Admittedly, it’s tough to compete with crucifix masturbation, but the made-for-TV chiller The Possessed tries its — dare I say it? — damnedest to ride The Exorcist‘s demonic coattails to the tube. Ol’ Scratch shows up at an all-girls’ school, where the most dastardly thing going on is spraying whipped cream and spermicidal foam in someone’s bed as a prank.

It all begins when a piece of paper in a typewriter catches fire. AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE!!! Next, some curtains flare up. AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE!!! Then, a girl’s graduation gown spontaneously combusts. AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE!!!

Investigating these matters are former minister/current alcoholic James Farentino and aging cop Eugene Roche. Suspicion falls on the male biology teacher (a pre-fame Harrison Ford, basically creating the role he’d later do for E.T.) until he goes up in smoke, too. He kind of deserves it, because he’s boinking one of the students. Then again, she is the super-cute Ann Dusenberry. I’d hit that.

Anyhoo, the person Satan possesses spits nails and vomits weak cherry Kool-Aid at Farentino while the girls watch, all in a tidy yet tired 74 minutes. It looks not so much like a possessed entity and more like this one woman I know who’s a sister of a friend of mine. She ugly. Did this really scare anyone? Ever? —Rod Lott

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The Ape Man tries for straight horror, but yields more laughs, albeit all unintentional. Directed by the notorious William “One-Shot” Beaudine (Billy the Kid vs. Dracula), it stars Bela Lugosi as a renowned gland expert whose bizarre experiments have led him into hiding in his secret basement laboratory.

It seems he’s turned into a half-man/half-ape and sleeps in a cage with his trusty gorilla (one of the worst monkey suits the screen has seen). He doesn’t really look ape-like at all, resembling Grampa Teen Wolf more than anything else. Wishing to reverse his condition, Lugosi craves the fresh spinal fluid of the newly dead. He and his gorilla pal roam the streets at night so the ape can do the killing for him. A bunch of nosy reporters try to figure out who’s behind it all before more bodies are slain. Even at 64 minutes, it takes its damn sweet time getting there.

This is the kind of dreck that likely led Lugosi straight to Smack Central. But the worst (and yet best) thing about it is the end, when our hero reporter and his gal pal shutterbug look over at the creepy guy who’s been peering in windows the whole time (and looks like Conan O’Brien with a chromosome deficiency) and ask, “Hey, who are you?” The creepy guy turns to the camera and says, “Who, me? I’m the author of the story! Screwy idea, ain’t it?” and then rolls up his car window, on which is shoe-polished “THE END.”

You got that right: screwy, indeed! —Rod Lott

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Inspired by the heavy metal hysteria of the era, Black Roses is the second film by director John Fasano to link rock music with demonic horror.

His first, the legendarily bad/awesome Rock ‘n’ Roll Nightmare is so uniquely terrible/wonderful, there was no way his second attempt couldn’t be both better and worse in comparison. Blessed with a higher budget, Roses is a more professional looking affair, but in a way that merely works to highlight its deficiencies rather than make them the virtues Nightmare did.

In a small town just a few miles away from wherever Footloose took place, the local teenagers are excited to find out that popular band Black Roses are coming to perform a series of shows in order to rehearse their upcoming national tour. The town’s moral defenders express concern about the sex, drugs and debauchery such concerts will inevitably generate, but the kids get the music they desire, only to discover — too late — that the group’s aim is not to entertain, but to turn their young fans into demonic slaves to their dark lord Satan!

With only the local mustachioed English teacher (John Martin) to stop them, it doesn’t look good for the kids or anyone else who thinks Top 40 is too gay. To its benefit, Black Roses doesn’t take itself seriously and avoids becoming a cinematic Jack Chick comic book. The effects are mostly terrible, but work despite their cheesiness. Not bad enough to be great like Nightmare, Roses is still good enough to earn a rental. —Allan Mott

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When I popped the Night of the Demons remake into my machine, I did so with complete certainty that no matter how much it sucked, I would still prefer it to the 1988 original. Y’see, I came to the first Night late into the game, so instead of nursing fond teenage memories of that crazy film where that chick sticks a lipstick container into her boob, I instead think of it as 90 minutes spent with the most singularly obnoxious collection of horror movie assholes I’ve ever seen.

As the remake started, however, I found my faith tested. Once again, the screenwriters seemed to mistake having their characters insult each other for the first 20 minutes as a witty form of character development.

It isn’t, screenwriters. It really, really, isn’t.

Eventually, the demons appeared at the Halloween party and the characters grew less overtly hateful, and while I never actually found myself enjoying the film, it also never tortured me as much as the original. It is interesting to note that in the remake’s recreation of the infamous lipstick-in-the-tit scene, Diora Baird’s fake fake boobs look much more fake than Linnea Quigley’s original fake fake boobs, which suggests the art of fake-boob prosthesis is the one special effect that hasn’t advanced much in the intervening years.

Speaking of Quigley, she has a short cameo at the beginning. It made me sad. As did the performances of pretty much the rest of the cast, none of whom actually seem to want to be associated with the film — the worst offender being Shannon Elizabeth (completely miscast as Goth queen Angela), whose only remotely authentic moment comes in the scene where she fellates a wine bottle.

So, yeah, the terrible remake of Night of the Demons is pretty fucking terrible, but not as terrible as the terrible original, which I believe sets the terrible standard for horror movie terrible. Terrible progress? —Allan Mott

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Stressed out? Watching Open Water will not help. Hyped as Jaws meets The Blair Witch Project, the micro-budget, shot-on-video shark flick sports a unique concept in that most of it takes place in one location: the middle of the ocean.

Cute couple Blanchard Ryan and Daniel Travis seek an escape from their hectic lives by taking an impromptu vacation, part of which entails scuba diving in the deep blue sea. But when their boat miscalculates the head count and leaves for shore without them, the two quickly realize their trip is on a fast-track toward hell. With nothing but horizon surrounding them, the duo tries to cling to the hope that they will be rescued before they dehydrate or, worse, turn into chum.

I wasn’t sure if the movie was going to work, because Ryan and Travis didn’t seem like they were doing acting. Then I realized that’s the point: This is shot in a quasi-documentary style, with fly-on-the-wall glimpses into this couple’s ordinary life. It’s supposed to feel real, rather than theatrical, and does.

But how can watching two people bobbing in the water for an hour not get boring? Their conversations are just compelling enough in an oh-shit-now-what fashion to keep your attention, and you never know when a shark is going to pop up (mostly because the stars were surrounded by real ones, who don’t take direction).

I wouldn’t say Open Water is harrowing, but toward the end, it’s tense and nerve-racking, especially in a late-night scene in which the screen is completely black, and you only catch glimpses of what’s going on when lightning flashes. Once more, it’s what you don’t see that can frighten you the most. Expect a riveting action film and you’ll be disappointed; expect a low-key character study and you won’t. —Rod Lott

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