success demonstrated the character’s flexibility, capable of navigating both horror and humour.
Unexpected Turns: Alvin and the Chipmunks, Van Helsing, and Beyond Over the years, the Wolf Man’s influence extended into unexpected territory. He howled his way into pop culture parodies like Alvin and the Chipmunks Meet the Wolfman (2000), where the character’s legacy was reimagined for younger audiences.
In Stephen Sommers’ Van Helsing (2004), the Wolf Man returned to his monstrous roots, albeit with a modern action-horror twist. This iteration leaned into the creature’s ferocity, pitting him against Dracula and showcasing a more physically imposing design.
Another notable homage came with House of the Wolf Man (2009), an independent film that sought to recapture the spirit of Universal’s golden age. The film’s black-and-white aesthetic and classic monster vibes paid loving tribute to the Wolf Man’s origins.
The Modern Wolf: Benicio Del Toro in The Wolfman In 2010, Universal attempted to revitalise their iconic character with The Wolfman, starring Benicio Del Toro as Lawrence Talbot. Directed by Joe Johnston, the film embraced the gothic atmosphere of the original while updating the story with modern effects. Despite mixed reviews, Del Toro’s brooding performance and Rick Baker’s Oscar-winning makeup honoured the character’s tragic essence.
A New Moon Rises: Leigh Whannell’s Vision As we look ahead to Leigh Whannell’s upcoming Wolf Man, there’s excitement in seeing how this legendary figure will be reimagined for a new era. Whannell’s track record with The Invisible Man (2020) suggests a fresh, psychological approach to the tale, potentially emphasising themes of isolation, inner turmoil, and the beast within.
A Legacy of Transformation From Lon Chaney Jr.’s mournful Larry Talbot to Benicio Del Toro’s tortured Lawrence, the Wolf Man’s enduring appeal lies in his duality. He is both victim and villain, embodying the eternal struggle between man and monster. Over the decades, this tragic figure has adapted to reflect the fears and sensibilities of each generation, ensuring his place among the pantheon of cinematic monsters.
Whannell’s Wolf Man will undoubtedly add a new chapter to this storied legacy. Whether it will embrace the past, forge a new path, or find a balance between the two, one thing is certain: the howl of the Wolf Man will continue to echo across the ages.
La Bête (1975), directed by Walerian Borowczyk, remains one of the most controversial films in the history of French cinema, and for good reason. An unsettling blend of horror, fantasy, and eroticism, the film challenged societal norms by confronting the taboo subject of bestiality, while also exploring themes of sexual repression and the dark recesses of human desire. While its provocative subject matter may have shocked audiences at the time, La Bête‘s impact on the fairytale genre is undeniable, as it distorts and dismantles the traditional, innocent imagery typically associated with fables.
The film’s plot centres on a young woman, played by Sirpa Lane, who is sent to an isolated mansion to care for a family member, only to discover that the house’s bizarre and sexually charged atmosphere hides a deeply unsettling secret. It is there that she finds herself drawn into a surreal and grotesque relationship with a monstrous beast, played by the infamous animal actor, the titular “beast.” The beast’s primal instincts are interwoven with the protagonist’s sexual awakening, creating a narrative that is both disturbing and strangely hypnotic.
One of La Bête‘s most striking features is how it blends the fantastical with the grotesque, challenging the audience’s expectations of what a fairytale is supposed to represent. In a genre traditionally known for its innocence, purity, and moral lessons, La Bête flips the narrative on its head, replacing magical creatures and romantic ideals with sexual depravity and psychological torment. The fairytale-like setting—lush, lavish, and seemingly enchanted—becomes a place of perverse fantasy, where innocence is stripped away, and dark, hidden desires come to light. The sexualization of the beast and the protagonist’s complex relationship with it force the viewer to confront uncomfortable questions about the nature of desire, fantasy, and the human psyche.
At the heart of the film is its exploration of sexual repression. The characters, both human and animal, seem locked in a struggle with their desires, attempting to navigate the constraints imposed by society, and by their own identities. The beast, though monstrous in form, is portrayed as a creature driven by raw, unfiltered lust, a force of nature beyond human control. The woman, in contrast, is initially portrayed as a character torn between fear and fascination, unable to suppress her own desires, despite the taboo nature of the relationship. In its own strange way, La Bête highlights the violence inherent in both human and animal instinct, suggesting that society’s repression of such instincts can lead to horrifying outcomes.
However, it is this very subject matter that also invites criticism. The film’s depiction of bestiality, while artfully filmed and purposefully provocative, can be difficult to watch. The boundary-pushing nature of the film has drawn its fair share of ire over the years, with some arguing that it borders on exploitation. Whether La Bête’s treatment of its controversial subject matter is exploitative or merely an exploration of human sexuality’s most forbidden corners is open to interpretation, but what remains clear is that Borowczyk’s approach was undeniably daring.
The film’s visuals are haunting and surreal, filled with long, lingering shots of the beast, the protagonist’s vulnerable expressions, and the haunting, otherworldly beauty of the mansion. The lavish, often dreamlike atmosphere creates an intoxicating mood, one that’s simultaneously erotic and nightmarish, as if the fairytale itself is slowly being suffocated by darker forces. The performances, particularly from Sirpa Lane, manage to convey both the fragility and complexity of her character, even in the most uncomfortable of situations.
La Bête is a deeply unsettling film that works on multiple levels—visually, emotionally, and intellectually. Its exploration of taboo desires and its subversion of the traditional fairytale makes it an unforgettable piece of cinema, though one that is not for the faint of heart. While its controversial content may overshadow its artistic merits for some viewers, there’s no denying that Borowczyk’s audacious approach remains a unique entry in the genre. La Bête is both disturbing and beautiful, and it forces the audience to confront the darker aspects of human sexuality in a way few films have ever dared to do.
Ultimately, La Bête is a bold, fascinating work that demands a careful, critical eye. It may not be for everyone, but for those willing to engage with its challenging themes, it remains a haunting exploration of desire and the grotesque.
Robert Eggers’ long-anticipated Nosferatu proves to be another striking entry in the director’s growing repertoire. While it may not reach the towering heights of his earlier works like The Lighthouse or The Witch, Eggers’ fourth feature-length film is a visually intoxicating journey that honours its 1922 namesake while breathing new, sinister life into the legend.
From the moment the first frame flickers on screen, it’s evident that Eggers holds the original Nosferatu close to his heart. The film is awash with nods to F.W. Murnau’s silent classic, both in its reverence for German Expressionism and its stark, almost otherworldly aesthetic. Shadows and light clash in every frame, creating a chiaroscuro effect that feels like a love letter to the era of silent cinema. The jagged, angular sets—almost living entities in their starkness—slice through the film, their ominous presence as much a character as any in the story.
The performances elevate Nosferatu beyond mere homage. Willem Dafoe, no stranger to transforming himself for a role, brings a haunted gravitas to his character, Prof. Albin Eberhart Von Franz, while Lily-Rose Depp infuses her performance as Ellen Hutter with both fragility and strength, commanding the screen with grace. Bill Skarsgård, stepping into the titular role, once again demonstrates his ability to embody grotesque creatures with a chilling ease. His portrayal of the vampiric Count Orlok is unsettling and mesmerising, a fusion of menace and melancholy that lingers with you as you leave the cinema.
Sound design plays a pivotal role in Eggers’ vision. Breath—both its presence and absence—becomes a motif that underscores the film’s themes. The rasping, laboured exhalations of plague-stricken Londoners weave into the score, amplifying the suffocating dread that permeates the story. This auditory detail enriches the narrative, turning something as mundane as breathing into a symbol of survival and decay.
However, the film is not without its flaws. The storyline, while serviceable, lacks the depth and complexity of Eggers’ previous outings. This thinness in the plot occasionally exposes the runtime, making certain stretches feel elongated. Yet, this simplicity could be seen as a strength, allowing Eggers to delve into the essence of the tale rather than overburden it with unnecessary intricacies.
The Prognosis:
Nosferatu is a beautifully crafted piece of cinema, a masterclass in visual storytelling that immerses viewers in its eerie, dreamlike world. Though it may not soar as high as Eggers’ earlier works, it is undeniably a film made with passion and precision. For lovers of the original and newcomers alike, it offers a rich, sensory experience that solidifies Robert Eggers’ status as one of modern cinema’s most distinctive voices.
Ingmar Bergman’s Hour of the Wolf (1968) is a haunting exploration of the human psyche, wrapped in the shroud of surrealist horror. Often overshadowed by his magnum opus, Persona(1966), this film still stands as a remarkable achievement in Bergman’s illustrious career. Infused with themes of isolation, grief, sexuality, and fractured relationships, Hour of the Wolf delves into the fragile boundaries between reality and nightmare, offering a chilling portrait of psychological unraveling.
The film centres on Johan Borg (Max von Sydow), an artist tormented by inner demons, and his wife Alma (Liv Ullmann), who bears witness to his gradual descent into madness. Set on a remote island, their isolation becomes a breeding ground for paranoia and supernatural dread. Through Johan’s journal entries, we are introduced to a cast of grotesque figures—possibly products of his imagination—whose interactions blur the lines between memory, hallucination, and folklore.
Bergman’s use of folklore-inspired horror is particularly striking. The title refers to the time just before dawn, when the most deaths and births occur, evoking an atmosphere of heightened vulnerability. Subtle allusions to vampirism and lycanthropy further deepen the film’s surreal mystique, positioning it as a psychological horror piece with universal resonance.
Visually, Hour of the Wolf is a masterclass in unsettling imagery. Sven Nykvist’s stark black-and-white cinematography amplifies the film’s oppressive mood, while Bergman’s use of dreamlike sequences and fragmented storytelling creates an otherworldly atmosphere. One standout moment is Johan’s vivid recollection of an aristocratic dinner party, where grotesque characters mock and torment him. The sequence is both absurd and terrifying, encapsulating the film’s unique blend of existential dread and surrealism.
The film’s exploration of Johan and Alma’s relationship is equally compelling. Liv Ullmann delivers a powerful performance as Alma, whose love for Johan is both her strength and her curse. Her quiet resilience contrasts with Johan’s increasing detachment, highlighting the emotional toll of living with someone consumed by inner turmoil.
At its core, Hour of the Wolf is a meditation on the destructive power of creativity and obsession. Johan’s art becomes a metaphor for his deteriorating mental state, raising questions about the price of artistic genius. The film’s unsettling climax, where Johan confronts his demons in a surreal and chaotic sequence, serves as a harrowing depiction of psychological collapse.
Bergman’s exploration of grief and repressed desires adds another layer of complexity. The spectral figures haunting Johan can be interpreted as manifestations of his guilt and unfulfilled longings, making the horror deeply personal and introspective.
The Prognosis:
While not as universally lauded as Persona, Hour of the Wolf remains a standout in Bergman’s filmography for its bold fusion of psychological drama and horror. Its surreal style, rich symbolism, and unflinching examination of the human condition make it a compelling and thought-provoking experience. Hour of the Wolf is a mesmerising journey into the darkness of the soul.
In the crowded slasher landscape of the 1980s, The Mutilator (1985) carved out its place as a lesser-known but memorable entry. Written and directed by Buddy Cooper, this indie horror flick owes much of its cult status to its inventive kills and gruesome effects. Despite a screenplay that stumbles through clichés and awkward dialogue, the film’s sheer commitment to delivering blood-soaked carnage keeps it afloat.
The plot of The Mutilator treads well-worn territory. A group of teenagers decides to spend their fall break cleaning up a beach house, only to become prey for a vengeful, deranged father with a penchant for creative murder. The setup borrows heavily from the Friday the 13th playbook—a secluded setting, a mysterious killer, and an ensemble cast of soon-to-be victims—but lacks the tension and character depth of its inspiration. What The Mutilator offers instead is a straightforward march toward carnage, eschewing narrative complexity for shock value.
Where the screenplay falters, the practical effects shine. The kills in The Mutilator are among the most brutal and imaginative of the era, featuring pitchfork impalements, decapitations, and the infamous fishing gaff scene that remains a talking point among horror aficionados. The commitment to practical effects lends the film a visceral quality that helps offset its narrative shortcomings.
Cooper’s direction may lack finesse, but he shows a clear understanding of what his audience craves. The emphasis on elaborate death sequences makes the film’s flaws more forgivable, as each gruesome payoff keeps the energy alive.
The cast, comprised largely of unknowns, delivers serviceable performances that range from passable to wooden. Dialogue often feels stilted, and character development is minimal, leaving the audience with little investment in the protagonists’ fates. However, the actors’ enthusiasm for the material shines through, adding a layer of charm to the otherwise clunky script.
On the production side, The Mutilator wears its low budget on its sleeve, with modest sets and uneven cinematography. Yet, these limitations contribute to the film’s scrappy, grindhouse appeal. The synth-heavy score by Michael Minard enhances the atmosphere, offering a nostalgic glimpse into the aesthetics of 1980s horror.
The Prognosis:
While The Mutilator doesn’t reinvent the slasher genre, it delivers exactly what its title promises: unapologetically gory entertainment. The film’s shortcomings in writing and acting are mitigated by its standout effects and unrelenting dedication to visceral thrills. For fans of low-budget 1980s slashers, The Mutilator is a must-see curiosity—a flawed yet endearing homage to the era’s excesses.
The Mutilator thrives on its gory spectacle, carving out a small but bloody niche in the annals of horror history.
Surgeons of Horror 