Beth (Neve McIntosh, TV’s Case Histories), a divorced lawyer living in a British suburb, is out on the street trying to retrieve her estranged daughter from her neighbor’s house when a group of black-clad, special-forces types appears out of nowhere and guns down a terrified man brandishing a cleaver. Forced back into her home by the soldiers, Beth attempts to find out what’s going on and make sure her daughter is okay. Her married lover thinks they’re under attack from Muslim terrorists, but the truth is far more sinister, and it soon becomes clear that they cannot depend on the soldiers for aid or rescue.

A cinéma vérité-style horror movie made with a typically bleak European aesthetic, Salvage is a classic example of how there is nothing more terrifying than sympathetic and compelling characters trapped in an unexplained situation they cannot control. Eschewing flashy editing or cinematography, director Lawrence Gough simply allows the story to unfold without embellishment and without telling us anything more than what the characters themselves know, resulting in genuine tension and more than a little anxiety on the viewer’s part.

The film also benefits from a brief, 74-minute running time that trims away any fat that might detract from the story and/or character development. While some North American viewers might have trouble comprehending the thickly accented British slang, the fact that you have to really listen to the dialogue keeps you that much more invested in what’s going on.

Definitely not for those who prefer happy endings. —Allan Mott

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If you thought Wes Craven’s A Nightmare on Elm Street was a fine concept, but needed an extra hour to pad with the Bollywood dance numbers it sorely lacked … well, so did India. The result is Mahakaal, which lifts entire scenes and musical cues, but also adds a Michael Jackson impersonator in a Puma sweatshirt who has no “off” switch.

The knife-fingered glove is worn by Shakaal — that’s right: Shakaal, not Mahakaal — whose face looks like a topographic map and whose head sports one mean mullet. Instead of a child molester, he’s a black-magic practitioner. My friend Richard also thinks Shakaal looks like Fangoria‘s Tony Timpone.

Anyhoo, Anita (Archana Puran Singh), the girl whose dreams he torments, resembles a Miami Sound Machine-era Gloria
Estefan, yet remains kind of hot; her authority-figure dad is played by the Hindu version of Fred Armisen. She attends a local college where all the T-shirts — Iron Maiden, Siouxsie and the Banshees, cute owls — apparently have been flown in from an American record store with whatever was left over from its closeout sale.

With a late-game possession angle and camera moves swiped from Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead, Mahakaal certainly upsets the tonal apple cart with sudden, happy musical numbers (“Come on now / You know you want to / Come and have a picnic with me”), especially when they follow scenes of near-rape. Mahakkal is always baffling, but never, ever boring. —Rod Lott

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About the only thing The Roost has going for it are its wraparound segments, aping the old-school horror-host TV showcases of yesteryear — in this case, the fictional Frightmare Theatre!, a black-and-white affair with the great Tom Noonan as our guide. He knocks the film that will follow, calling it “truly wretched” and getting in a pun or two as he teases that it is “hot on the entrails of four young people on their way to a wedding.”

Cut to The Roost — in color, but über-grainy — with said four young people exhibiting zero personality while driving through rural roads at night. Crossing a bridge, the car’s front windshield comes glass-to-face with a bat, causing them to veer off the road. They go off to find help, but just find more and more bats.

Yep, bats. Have such things ever been frightening on film? That was meant as rhetorical, but no, they haven’t, not in 1979’s Nightwing, and certainly not in 1997’s Bats, in which Lou Diamond Phillips looked forever constipated. But scariness — or lack of — is not The Roost‘s real issue; slowness is. It’s the deathly pace that kills it.

Even at only 80 minutes, the movie drags. Had writer/director Ti West (who reunited with Noonan to great effect in 2009’s creepy The House of the Devil) broken up his thin story with more bits from the horror host, rather than just having him bookend the thing, The Roost could rustle up some enthusiasm among viewers. A giant in indie horror, West wields considerable talent — just not here in this, his first feature. —Rod Lott

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The curse of genre sequels is that most people inevitably will dismiss them sight unseen. Put a Roman numeral after a title and at least half of your audience automatically will roll their eyes and look for something original, like the new remake. (See what I did there? It’s funny because remakes are the closest things we have to original movies these days. Isn’t that amusingly insightful?)

I know this because a lot of people are surprised whenever I recommend or defend Return of the Living Dead III as a worthwhile horror effort. At least 90 percent of them actually never have seen it, but operate under the assumption that it has to suck for no other reason than it said Roman numerals. But not only does Brian Yuzna’s more serious sequel to Dan O’Bannon’s comic zombie classic not suck, but it’s the rare horror film that takes its characters seriously enough to allow for a genuinely moving ending that likely will stick with you long after you’ve seen it.

Julie (Melinda Clarke, Return to Two Moon Junction) and Curt (J. Trevor Edmond, Meatballs 4) are a pair of teenage lovers whose forbidden courtship is cut short when she’s killed in a motorcycle accident. Unable to accept the loss, he takes her body to the secret military lab his Army colonel father runs, and exposes her to the zombie-making gas featured in the previous two films. At first, it seems like they might actually get the happy ending they wanted, but then Julie starts to feel the agonizing pain of the living dead — a pain that can be eased only by either inflicting even greater pain (which she achieves by turning herself into the ultimate alternative pin-up queen) or the consumption of living human brains.

Essentially Romeo and Juliet with zombies, ROTLD III transcends its story flaws (the ease with which Julie and Curt get into the top-secret military lab is rather disconcerting) due to a heartfelt script that avoids cheap jokes or irony, along with sincere performances from its talented cast. Despite its lowly status as a direct-to-video horror sequel, it’s well worth checking out … unlike Return of the Living Dead Part II, IV and V, which are all as terrible as you’d naturally assume. —Allan Mott

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Horror fans can be so fickle. Every negative review I’ve read of Hellraiser: Revelations hinged on Doug Bradley not playing Pinhead for the first time in the franchise, now nine films deep. That’s a ridiculous reason to hate a movie; consider how many times they’ve assigned a new guy to be Batman or Bond. Besides, Pinhead has little more than an extended cameo in these things; he’s the Special Guest Star of his own series. So hate it for other reasons, like piss-poor acting.

Steven (Nick Eversman, Vampires Suck) and Nico (Jay Gillespie, 2001 Maniacs) are best buds, bro — “a couple of preppies reeking of privilege” (as a hobo calls them) heading from California to Mexico on a mission to get Steven’s “dick wet.” At a dingy bar, said hobo gives them that infernal puzzle box, and Nico has the bright idea to open it while shirtless, making it all the more easier for the Cenobites’ hooks, y’know.

Pinhead (Stephan Smith Collins, The Darwin Awards) makes Nico look like the strips of uncooked meat at a Mongolian barbecue. To reverse his asshole pal’s unfortunate situation, Steven must provide him with fresh souls on which to munch. Let the whore-chokin’, face-peelin’, sister-seducin’, pop-shootin’, baby-crackin’ action begin!

Truth be told, Hellraiser: Revelations ain’t that bad. For a rights-retaining rushed production made in two weeks for $300,000, it’s at least competently and professionally directed by Victor García (Mirrors 2), apparently shot at the producer’s house and on a cheap set meant to resemble a Mexico venue where one might take in a donkey show. Speaking of taking, try and look at the Revelations cover without thinking of Pinhead taking a dump. —Rod Lott

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