Something of a minor cult classic, I, Madman stars The Lawnmower Man‘s mattress mate Jenny Wright as Virginia, a frustrated actress and employee of a used bookstore who’s spending dark and stormy nights with her nose buried in an all-but-forgotten pulp thriller by one Malcolm Brand, featuring a disfigured maniac named Dr. Kessler. She’s my kind of girl, not only because she reads for pleasure, but because she does so wearing only a satin half-camisole and white panties.

Anyway, once she’s through with Much of Madness, More of Sin, she seeks out Brand’s only other novel, titled I, Madman. This being the days before the magic of the Internet, she can’t track it down. Oddly, it shows up at her apartment door one day, but who left it there? In that follow-up book, Dr. Kessler continues a string of murders, seeking body parts from his victims in order to put his own disfigured face back together. These scenes play out before our eyes as Virginia imagines herself as part of the story, with Kessler played by the film’s makeup effects artist, Randall William Cook, later a three-time Oscar winner for The Lord of the Rings.

Much to the consternation of Virginia’s cop boyfriend (Clayton Rohner), the murders begin to play out in the real world. No one believes Virginia when she tells them it’s the work of this fictional Dr. Kessler, especially since he’s described as wearing a cloak over half of his face, and the scalp of a redheaded victim over his bald head.

There’s more than a little Phantom of the Opera flavor to I, Madman, and its bleeding of the garish murders on the page into the real world is an interesting idea. John Carpenter tried it — and failed — with his H.P. Lovecraft tribute In the Mouth of Madness, but here, of all people, The Gate director Tibor Takács succeeds. He didn’t have a lot of money to do so, but he appears to have a grasp on the cheap thrills that paperback thrillers offer, and approaches the movie with the same kind of go-for-broke attitude. —Rod Lott

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Well before the end-of-Bush-era housing market collapse, I had the damnedest time trying to sell a perfectly good home. We had spent thousands of dollars in updates; the neighborhood was safe; and the school district was solid. Took me 16 agonizing months.

But in Book of Blood, a young woman gets her face ripped clean off by an unseen force of malevolence in her parents’ home, and professor Mary (Sophie Ward, the little girl from Young Sherlock Holmes, all growed up!) is all like, “Huh, I think I’ll move in and see whassup. So long as it passed inspection!” She invites her hunky new student, Simon (Jonas Armstrong), to move in, too.

This being based on two Clive Barker stories, all is not well. Writing appears all over the walls of the upstairs bedroom, warning not to “mock us.” Plus, flesh carving (just how rough does it Barker like it, I wonder?) and forbidden sex, in which Ward’s nipples are so erect and pencil-eraser elongated, her partner risks ocular trauma.

Adapted and directed by John Harrison of the underrated Tales from the Darkside: The Movie, it has an ending that makes you think, “Who wrote this? Jeane Dixon?” It’s also not scary, unless you’re terrified of dragonflies, in which case you’re totally fucked. It’s no Candyman or even Midnight Meat Train, but it’s decent enough, if senseless. —Rod Lott

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Okay, I admit it: I’m not perfect. I’ve done some pretty lousy things in my life. But I have never done anything, wanted to do anything, or even thought of anything to make me deserve this movie. If Stalin were in Hell watching The Morgue, I’d think, “the poor bastard,” and shuffle sadly away.

In the first place, the setting isn’t even a morgue. It’s a mortuary and mausoleum. After closing, only two people remain on the premises: janitor Margo (Lisa Crilley, Annapolis) and night watchman George (Bill Cobbs, Night at the Museum). Margo, who naps in coffins, allows just anyone in and George vanishes for hours at a time. It’s a terrible thing that Cobbs’ career has this lousy bump in it. It may turn out to be a high point for Crilley.

So on this night of nights, Margo is interrupted by a family of three that comes in because they ran out of gas. (Mom is played by Heather Donahue, she of the enraged nostrils in The Blair Witch Project.) Then a few minutes later, a couple of banged-up jokers show up and bust through the French doors. And, oooh, the ghost of Horace, a former employee who committed suicide in the restroom by slitting his own throat — sing with me, “Bleedin’ in the boys’ room” — is wandering the halls seeking people to kill because, hell, why not?

The movie is so bad it took two directors to do the deed, Halder Gomes and Gerson Sanginitto. Remember their names. That way, if you ever forget the names of the characters in Dumb and Dumber, you can just call them Halder and Gerson. With a twist ending that’s about as twisty as the shortest distance between two points, this is the kind of flick that results when guys watch movies like this and think, “Hey, I can make a movie as good as that.” And then do. —Doug Bentin

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What is wrong with horror fans? Really? I mean, damn! A lot of you think John Carpenter lost it with In the Mouth of Madness, but the fact is — note: fact, not opinion — that this tip of the hat to H.P. Lovecraft is one of the director’s most intriguing movies.

Sam Neill is John Trent, an insurance investigator called in by a publisher (Charlton Heston) to track down missing author Sutter Cane (Jürgen Prochnow). Cane is a horror writer whose work frequently has a maddening effect on less stable readers. His new novel, only part of which has been delivered to his publisher, is reputed to be the one that will drive everyone mad. Trent believes that the whole situation is a publicity stunt, so he takes Cane’s editor (Julie Carmen) on a search for the town that is the book’s setting.

Mouth contains several set pieces that blend Lovecraftian concepts with Carpenter’s vision to create an unsettling atmosphere that grows more and more surreal, twisting reality, religion and fantasy around each other like an insane caduceus. The film is loaded with references to Lovecraft’s tales, and maybe that’s why it has never been particularly popular. It may be too old-school and literary for teen horroristas. Perhaps, too, Carpenter’s devotion to prosthetic rather than CG monsters makes it seem quaint. The director calls it the final film in his “Apocalypse Trilogy,” along with The Thing and Prince of Darkness, two other box-office underachievers.

But Mouth contains a great laugh line. After going through hell, then getting strapped into a straightjacket and slammed into a padded cell, Trent is forced to listen to elevator music designed to quiet the lunatics. As “We’ve Only Just Begun” plays over the asylum’s speakers, he slides to the floor moaning, “Oh no — not The Carpenters, too!” —Doug Bentin

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In Japan, Steel Trap is titled Jigsaw: Tower of Death, which is appropriate, because this is nothing if not another Saw-inspired game of gore. Mind you, that’s not a complaint, even if its twist ending is telegraphed early on and executed poorly.

During a rockin’ New Year’s Eve party in an abandoned office building, seven really attractive people — including a celebrity chef and a couple of coke-snorters — are invited to the 27th floor for an invitation-only after-party. Food and drink are just the tip of the knife, too, as a clue informs them that this shindig is a treasure hunt — you know, just like those Nicolas Cage movies, but shorn of historical documents and replaced with viscera.

The table’s place settings sport not only the guests’ names, but unofficial titles like “Loser,” “Heartless” and “Two-Faced,” yet they don’t see anything wrong with that. The clues are given in nursery rhymes, yet they aren’t the least bit creeped out by them. The first one takes them to a disembodied pig’s head wearing a crown, yet they keep on going.

I won’t spoil the deaths; they’re kind of creative in that Final Destination sort of way, and that includes being utterly implausible. But realism isn’t what I ask of films like Steel Trap. Nor crisp dialogue, as this is not: “Signal blocked? What the hell’s that mean?” “It means somebody blocked the signal.” —Rod Lott

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