It’s obvious that the people behind The Thing remake studied John Carpenter’s gruesome masterpiece before they began their prequel. But studying ain’t the same as mastering; while Thing 2011 plays the same notes as Thing 1982, there’s barely any music to be heard. Maybe it’s an unfair comparison, but when you produce a prequel to one of the genuine horror classics of all time, you know the risks going in.

Carpenter attached the scenario of an alien that perfectly mimics other life forms to an isolated arctic base and amped the claustrophobia, resulting in a paranoid classic that is also one of the great practical effect showcases. Matthijs van Heijningen Jr. follows the template, but leeches away any hint of tension. It’s not that the audience knows the ending going in; it’s far more that you should never trust a brand property to an unproven talent (see also: anything produced by Platinum Dunes, Michael Bay’s production company). There isn’t one moment in this Thing that isn’t completely predictable.

Where does it go wrong? It’s the overuse of painfully obvious CGI where practical effects would have been a far superior choice. It’s the unnecessary Americans that join a group that we have, for 30 years, assumed to be completely Norwegian. It’s the marked lack of Kurt Russells, Wilford Brimleys and Keith Davids. It’s the oversights of particular plot points in the original (what happened to the thermite charges?). It’s the replacement of Ennio Morricone’s eerie score with a bombastic symphony that telegraphs every scare. It’s the disappointment of seeing that the inside of the spacecraft is just stereotypical weird tunnels. It’s rejigging the idea that anyone could be the monster to, “Oh, I think I know who the monster is: that two-headed guy running down the corridor.”

It’s all this, and more. When only one scene even approaches the level of terror and/or coolness of the original (think face-melting), you don’t have a true sequel, an adequate prequel, a loving tribute or an energetic fan film; you have a sweaty-faced Elvis impersonator in a polyester suit, fighting a heart attack while he bellows “Suspicious Minds” to a group of bored tourists in Nevada.

That said, it’s still better than anything Platinum Dunes has ever released. —Corey Redekop

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Women’s prison was a cinch compared to the boardinghouse for Margaret, aka The Girl in Room 2A. And not because of the blood spot under the carpet or the god-awful wallpaper. It’s the guy in the red-pantyhose mask and matching cape who steals the babes who live there and takes them to a torture dungeon, where they are whipped, electrocuted, prodded and poked.

Margaret (Daniela Giordano, Mario Bava’s Four Times That Night) was busted at a party where grass and pills were being consumed; while she didn’t partake, guilt by association landed her behind bars for a short time. Upon release, one of the guards steers her toward a place to stay, ran by the kindly Mrs. Grant (Giovanna Galletti, Kill Baby, Kill). On her first night, a nerve-addled Margaret “hallucinates” the pantyhose man coming into her room.

The brother (John Scanlon, Escape from Alcatraz) of 2A’s previous occupant investigates his sister’s out-of-character death: “Cut the jazz! What’s she talking about?” Could it be Frank (Angelo Infanti, The Godfather), Mrs. Grant’s nerdy son whose workshop is filled with mannequin heads and miniature guillotines? Or perhaps that strange cult that holds meetings on the ground floor, hmmmmm?

The final film directed by sex-pic auteur William Rose, The Girl in Room 2A doesn’t quite reach the Hostel-ility posed by its prologue. Whenever the L’eggs-clad villain shows up, the Italian thriller fills with a little life for scenes of death. Whenever it doesn’t, the movie feels like a series of red herrings biding time until the inevitable conclusion. —Rod Lott

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Unless you’re a real horror movie geek, I think it’s probably a safe bet for me to describe Jeff Lieberman’s Just Before Dawn as the best slasher movie you’ve never seen. Why it remains so obscure is something of a mystery, since the people who have seen it tend to get very excited when talking about it, and you’d figure that their enthusiasm would be contagious, but it’s never quite worked out that way.

It’s almost tempting to theorize that Lieberman might be suffering from some sort of curse, since his often-outstanding work never has gotten him the attention he deserves. His great sci-fi/horror satire, Remote Control, has yet to make it to DVD and his most famous effort, Squirm, has the dubious distinction of being the best film to have ever been mocked by Mystery Science Theater 3000 (and, yes, I happily would say that right to This Island Earth’s face).

Combining the standard elements of the slasher genre with the backwoods horror of Deliverance and The Hills Have Eyes, Just Before Dawn succeeds thanks to skillful direction, effective atmosphere and — most importantly — a cast of likable characters whose endangerment causes us to feel actual anxiety and empathy, rather than the usual slasher-movie schadenfreude.

The plot is bare-bones simple: Several campers in search of an inherited mine in a dangerous forest find themselves being hunted by the demented offspring of the area’s requisite family of religious freaks. But the beauty of the slasher genre is that the plot is always secondary to the execution, and by that standard, this neglected gem easily ranks as one of the best of its kind. —Allan Mott

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Attention, The Last House on the Left: Your reputation as a horror landmark is at stake. I call shenanigans! “Keep repeating: It’s only a movie …” and not a good one.

Yes, it has blood. Yes, it has rape. Yes, it has scenes of more unrelenting violence. But it also has slapstick comedy with rednecks, complete with “wacky” music. And a near-toothless African-American woman who would seem at home on a MADtv sketch. And dare I even mention the banjo-pop soundtrack with songs about the villains? Bad guys’ themes should not be played on the instrument most associated with TV’s Hee Haw.

But onto the story, which marks the screenwriting and directorial debut of Wes Craven, who later would birth terror icons in Freddy Krueger, Ghostface and whoever Meryl Streep played in that violin movie: Virginal 17-year-old Mari Collingwood (Sandra Cassell, Teenage Hitchhikers) and her best pal (Lucy Grantham) have the unfortunate experience of trying to score pot, but instead running into a felonious foursome led by Krug (David Hess, instantly typecast).

Krug’s so evil, he got his own son (Marc Sheffler) hooked on heroin. Weasel (Fred Lincoln) is a child molester, and Sadie (Jeramie Rain, later Mrs. Richard Dreyfuss) is merely a psycho bitch from hell. Rape and murder ensue, then the tables are turned when car trouble puts Team Krug as guests in the Collingwood home.

Craven and company’s absolute amateur-hour efforts kill whatever power was intended. That’s not to say what Krug and f(r)iends do isn’t horrible; it is. But torture of characters doth not a good movie make, and there’s nothing offered — original or otherwise — to elevate Last House. I even think some of its many rip-offs do the same story far better — Italy’s Night Train Murders, for one — and Hollywood’s vastly superior 2009 remake boasts suspense and style. Yeah, I said it. —Rod Lott

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Exorcismo may not have existed without The Exorcist, but it’s hardly a rip-off. Only in the final minutes does it feel like an imitator, with Paul Naschy’s Father Dunning tossing streams of holy water and Scripture at the babe in the bed amid smears of puke, but he actually spends more time battling a German shepherd (Gero, per the end credits).

The Regan MacNeil of this Spanish bedeviler is Leila (Grace Mills, Night of the Howling Beast), a young woman whose family believes hasn’t acted the same since her archeologist fiancé, Richard (Roger Leveder), returned from Africa. He’s the kind of guy whose apartment is decorated with voodoo masks and a blue cabinet on which red-paint letters read, “ALL YOU NEED IS TO FUCK.”

Once cast members are found with their heads rotated at a clean 180˚, Dunning investigates. Leila exhibits flashes of tempers and contorts like a seizure victim, but only Leila’s sister (María Kosty, Night of the Seagulls) brings up the possibility of possession. That certainly would explain Leila’s attendance at fully nude funk-sex-occult parties in the ruins of a nearby castle!

Viewers hoping for a satanic shocker are likely to be disappointed. Overly talky, Exorcismo offers few big moments, but they are there. In one, Naschy hallucinates a snake emerging from the faucet; in another, Leila shows up all milky-eyed, pustule-skinned and crusty-lipped at the bedside of her smokin’-hot mom (Maria Perschy, The Ghost Galleon). Atmosphere comes less from director Juan Bosch than composer Alberto Argudo. Watch up to the final split second for a puzzling quick trick. —Rod Lott

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