Irked over a round of paintball that went his archenemy’s way, preppy sore loser Mauricio (Toño Mauri) hopes to save face by proposing one final dick-measuring contest to mullet-helmeted good guy Nacho (Pedro Fernández, who squeezed this pic in between Vacation of Terror and Vacation of Terror 2: Diabolical Birthday). And that challenge is to see who can slay the bear that, according to the newspaper, is thought to have killed a few hunters over at Filo de Caballo (which, according to a crude Internet translator, is thought to mean “edge of the horse”).

Nacho agrees, bringing his girlfriend (Edith González, René Cardona Jr.’s Cyclone) and his obese, quesadilla-craving best friend (Charly Valentino) to the agreed-upon campsite at Filo de Caballo. Mauricio brings some eye candy and acid-washed jeans. Director/co-writer Pedro Galindo III (the aforementioned VoT2) brings a twist, because there ain’t no bear!

Credit for the hunters’ deaths is all due to Jesse (Alberto Mejia Baron in his lone acting job), a Vietnam veteran with maximum PTSD and a face mask that recalls Owen Wilson’s Zoolander character caught in a perpetual scowl. His weapon of choice is a homemade Freddy Krueger glove with serrated blades and, as backup, a machine gun when you absolutely, positively got to kill every motherfucker in the forest. That’s not really a problem for Jesse; he seems to have every branch and bush rigged with some kind of booby trap for the kids to trigger — hence the title of Hell’s Trap.

It is comforting to know that other countries — in this case, Mexico, if you didn’t discern that already — can make slashers as mediocre as we Americans. And as inane, as silly, as comfort-foody. Known as Trampa Infernal in its native tongue, Hell’s Trap has our nation’s decade-defining Voorhees formula down pat, then supercharges it with a shot of the equally ’80s Rambo. All that’s really missing: tetas. I refuse to pretend they are not missed. —Rod Lott

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How strange that Clown began as a 78-second joke, as a fake trailer purporting to be the work of Hostel’s Eli Roth. How strange that the actual feature has Roth aboard as producer. What’s stranger than both those things is that there was enough in that concept worth expanding into a feature.

When the clown hired to enliven the birthday party for young Jack (Christian Distefano, Cut Bank) cancels during the event, it’s Dad to the rescue: Kent (Andy Powers, TV’s Taken miniseries), a real-estate agent, all too conveniently finds and dusts off a clown suit in the basement of a home he has on the market. Jack and friends are pleased, and one can tell in the eyes of Kent’s dental-hygienist wife, Meg (Laura Allen, TV’s The 4400), that her hubby is so totally getting laid tonight.

Or perhaps not. For some reason, the costume won’t come off! It resists scissors and serrated tools; the red, bulb nose is stuck to him like skin; the colorful curls of the wig have burrowed deep into his scalp; and that whiter shade of pale won’t wash off. And hell, what’s up with the rainbow-colored sputum? After medical treatment proves fruitless, Kent tracks down the former property owner (Peter Stormare, Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters), who offers three bits of worrisome news:
1. The clown of Nordic legend is not about twisting balloons into funny shapes.
2. It’s all about a demon bent on killing kids.
3. Kent’s turning into that.

Being presented without context — unlike, say, Roth’s Thanksgiving appetizer in Grindhouse — the fake Clown trailer of 2001 was difficult to peg as a pure put-on. At full-length, however, the intent of director Jon Watts (Cop Car) and co-writer Christopher Ford becomes Glass Plus-clear: scares above snorts. While the movie consistently works as a two-scoop cone of dark humor, its aim to disturb the viewer is primary; that it does so by putting kids in peril demonstrates that commitment, and Watts doesn’t use that lazily, like a short cut. Instead, aided by Powers and Allen’s real performances, he builds upon it, progressing with the aggression as poor Ken inversely descends from Dad jeans-wearing family man to hobo with trash bags duct-taped around his ankles to, ultimately, a face with a rictus carved in such a manner to haunt your dreams. —Rod Lott

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Island of Death is one of those films with both content and characters so despicable and repugnant, we cannot help but assume its creator is anything but the same. In this case, that’s writer/director Nico Mastorakis (The Zero Boys), and here is why …

Christopher (Bob Belling, Cujo) and Celia (Jane Ryall, Land of the Minotaur) sure make a cute couple, don’t they? Vacationing on a gorgeous Greek isle in the pre-Airbnb days, the young Brits just duck into a shop to inquire about places to stay for a night or two, maybe more — hell, they’ve got time to kill!

After witnessing the two wining, dining and, um, other activities utilizing the “-ing” suffix, we wonder when the awful, terrible things will start happening to these tourists. (If you don’t want to know, skip to the next paragraph.) And therein we find the film’s first surprise: Mastorakis subverts the audience’s expectations by having our protagonists actually be the antagonists; in an about-face of the travel-horrors formula, Bob and Celia are the ones who will rape, murder and otherwise terrorize their way through the countryside.

The remainder of its unexpected twists, I’ll leave undisturbed; after all, Mastorakis disturbs plenty. Of all the movies that landed on the UK’s notorious “video nasties” list, this one would be merited if censorship were acceptable. (It is not.) Whereas many pics earned the dreaded label by uncomfortable-sounding title alone — e.g. Axe, Dead & Buried, Visiting Hours — yet in reality are rather tame, Island of Death positively reeks of sickness. In other words, Mastorakis did his job well and, it should be noted, not without some artful touches.

To see this one is to allow it to burrow under your skin and stay put for days. “Entertaining” is an adjective in no danger of being slapped upon the movie; however, I’m glad I watched it … and am certain I never need to again. As Christopher proves early on, it’s sure to get your goat. —Rod Lott

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Once there was a time when hanging out at the roller rink wasn’t just a thing, but the thing. That time was the time of Mortuary, one of the more interesting slashers, to be honest, despite said skating. Mind you, “interesting” does not necessarily equal “better.” I’d say the forgotten film deserves a second look, if only it had been fortunate enough to earn a initial one.

High school good(-ish) girl Christie (Mary Beth McDonough, then freed from a decade of servitude as one of a kajillion siblings on TV’s The Waltons) is still mourning the death of her father, although she does not know his poolside passing was flat-out murder. We do, because we see it happen in the prologue — in slow-mo, no less! Girl’s got her hunches, but she’s too busy skating and seeking solace in the warm embrace of her admirably patient (but understandably blue-balled) boyfriend, Greg (David Wallace, Humongous).

Greg undergoes a tragedy of his own when his best bud, Josh (Denis Mandel, 1990’s Brush with Death), disappears after the two boys witness a cult ritual at the local mortuary: black-robed babes, burning candles, Pieces’ Christopher George — all the makings of a satanic panic! Perhaps those events have something to do with the mysterious cloaked figure stalking Christine, hmmmm?

I’m all for too-old students being menaced by cultists who adhere to dress code, but the one true reason to visit this Mortuary, directed by Scorchy’s Howard Avedis (and not Tobe Hooper, whose 2005 movie of the same name is markedly inferior), has zip to do with all that and 100 percent to do with the magic of Bill Paxton. Then just two years — and yet many miles — away from his Weird Science breakthrough, Paxton steals the show as the pallid Paul, the mortician’s son who spends his after-school hours helping Dad drain bodily fluids from nude corpses (watch for the woman who blinks!) and awkwardly making advances toward Christie, even right in front of Greg! Paul’s idea of flirting is trying to impress her with “the new Mozart” LP he just acquired on vinyl, not to mention happening to pop up in the cemetery during the lovebirds’ walk home. When Christine kindly gives Paul the brush-off, the guy skips away. Skips! Paxton commits, bobbed head and all, as if he’s performing in another movie than his fellow cast members.

If one were to judge Mortuary by ending alone, the argument for “another movie” could be made in concrete. It defies not just the film’s own rules, but those of the natural world, like Avedis and co-writer/wife Marlene Schmidt (They’re Playing with Fire) suddenly decided to shift planes of existence and told no one. Whereas this head-scratcher of an axis spin would kill lesser horror entries — hell, even greater ones — it actually sticks a pin on the pro side.

By then, if not well before, viewers will have forgotten about the plot, about the murder, about Josh’s vanishing act, about Lynda Day George’s bosoms struggling against the silky fabric of her nightgown, and yes, even about Christie, our ostensible Final Girl. Not even her sex scene (in which McDonough was body-doubled) stood a chance against the power of the Pax and the preposterous. The two constitute a formidable team. —Rod Lott

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An unofficial companion to 2015’s Zombieworld, the Dread Central website’s presentation of Monsterland is another horror anthology assembled from pre-existing shorts that fit a broad theme and are held together with the loosest of strings. In this case, a sure-to-expire survivor (Josh LaCasse) takes temporary refuge from an apocalyptic outbreak raging outdoors by ducking into a movie theater and plopping down in a seat. We see what he sees — simple, huh?

With a title that doubles as a summary, “Don’t Go into the Lake” (from The Invoking 2 contributor Corey Norman) offers nudity, blood and gore … and yet neither point nor true conclusion. The best bit of Monsterland immediately follows with Luke and Peter McCoubrey’s “The Grey Matter,” in which an office romance between co-workers (Come Out and Play’s Ebon Moss-Bachrach and Shame’s Lucy Walters) is comically doomed. Although it ODs on cannibal jokes, the piece is superbly acted and edited. Another standout is the wordless “Curiosity Kills,” Sander Maran’s inventive splat-stick comedy that merges the sensibilities of early Peter Jackson and Sam Raimi with Dennis the Menace and Looney Tunes.

The Mangler Reborn’s Erik Gardner examines nocturnal dangers in “Hag,” notable for giving The Exorcist’s Eileen Dietz the title role. Fully animated, but crudely so, “Monster Man” is nice to have in the lineup for the sake of variety, but the work of Frank Sudol (Dead Fury) is mercifully brief and its punch line seems to come courtesy of those joke books you ordered from the Troll Book Club back in grade school. Again, variety, but just because Jack Fields’ “Happy Memories” is the only segment to star puppets doesn’t mean it’s any good. In fact, it’s quite the opposite, no matter how enticing I’m about to make it sound: It’s as if David Cronenberg staged Punch and Judy at your local head shop. Drugs are a helluva drug.

Meanwhile, Graham Denman’s “House Call” holds promise as a lonely dentist (Ruben Pla, Big Ass Spider!) is ordered by gunpoint to remove the bicuspids of a man who thinks he’s becoming a vampire, but the short moves at half the speed it should and, in doing so, gives us more than enough time to anticipate its “twist” ending. Wrong Turn 2’s Matthew Currie Holmes stars as “Stay at Home Dad,” a delightfully twisted look at why men have nipples. As with the wraparound, it is co-directed by Andrew Kasch and John Skipp, who also gifted Tales of Halloween with one of its highlights. Finally, there’s just-like-it-sounds “Hellyfish,” Patrick Longstreth and Robert McLean’s apparent 20-minute bid to land the next Sharknado sequel, the difference being these guys knew when to quit. —Rod Lott

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