Third time’s the harm — again — with Paranormal Activity 3, another prequel to a prequel. (In real math, then, this is Paranormal Activity Negative 2.) Rather than pick up where 2 left off, franchise-fresh directors Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman (Catfish) have turned back the clock to tell the heretofore hinted-at story of that thing that happened that one time to sisters Katie and Kristi when they were little. Holy shit, girls, do you remember that?

Lemme take you there: It was the ’80s. Your mom, Julie (Lauren Bittner) had big hair, a secret stash of pot and a new husband who looked like a douche because he never shaved. His name was Dennis (Christopher Nicholas Smith) and he made wedding videos for a living, so it was only a matter of time before he tried to bang your mom on tape. On VHS, even. Classy.

And you two started complaining about weird things happening, and Dennis set up a couple of totally sweet camcorders ’round the house to see what was what. (Even I gotta admit, rigging the cam on the oscillating fan’s base was ingenious.) And boy, did his DIY spirit pay off! The house had its own invisible demon — Toby, his name was, and he didn’t like to be called fat — who moved objects askew and had this cool trick he liked to do where people would fly across the room like puppets who suddenly had their strings yanked.

The same description could apply to viewers, who lap these Paranormal movies up. For all their simplicity, however … well, dammit, I really admire their simplicity! Whereas so many studios spend millions on special effects, Joost and Schulman literally freak us out with a bed sheet. A bed sheet.

Also, I just find Katie Featherston to be crazy hot. That is all. —Rod Lott

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It takes a good half-hour of Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman moping around and listening to Joanna Newsom on vinyl, but once it gets going, The Strangers offers a pretty suspenseful section of 45 minutes I wouldn’t want to watch in the dark while home alone late at night. The final 15, however — let’s just say debuting writer/director Bryan Bertino never should have let his story see the literal light of day.

Tyler and Speedman play a couple who, following a wedding reception at which she turned him down on his proposal, retreat all weepy to his dad’s vacation home for the night. Soon after drowning their individual sorrows in rusty bathwater and Blue Bell ice cream, there’s a knock at the door at an ungodly hour, with a young blonde asking for someone who isn’t there.

The inconvenience is merely step one of a trio’s ace home-invasion plan. This assault on precinct pretty-boy is made unnerving because the three perpetrators each sport a different mask; according to the credits, their names are Dollface, Pin-up Girl and Man in the Mask. That latter moniker doesn’t do him justice, as he wears a burlap sack with eyeholes and a painted smile. (Pin-up Girl’s facial disguise is particularly creepy; just ask my kids since I was sent one with the review copy. Yes, I am a horrible parent, but I cannot resist a laugh at their piss-their-pants expense.)

If illogical — they seemingly vanish via teleportation — their reign of terror is effective, like Michael Myers’ pursuit of Jamie Lee Curtis in the closet drawn out to feature length. The Strangers is neither brilliant nor groundbreaking, but works for more than half the time, which makes it worthy viewing. Reportedly based on true events, Bertino’s version is a tad better than the 2006 French film Them, which is so similar, I can’t see how The Strangers gets away without being credited as a remake. —Rod Lott

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“Oh, this can’t be scary. Old movies aren’t scary like Insidious,” said my tween daughter as she entered the room just after the opening credits of Tourist Trap had finished. One minute and one mannequin appearance later, she bolted for the door.

I wouldn’t qualify Tourist Trap as scary, but several moments of it are extra-creepy and genuinely unsettling. Mannequins and dolls that suddenly, inexplicably move tend to be. This film’s killer even wears a mask that covers all but his lower jaw, which is also unnerving, especially since it makes him look like Leatherface (albeit the transvestite one from Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation).

The titular site refers to Slausen’s Lost Oasis, an off-the-beaten path, now-closed-to-the-public wax museum owned by the lonely widowed Mr. Slausen (The Rifleman‘s Chuck Connors, giving it his square-jawed all). A group of vacationing youngsters (including Tanya Roberts in a tube top) end up there after an irreparable tire strands them. Bet you know what happens from there. (And in case you don’t, then welcome to your first horror movie, and know that they’re terrorized by those things that department stores use to sell you the latest fashions.)

Directed by David Schmoeller (The Seduction, Puppet Master), this decent, semi-novel, inexplicably-PG supernatural slasher comes from the era when Charles Band productions not only didn’t suck, but actually played theaters. If you can remember those golden days of Ghoulies and Troll and this, congrats! You’re old. (Meet you for dinner at Furr’s at 4.) —Rod Lott

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Joseph Zito’s The Prowler is a refreshing work. Whereas every World War II vet I’ve encountered mistakes something as insignificant as a friendly nod of the head and respectful smile as “tell me your life story in long, agonizing anecdotes, and spare no details,” the Dubya-Dubya-Two vet here doesn’t speak at all. Plus, you can’t see his face, so you aren’t distracted by liver spots. So what if he also carries a big bayonet? Doesn’t that trump having to hear yet another yarn about fapping to Betty Grable pin-ups in the barracks?

It does, even if this vet holds quite the grudge (or, ju-on, if you prefer). After receiving a Dear John letter from his best gal while he’s overseas, the guy returns home to find her necking with a new beau at the graduation dance, so our vet puts a pitchfork right through ’em both. That’ll show ‘er!

Thirty years later, the town holds the dance again for the first time post-body count, and wouldn’t you know it? The vet is back, and he’s got a hankerin’ to kill all those meddling kids! Perhaps most notably, a busty co-ed gets all points of a pitchfork in her tummy while she’s soaping up in the shower, and Zito doesn’t dare puss out by cutting away.

That’d mean squat if the effects sucked, but they do anything but. Tom Savini outdoes himself here, crafting practical gore scenes that look so realistic, the payoff they provide is worth Zito’s sometimes too-long build-up of suspense. The director next did Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter, arguably the best of that series, and the rest is splatter-flick history. —Rod Lott

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Admittedly, The Phantom of the Opera is among Dario Argento’s worst films. Even still, I didn’t find it to be that bad, even if Joel Schumacher’s musical version of Phantom is better. It’s not like the movies needed another version of Gaston Leroux’s 1910 classic novel, but at least Argento puts his own bloody stamp on things.

The story is pretty faithful to its source material: A man who lives in the tunnels underneath the opera falls in love with one of its young singers, to the point where he’s murder everyone else to see her front and center with the leading part. Argento’s big turn is that his Phantom (Julian Sands) isn’t horribly disfigured and, thus, doesn’t wear a mask. He does, however, have rock-star hair befitting a metal band.

The Christine of his dreams is played by Asia Argento, and she and The Phantom get down and dirty a couple of times. (Once more, it’s a little unsettling to see her disrobing for sex scenes for her father to shoot, especially since The Phantom likes it doggy-style.) The Phantom so wants Christine to star on the stage version of Romeo and Juliet that he assaults the “fat cow” leading lady by clawing deep gashes into her left udder.

In between all the talky-talky that goes on, we’re given scenes of rats feeding on a man’s hand caught in a trap, a decapitation of a man riding around on some steampunk rodent-catching vehicle, The Phantom pulling out a woman’s tongue with only his teeth, and so on. If only it didn’t look shot on video and extremely cheap, viewers would be kinder. After all, they certainly were when Argento visited Opera in 1987, but there was no question that deserved it. —Rod Lott

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