As a religious-horror film, Immaculate earned my respect simply for leaning into internet commenters’ clutched-pearls cries of “evil” and “blasphemous” by using those nobodies’ quotes in its ad campaign, then doubling down with a one-day promotion for $6.66 admission. Members of the Neon marketing department, I proclaim you unholy geniuses.

Then, unlike most of the offended, I actually saw Immaculate. It retains my respect, so much so that I grant it a vow of obedience. (Poverty and celibacy, however? Let’s not go overboard.)

In Italy’s Our Lady of Sorrows, the newest nun is Cecilia (Sydney Sweeney, Madame Web), a young American woman. As Cecilia gets a tour of the 17th-century grounds and introduced to her fellow 21st-century sisters in Christ, the flick is so transparent in foreshadowing, it’s naked, e.g., “Be careful of this one. She bites.”

It’s not like things at the convent aren’t already, well, off; Cecilia’s spider-sense tingles from the outset. Then she gets pregnant, despite her iron-clad virginity. Holy calamity, scream insanity.

Some of Immaculate’s horrible happenings come as shocks, while others are so telegraphed, they’re practically stamped with the Western Union logo. And yet, even some of those shock, despite being expected. In the aforementioned tour, Cecilia’s ears perk up at a passing mention of “catacombs.” Ours do, too, knowing full well the story will near its end at this location. Sure enough, it does, but director Michael Mohan presents it like he’s leading viewers through a haunted house. It’s effective as, um, hell.  

Sweeney, a shrewd businesswoman who also produced the film, seems uneasy in the first act. How much of that is her character’s nervousness, her performance limitations or my own inability to divorce my mind from her sexualized persona in past roles and public, I cannot determine. But once the shit hits the fan — or the God seed hits her womb, so to speak — Sweeney sizzles. Particularly excellent in the birthing scene, with the lens scrunched tight on her bloodied face for what seems like unbroken minutes, she’s a raw nerve.

Arguably the movies’ highest-profile example of the nunsploitation subgenre since Ken Russell danced with The Devils in 1971, Immaculate could have wussed out. It doesn’t. I admire its commitment to middle-brow nastiness and trashiness — and more so its refusal to back down, as Mohan (reuniting with Sweeney after their erotic thriller, The Voyeurs) and first-feature scribe Andrew Lobel carry their button-pushing transgression all the way through what its literally Immaculate’s final shot.

Be careful of this one. She bites. —Rod Lott

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Remember the beheading from The Omen? Imagine a horror movie that tries to recreate that epic scene for nearly every one of its kills — plus some immolation, face peeling, face melting and bisection for good measure — and you’ll have a pretty good idea of what Beyond the Door III is all about.

If you’re hoping it has anything to do with the original Beyond the Door, you’ll be sorely disappointed, as this is an in-name-only sequel, much like the second entry in the series, which is actually just the Mario/Lamberto Bava joint Shock.

The plot centers on Beverly and her friends, students of an indeterminate age (they look like grad students pushing their 30s, but act like high schoolers) on a trip to a rustic foreign land. They’re traveling to witness a pagan ritual, but little do they know they’re marked to be a part of the ritual, a fact they learn after some creepy villagers lock them inside their cabins and set fire to the structures. All but one of the group escapes and they seek refuge on a train, which becomes possessed by evil spirits hellbent on finishing the sacrificial work.

We learn that Beverly has been chosen to be the devil’s bride because she’s a virgin with a large birthmark on her stomach, as well as some kind of familial connection that is ill-explained. It hardly matters, however, because just as the train literally goes off the rails at one point, so too does the film itself. Any semblance of logic flies right out the window and gets decapitated.

In case it isn’t painfully obvious, Beyond the Door III — also known as Amok Train — is incredibly gory. Come for the special effects, but stay for the general wackiness, which includes some befuddling dialogue among the principal cast, and even more confusing exchanges with police and government officials who do not speak English and whose lines aren’t subtitled, all of which contributes to the fever-dream-like quality of the movie.

It’s the kind of picture you’ll half-remember years down the line and wonder if it was real or just something your brain cooked up after consuming some days-old Chinese takeout you found in your fridge. Fortunately, it’s just over an hour and a half runtime makes it a perfect slice of WTF-ery that won’t eat up an entire night. —Christopher Shultz

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Nothing’s tantric with this Sting, a spider movie from Down Under that delivers a load. Of fun.

During a city-crippling ice storm, a Brooklyn apartment building gains an unexpected visitor: a rock from space that houses a dandy li’l spider. It’s found by Charlotte (Alyla Browne, Furiosa), a young girl who lives there with her family. From room to room and floor to floor, Charlotte traverses the complex via its ventilation ducts, foreshadowing the eventual activity of her new eight-legged pet, whom she names Sting and keeps in a jar.

This being an arac-attack film, Sting grows to horrific size — enough to give even the most hard-nosed he-man a case of The Shivers. Like Charlotte’s stepdad (Ryan Corr, Wolf Creek 2), who serves as the building’s super. We meet him running the basement’s trash compactor, which practically screams, “See you back here for the showdown!”

So originality isn’t Sting’s strong suit. Nor did I want it to be. From a spider movie, I seek only three things:
• spider action
• and lots of it
• without shoddy CGI

Is that so much to ask? Not for writer/director Kiah Roache-Turner. One of Ozploitation’s rising stars as the creative force behind the Wyrmwood zombie franchise, he delivers on all three. In initial, tiny form, Sting is computer-generated — required for the incredible title sequence, depicting the spider crawling through a dollhouse — but done without cutting corners. When the arachnid grows (and grows!) to sizes not even Australian spiders get, Sting is presented as a practical, in-camera effect, meaning it’s all the more terrifying — doubly so being built by Wētā Workshop, known mostly for its stellar work on everything Peter Jackson.

Although no Arachnophobia, Roache-Turner’s Sting does take a cue from John Goodman’s exterminator by casting Jermaine Fowler (The Blackening) to function as similar crowd-pleasin’ comic relief: “Let’s kill this bitch!” He nearly steals the show out from under all eight legs, a pair of balls and a couple of good jumps. —Rod Lott

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As his great aunt’s sole living heir, Tony (Roberto Guinar) inherits her Mexican mansion — lush landscape, spacious back patio and creepy clown doll included. 

The doll, named Payasito (“Little Clown”), is played alternately by a limp bag of rags and dwarf Margarito Esparza Nevares, whose white-greasepaint face suggests the unholy union of Bob Hope and Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus performer Michu. Because it can, Payasito frightens Tony’s pregnant wife down a short flight of stairs to her death, but the baby is saved. 

Years later, that lucky embryo swells into Tony’s tot son, Roy (Alan Fernando), whose attachment to the doll rivals Velcro, glue traps and static cling. This skeeves out Tony’s new trophy wife, Doris (Mexico Playboy model Lorena Herrera). Every time she and her hoochie-mama pants try to hide and/or ditch Payasito, the damn thing escapes and/or returns and kills somebody. Repeat until you hit the bare minimum for feature-length qualification, which you can do if you direct the dwarf to move … verrrrry … slowwwwwly. 

Also known by its English title of Diabolical Inheritance, Herencia Diabólica is referenced in shorthand as “the Mexican Chucky.” Not to desiccate the corpse of director Alfredo Salazar, but he wishes this thing were mas like Child’s Play. In a still photograph, Payasito may strike you as creepy, but in motion, he inspires laughter; with Chucky, the opposite is true.

Salazar clearly exhibited better luck at the typewriter, where his formidable résumé includes screenplays for such Mexploitation mainstays as The Batwoman, the Wrestling Women, the Aztec Mummy and many a Santo adventure — yep, even the one with big-breasted vampire ladies.  —Rod Lott

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Late Night with the Devil tells the story of an American cultural institution — the post-prime-time talk show — turned into a circus of satanic trickery by a malevolent force. Other than Jimmy Fallon, that is.

The movie is cleverly presented as a long-suppressed live episode of the syndicated, ratings-starved Night Owls from Halloween night 1977.  Although still smarting from the death of his beloved wife (Georgina Haig, TV’s Snowpiercer), host Jack Delroy (David Dastmalchian, The Last Voyage of the Demeter) has lined up a really big show in hopes of staving off cancellation.  

The lineup includes a medium (Fayssal Bazzi, We’re Not Here to Fuck Spiders) and, for built-in friction, paranormal investigator/skeptic á la James Randi (Ian Bliss, Man-Thing). Last but the furthest from least, a parapsychologist (Laura Gordon, Saw V) brings a young patient (feature-debuting Ingrid Torelli) rescued from a fringe church rumored to sacrifice children. The girl also claims to be possessed by a demonic entity she calls — and this isn’t eerie at all — “Mr. Wriggles.” 

With millions of eyeballs watching, what better time to attempt to draw this Mr. Wriggles out, right? 

From the monologue to each guest segment — with black-and-white backstage footage during commercial breaks — Late Night with the Devil admirably replicates the ’70s-era vibe of the chat format, particularly for those who grew up ending each weekday evening with Johnny Carson. All the details are here: the corny jokes, silly skits, forced patter with the bumbling sidekick (first-timer Rhys Auteri), cheesy title cards, smoking guests — plus subliminal images, gushing fluids, fateful on-air “demo” and so on. It’s nearly as faithful to its ruse as the infamous Ghostwatch, but with its time-capsule approach, likely owes more debt to WNUF Halloween Special.

A never-better Dastmalchian, who also produced, anchors the Australian pic with a committed performance that skillfully takes his character from empathetic to pathetic at a moment’s notice. If only he were able to convince sibling directors Colin and Cameron Cairnes (100 Bloody Acres) to end their script 10 minutes earlier, the movie would resonate with the intended staying power. After the prologue, it never needed to leave the studio. But do tune in, ladies and gentleman, and don’t touch that dial. —Rod Lott

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