Apparently, Tenebrae is a religious service right before Easter where candles are extinguished in total darkness, or something to that effect. I guess that is a complacent title for Dario Argento’s return to the giallo realm of demonic horror after both Suspiria and Inferno … but I am bad with comparisons. Sorry.

Tenebrae has some serial strangeness coupled with a somewhat meandering plot but, thank heavens, Argento has a keen eye for engaging set pieces and the right amount of gore for the Fangoria crowd — original incarnation — that makes it a real-gone crowd-pleaser and a small-time chunk-blower.

Novelist Peter Neal (Anthony Franciosa, who has a strong Christopher George vibe, if you know what I mean) comes to Italy to promote his bloody novel, Tenebrae. He is the type of guy who pedals to La Guida Airport to an international flight with several sexy sirens following in tandem.

Meanwhile, a heavy CPAP-breather is stalking nubile vixens in the Walmarts of Rome; eventually, he murders a petty shoplifter with pages of a book stuffed in her mouth and, of course, takes pictures for additional sleaze. I guess that kind of stuff makes him a bad dude.

Soon, the police partner with Neal after he starts receiving taunting phone calls. His handler (?) and her assistant (?) help him solve the crimes, which is both baffling and ridiculous. But with the sweeping crane shot in the pre-crime scene — you know the one — all is forgiven and the mystery is (somewhat) solved.

Of course, the glassy atmosphere is beautifully stilted, and it gives Argento’s productions that Technicolor shimmer that pops off the screen, better than a 3D movie (but not his Dracula 3D movie). With a menacing tone, while truly silly in some parts, is ultimately one of spaghetti-covered dread that really earns the wholly ludicrous ending.

And what can I say about the phenomenal score of Goblin, Argento’s house band (actually Claudio Simonetti), except that I truly rate it better than the actual movie? Check it out!

While some people say that Tenebrae is that last gasp of this horror master, at the time he had a real death grip on his audience and this film proves that even after Suspiria, he can still slay with the best of them. —Louis Fowler

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Alan Birkinshaw enjoys the distinction of directing two Edgar Allan Poe adaptations in South Africa in 1989: Masque of the Red Death and The House of Usher. But only one dared put Frank Stallone’s name atop its poster!

It wasn’t this one.

Set in the present day, Birkinshaw’s House opens with Ryan Usher (Rufus Swart, River of Death) and his fiancée, Molly (Romy Windsor, Howling IV: The Original Nightmare), being invited to the titular, palatial estate by his enigmatic uncle, Roderick Usher (Oliver Reed, Burnt Offerings). Despite never having met the guy, Ryan and Molly go anyway.

Ulterior motive alert: Being the last of his lineage, Ol’ Roderick feels an urgent need to seed, and views Molly as his perfect bride/birthing vessel. Like Olive Garden, Roderick operates from the mindset of “When you’re here, you’re family,” assuming Olive Garden still performs mandatory pelvic floor exams at the table.  

That’s just the start of the craziness under this House’s roof. A visiting physician loses his penis to a gnawing rat. Living in a hidden room, a sooty Donald Pleasence (Nothing Underneath) has an electric drill bolted to his forearm. Going so hammy that Jewish and Muslim populations may be forbidden from viewing, Reed’s Roderick humps Molly in the shower with pained thrusts that suggest he’s struggling to move a divan up a flight of stairs.

The travails of a Harry Alan Towers budget are apparent, with the Usher estate’s interior rather cramped, dressed and blocked like a sitcom set. (Somehow, the place looked more spacious in Masque.) Elsewhere, in the family crypt, stone tombs are clearly Styrofoam. More gaudy than Gothic, this House of Usher falls in on itself in credibility, especially with one of those “JK!” cheat endings. —Sir Roderick Lott 

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Young web journalist Kim (Kim Bo-ra, Ghost Mansion) is in dire need of a scoop that’ll rake in the clicks and likes. She finds it in a subway train accident, when her friend Woo-won (Kim Jae-Hyun), who works security at Korea Metro, tells her about the ghost of a little girl spotted hiding in the rails of Oksu station.

Strangely, the ghost girl isn’t the only spirit hanging around Oksu. Stranger still, they all spout four-digit numbers when asked for their names. The more Kim digs, the more she uncovers, like how everyone who’s died at that platform in the last three decades bears deep scratches on their arms. Then there’s the matter of one of Kim’s sources committing suicide … before the two spoke!

The Ghost Station marks director Jeong Yong-Ki’s return to horror since his 2004 debut, The Doll Master. Unfortunately, it’s your standard Korean fright fare — substandard, even, if you’ve seen more of these things than the average bear. As if “ghost children” didn’t already drive the point home, it doesn’t tread new territory as much as repeat the familiar tropes by rote. Co-screenwriter Takahashi Hiroshi, best-known for the J-horror classic Ringu (aka The Ring) even has the gall to include a well. A well! With trapped kids! Thus creating, to use the movie’s own words, a grudge! And a curse to pass on, which Kim totally girlbosses.  

Shouldn’t some blame land on the unimonikered Horang, on whose webcomic the film is based? No, since his source material is adapted in whole for the prologue. Other than establishing the subway setting, the standalone scene shares nothing with the mélange of jump scares that follows. —Rod Lott

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As Christmas horror anthologies go, Nightmare on 34th Street bears a title so clever, it’s something of a Miracle it hadn’t been co-opted before filmmaker James Crow got to it. Now, the movie itself is less inspired, but it’s watchable. Because it’s British, prep to hear “Santa” pronounced as “Santer.”

As this movie’s jolly old St. Nick, Pierse Stevens (Crow’s House of Salem) tells a boy five bedtime stories, plus gets in a few choice words about the true reason for the season: “The poor fucker was on a cross, died, and all they want is fucking presents!”

The stories involve a home invasion by “three Christmas nutters” who drive a van marked “THE SLAY”; a down-on-his-luck ventriloquist and his homicidal Frosty the Snowman puppet; and your garden-variety store Santa who, after being fired, poisons cookies and causes other general mischief. In arguably the most successful segment, a single mom/MILF (former lad-mag vixen Lucy Pinder) gets a visit from Krampus; in easily the worst, an infirm priest (Spidarlings‘ Jeff Kristian) and his past are key to “The 12 Kills of Christmas.”

Individually and overall, 34th Street houses too many characters, too few fresh ideas, no real jolts and, most regrettably, more padding than the average pillow supporting the heads of nestled children as they dream of sugar plums. However, Crow is able to pack a streak of nastiness under his low-budget tree, as kids are not only put in danger, but participate in it. He also stuffs its stocking with dark laughs; in addition to Santa’s possibly sacrilegious spouting above, an earlier cut features a now-excised babysitter tale in which a girl dismisses a Virgin Mary figurine with “Whatta slag!” —Rod Lott

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In Brad Sykes’ Scream Queen, real-life VHS scream queen Linnea Quigley plays the fictitious scream queen Malicia Tombs. On the set of her latest opus, she argues with her co-stars, director and crew members before leaving in a huff. Tragically, Malicia’s car crashes and explodes, killing her.  

The director, Eric Orloff (Jarrod Robbins, Sykes’ Zombie Chronicles), remains haunted by the events of his unfinished picture. One day, via an invite to a mansion, he’s offered $10,000 to complete it. Despite the place being located at 101 Killington Street, he shows up at the designated time, only to find a reunion of sorts of his ill-fated production’s cast and crew. They’ve been gathered for an evening of revenge in Malicia’s name — call it Six Little Indians with zero second takes. “Cut” means “cut.” 

Let’s acknowledge the obvious: Shooting on VHS presents several inherent and inescapable challenges, such as wind overpowering the camera’s microphone or night scenes looking especially ugly. The more SOVs you expose yourself to, the easier it is to forgive those limitations. Here, doing so leaves you with terrific fun. Your one true complaint may be the absence of nudity from the chesty Nicole West (Ted V. Mikels’ Dimension in Fear) in her animal-print underwear sex scene. I’m with you.

Building his slasher with a meta setup, Camp Blood creator Sykes gives the shot-on-video world its Scream. At the risk of oversell, it’s clear from the outset Sykes poured his all into the project, where others would half-ass it. His opening shot is Altman-style audacious for any format, running a couple of minutes as the camera moves from person to person, introducing viewers to each character and requiring every performer to be on their toes. 

Similarly, the prolific Quigley (Murder Weapon) is asked not simply to show up, but act. Don’t worry, kiddos, because your beloved kill scenes remain in full supply. Serving as host for the proceedings is a dwarf (Kurt Levee) — a nice Gothic touch, even if the guy is wearing a quasi-Christmas sweater. That’s just one element making Scream Queen the most wonderful kind of SOV horror. —Rod Lott

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