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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I assume the real estate listing for this film’s titular abode would go something like this: “Spacious Rochester Castle, private drive, lakeside view, 50 doors, basement dungeons, built-in elevator and black cat. Full disclosure: is damned.”

In the hourlong House of the Damned, architect Scott Campbell (Ron Foster, Private Lessons) has been hired to do a survey of the California place, abandoned without notice by a crazy old heiress. It’s a weekend of work, so Scott brings along not only its ring of 13 keys, but his wife, Nancy (Merry Anders, Legacy of Blood).

“Isn’t this something?” Scott says upon crossing the threshold, to which Nancy replies, “If you like Early Dracula!”

Vampires are nowhere to be seen, but while the Campbells snooze, some … thing hobbles into the bedroom. I won’t reveal the castle’s altogether-ooky secrets; I’ll only say that although 7-foot-2 Richard Kiel (007’s Jaws) is among the cast, he is not among its strangest.

The black-and-white B picture generates a great deal of good-natured fun from its unusual take on the haunted-house premise and William Castle-esque sensibilities. Directed by Maury Dexter (Raiders from Beneath the Sea) and written by Harry Spalding (Curse of the Fly), it makes for a slight, but efficient sleeper from the separate-beds era. —Rod Lott

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Part of what has allowed Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds to live on as one of his most enduring masterpieces was its unapologetic, ambiguous ending. So why spoil that lingering note of ominousness with a sequel? Especially one made for basic cable? Money, one guesses, and out of greed hatches The Birds II: Land’s End. Despite the subtitle, it’s not based on the clothing catalog, although it is as shallow and disposable.

Dim bulb Ted (Brad Johnson, Flight of the Intruder) and dim babe May (Chelsea Field, The Last Boy Scout) transport their two tots to an island shore town for the summer. Hoping for a season of R&R, the family instead ends up being dive-bombed by stark-raving-mad seagulls. The process is so routine that no suspense is to be found, but the telefilm is not without its cheap pleasures, fleeting they may be.

It’s also not without a multitude of problems, leading one to wonder things like:
• Why is ’63 Birds star Tippi Hedren here if she’s not playing her Melanie Daniels character?
• How did the shot with the boom mike escape the editor’s notice?
• Why did director Rick Rosenthal (Halloween II) take the Alan Smithee credit for this, but not for Russkies?

At least the little girls get to discover a washed-up corpse with its eyes pecked out, and their dog fails to survive an onslaught by owls. But what a cop-out ending: The birds simply fly away. Hey, I may have sat through all 87 minutes of this, but I’m not that stupid. —Rod Lott

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As a native Oklahoman, I long have fought the stereotype of the Okie as dumb hick. Not helping my case is the title of 1978’s shot-in-the-Sooner-State horror anthology, Alien Zone, which has no aliens. It can’t even be mistaken for science fiction. What were they thinking? Nothing clearly, if the entirety of its running time is to be judged.

Also known as Last Stop on 13th St., The House of the Dead, Five Faces of Terror and that DVD I already unloaded at Half Price Books, the low-budget film sees a cuckolding plumbing sales rep (John Ericson, Bad Day at Black Rock) being shown new “acquisitions” by an elderly mortician (Ivor Francis, The Night Strangler), who tells the tale of how each poor bastard ended up in a coffin.

First, Miss Sibiler (Judith Novgrod, Nightwing), a whiny crabapple of a young teacher, is menaced in her home by someone or something. The sight of a Little Orphan Annie Halloween mask is the most unsettling thing in the movie. Second, Mr. Grosky (Burr DeBenning, The Incredible Melting Man) films the murders of three lady friends visiting his apartment. In his defense, they are pretty stupid.

Third, and painfully long, is a duel of wits between a celebrated American criminologist (Charles Aidman, 1973’s The Picture of Dorian Gray) and his British counterpart (Bernard Fox, 1999’s The Mummy). If you like conversations between people who love to hear themselves talk, you’ll be riveted. Fourth, a businessman (Richard Gates, Candy Stripe Nurses) — who’s so mean that he won’t accompany his co-workers to that new lunch place with 23 kinds of hamburgers — falls down an elevator shaft and struggles to get out.

You’ll know how he feels. With the exception the dueling-detective segment, no story ends with a twist. Including the dueling-detective segment, no story exhibits even a modicum of momentum. Its incompetency is such that viewers are unable to glean enjoyment of its awfulness. They’ll simply Zone out. —Rod Lott

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I come not to bury Freddy, but to resurrect him.

Now, I’m not going to wholly defend the remake of A Nightmare on Elm Street; it is far and away not a good film. But I am going to praise the impulse behind it.

Unlike many, I find 1984’s original Elm Street a flawed film, cursed with a weak lead and low re-watch value. It has a strong core, however, with fascinating thematic underpinnings and a great monster in Fred Krueger, that demon of the dreamscape. Yet as the series progressed (some entries more entertaining than the first, most much less so), Freddy devolved from nightmare creature to stand-up comedian (and we’re talking sub-Joe Piscopo stand-up here, not Patton Oswalt, although granted, a Piscopo dream-monster would be a terrifying thing).

Therefore, an attempt to actually make Freddy scary again is a welcome thing. And anchored by a strong performance by the always-great Jackie Earle Haley (Watchmen), the remake had definite potential. Horror movies always have been able to transcend poor performances and weak scripts as long as they were actually scary. But any potential here was wasted in one crucial misstep: getting a first-time newbie to direct it.

Why anyone would trust a reboot of one of Hollywood’s most celebrated horror icons to an untested music video director is beyond me. While Spike Jonze and David Fincher may be exemplary filmmakers who started in video production, they are outliers. Samuel Bayer does not look to join their ranks, with a style that places him firmly in the Platinum Dunes pantheon of low-rent directors who mistake blood for scares, gore for tension, and blue filters for… actually, I don’t know what those replace. I just know I’m sick of them. (Marks also are subtracted for criminal misuse of its luminous and undeniably talented leading lady, Rooney Mara, that Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, who should take this movie off her CV.)

Didn’t Freddy deserve better? I put it to you, members of the jury, that his reputation can still be rehabilitated. Let’s look to some proven talents who know how to combine frights with pulp monsters. Let’s get Stuart Gordon involved or maybe Frank Darabont, Eli Roth or Ti West. James Wan seems to have possibilities lately. In my dreams, I can see a Krueger/Cronenberg marriage striking gold, and a David Lynch reimagining would likely become the most terrifying movie in the history of everything. —Corey Redekop

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