If I were in charge, I’d give DarkWolf the more appropriate title of An American Werewolf in Do-Rag, as Kane Hodder (Jason Voorhees in several of the Friday the 13th sequels) plays his role as the horny-werewolf-disguised-as-human with a blue handkerchief tied around his thick noggin for the whole movie.

Hodder is the “DarkWolf” — a hybrid werewolf, explains an all-too-knowing policeman — who must mate with a chosen female in order to ensure the survival of its species. (Its acquisition of a capital W goes unexplained.) The chosen female is a blonde waitress (Samaire Armstrong, TV’s The O.C.) who has no idea of her fate, but soon learns when her “protector” — The Birds‘ Tippi Hedren as cinema’s most well-dressed homeless woman — is slain by the creature, as is the cop’s partner, airheaded Playboy Playmate Jaime Bergman.

Everyone in this straight-to-DVD pile of wolf poo is so unlikable, you wish the DarkWolf would kill them all, and then do himself in. But yet, DarkWolf feels the need to plod along on its grubby paws for an hour and a half, occasionally throwing in just enough gratuitous nudity to keep you from hitting “stop.”

The acting is atrocious, even for a straight-to-video movie of this kind, and the werewolf transformation scenes are downright embarrassing. Whenever it’s time for one of those, the movie turns into a poorly computer-animated cartoon! —Rod Lott

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In stark contrast to AIP’s sometimes-silly Edgar Allan Poe anthology film Tales of Terror, the Franco-Italian omnibus Spirits of the Dead aims for serious, capital-A art, siccing a trio of international A-list directors on some of Poe’s most obscure works. Results are mixed, meaning that Roger Corman trumped the combined might of Roger Vadim, Louis Malle and Federico Fellini.

Vadim’s “Metzengerstein” stars a never-sexier Jane Fonda as 22-year-old countess/libertine Frederique who lives an orgiastic existence in a castle, where she keeps a tiger cub as a pet. Although wooed by her cousin (Peter Fonda, uncomfortably enough), Frederique loves a horse — not in an Emanuelle in America sort of way, but I wouldn’t put it past Vadim — perhaps the horse wasn’t young enough. This opening segment is about as successful as then-married Vadim and Fonda’s collaboration on Barbarella, which is to say it looks great, but has a story that plods along like so many exhausted equine. Vietnam vets may most enjoy seeing Hanoi Jane stepping into an animal trap in the woods.

Alain Delon is “William Wilson” in Malle’s middle, rushing to confess an act of murder to a priest. This leads to a series of flashbacks that illustrate Wilson has been haunted since childhood by a double bearing the same name (also played by Delon). Whereas the real Wilson is and always has been a número-uno dick, the doppelgänger intrudes to halt or expose his bad behavior, whether torturing a classmate with rats; dissecting a live, nude woman just for kicks; or cheating in a card game against a brunette Brigitte Bardot. The latter act, unfortunately, plays out in real time, consuming many more minutes than needed.

Unquestionably the finest is the finale, “Toby Dammit,” the only tale set in modern day. Fellini takes the opportunity to satirize celebrity, especially the oversized kind forever pursued by the paparazzi — here, an ill-tempered, arrogant alcoholic (Terence Stamp) who despises his fans as much as his critics. He gets his comeuppance in a long-overdue end. While sly and dreamlike, the piece is, like the others, one that makes its point at two to three times the length it should. —Rod Lott

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Not a single cast member from the Wes Craven-presented Dracula 2000 returned for Dracula II: Ascension, the first of two straight-to-video sequels, and who can blame them?

Picking up where D2K ended, with the count burnt to a crisp on a neon crucifix, Ascension wheels the charred corpse of the vampire lord into a morgue, where the enterprising workers steal the body, sensing an opportunity to make some money. They take it to the conveniently vacant and isolated mansion of their professor, played by Craig Sheffer. He’s confined to a wheelchair because of cerebral palsy and has his left hand drawn up and turned in a way that looks like he’s constantly playing charades and no one has yet guessed “hieroglyphics.”

Sheffer — like Stephen Hawking without the RoboVoice and the charisma — believes the key to his cellular regeneration lies within the blood of Dracula, so he has his students revive the body by literally giving him a bloodbath. It works, and the first to die is former Playboy Playmate of the Year Brande Roderick, who briefly comes back as cinema’s only vampire to sport matching red bra and panties from Victoria’s Secret semi-annual lingerie sale. Eventually dying (but not soon enough) is the token black guy who, after sprouting fangs, exclaims with no irony, “I got the hooyah power in me!”

Meanwhile, the increasingly oval-faced Jason Scott Lee tracks them down. He’s a priest-cum-vampire hunter, as quick with the scythe as he is with the scripture, and he is as intent on saving souls as he is severing heads. Oh, and what of Drac? He’s tied up for nearly the entire movie, freed of his chains only at the end to set up Dracula III: Legacy, leaving one to hope it has more bite. —Rod Lott

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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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