With Prison, the question is not “Remember when director Renny Harlin was good?,” but “Remember a world before we even knew who Renny Harlin was?” Produced and conceived by Halloween shepherd Irwin Yablans, the film marks a calling card of sorts for the then-no-name Harlin, who earned A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master from there and turned it into that franchise’s biggest entry at the time, which then vaulted him onto the A list with Die Hard 2.

As history has told us, ego kept him from staying there, but we’ll focus on the positive: Prison is a pretty decent, fairly ingenious flick for its meager budget.

Being abandoned since 1968, Wyoming State Penitentiary is something of an inhumane shithole, but 300 transferred prisoners are on their way over, squalid conditions and all. Lording over the grim castle of concrete is Warden Sharpe (Lane Smith, Dark Night of the Scarecrow), an unhappy bully of a man who believes in punishment, not rehabilitation.

Under Sharpe’s orders, inmate Burke (a baby-faced Viggo Mortensen, A History of Violence) breaks through a wall to reach the old execution chamber. In doing so, Burke inadvertently unleashes a malevolent spirit. Although represented on film as baby-blue light, this supernatural force is one mean sumbitch. It fatally roasts one prisoner confined to solitary, thwarts a would-be escapee in a tangle of wires and pipes, and wraps a guard in a tight hug of barbed wire.

Frightening is hardly the word for it, but the effects are impressive, especially in this pre-CGI era. There’s more to admire beyond that, including the novelty of seeing the reliable character actor Smith in a rare lead role. Mortensen shows quiet glimpses of the greatness to come; the underrated Chelsea Field (The Last Boy Scout) provides some much-needed estrogen for balance; and a few of the inmates stand out for their weird quirks, from harboring a Rambo fetish to drinking Lysol as if it were lemonade. Hey, when life gives you life behind bars … —Rod Lott

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In 1921 London, Florence Cathcart (Rebecca Hall, The Town) keeps busy in her work, exposing so-called “spirit mediums” for the greedy charlatans they are. It’s not only a living, but a distraction from emotional wounds not yet healed.

Implored to do so by the stammering, handsome history master of Rookford (Dominic West, Punisher: War Zone), Florence travels to the boys’ prep school, where students have reported seeing a gh-gh-gh-ghost! While our skeptic heroine is inclined to approach the situation with disbelief, one boy literally became frightened to death. Suffice to say, the Rookford faculty takes the haunting — whether real, imagined or an elaborate hoax — rather seriously.

The Awakening unfolds in a purposely calculated manner that matches the supernatural literature of its setting’s post-Victorian era. Some call that boring; I call it a slow ratcheting of suspense, and the lovely, headstrong Hall serves as a terrific guide through the good ol’ ghost story.

Directed and co-written by feature first-timer Nick Murphy, the visually rich film does suffer from a needlessly extended ending, so it lacks the payoff of 2012’s The Woman in Black, which The Awakening closely resembles in theme, mood, production design and basic overall Britishness. It’s not quite as simple as its stick-figure credits would suggest; speaking through Florence, Murphy and co-scripter Stephen Volk (the BBC’s infamous Ghostwatch special) tackle head-on the fear-vs.-science debate that sadly, inexplicably remains relevant even today. —Rod Lott

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