Behind the camera of Dance Macabre stands a trifecta of 20th-century cinematic cheese in director Greydon Clark and producers Menahem Golan and Harry Alan Towers, so it’s a shame this Russia-lensed terror tale is more Limburger than Parmesan.

In what originally was intended as a sequel to his 1989 turn as The Phantom of the Opera, Robert Englund stars as Anthony Wager, famed choreographer of the fabled Madame Gordenko’s ballet academy. For the school’s inaugural class of students from outside the Iron Curtain, rebellious American teen Jessica (Michelle Zeitlin) is enrolled, to whom Anthony takes a great liking because she resembles his late, beloved Svetlana. As for Madame Gordenko, well, she’s bound to a wheelchair and (apparently) sunglasses, and speaks using a throat harmonica.

To the surprise of no one, Anthony’s rising interest in Jessica is inversely proportional to the school’s student population — why, it’s almost as if someone is trying to eliminate the competition so she can cop the top spot by default! Also to the surprise of no one, those kills come rather rote and unimaginative — something one can’t say about the dialogue, which is so bewildering it sounds like Clark had his script translated into Russian, then translated back into English and shot that version; to wit, “Do you want to get wet with me? Do you like bubbles?”

Do you like Dario Argento’s Suspiria? Because in setting and premise, but nothing else, Dance Macabre is indebted to that horror classic — and I mean a lot, as in the-mob-will-come-to-break-your-legs a lot. In something of a cosmic interest payment, Clark presages an element of Luca Guadagnino’s Suspiria remake by — spoiler alert, although it should be evident from the trailer — having Englund bend gender to also play Gordenko. While the makeup is unconvincing, it adds a touch of the perverse to a dull film lacking originality and energy. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

A TV mainstay of the 1970s, Fantasy Island ran for seven seasons successfully by adhering to a four-step formula, sprinkled liberally with Ricardo Montalban as suave resort host Mr. Roarke:
1. Guests fly to the titular isle.
2. Guests experience their fantasy.
3. Guests learn a lesson.
4. Guests depart the island.

Jeff Wadlow’s film version of Fantasy Island does the same, yet can’t succesfully make it through less than two hours. The concept’s second step is so malleable and ripe with possibilities that it would be difficult to botch, yet the Blumhouse production does just that. It isn’t the incompetent train wreck its savage reviews may suggest; it’s just boring, which is arguably worse.

In for Montalban is End of Watch’s Michael Peña as Roarke. Among his weekend guests are a sandblasted Lucy Hale (reteaming with Wadlow from Blumhouse’s Truth or Dare), out for revenge; Priest’s Maggie Q, out for love; Swallow’s Austin Stowell, out for closure; and brothers Ryan Hansen (Central Intelligence) and Jimmy O. Yang (Patriots Day), out to get laid. Other than keep these subplots on separate tracks as the TV show, anthology-style, Wadlow attempts to unify them into one big plot weighed down with rules and mythology no one wants or needs explained.

The problem in doing so is that each begins with distinct elements, from torture porn to raunchy comedy to family drama, then all shoved under the veneer of the supernatural. And since no subplot works on its own, they underwhelm even more in tandem. As a mor(t)ality tale, Fantasy Island throws viewers a lot of things that sound inviting — duplicitous duplicates, sea snakes, Charlotte McKinney’s bouncing breasts — but add nothing to its spooky stew of emptiness. I wish I had seen it in theaters, if only to witness audience members’ reaction to the last shot’s “reveal”; I suspect they groaned, and they had every right. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.