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

Get it at Amazon.

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

Get it at Amazon.

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

Get it at Amazon.

One week after prom, the school year is over and three girlfriends decide to celebrate with a slumber party … The Last Slumber Party, if the scrubs-wearing maniac with surgical scalpel and frontal lobotomy has anything to say about it. (He so does.)

Despite strict parents who oppose boys and booze, Izod-clad good girl Linda (Joann Whitley) hosts the party for her two bitchy, sexually active friends who don’t seem all that friendly toward her: Tracy (Nancy Meyer) and Chris (Jan Jensen). You can tell these two apart because Tracy is blonde, while Chris is the redhead consistently grinding out the gay slurs — “faggot,” “homos” and “queerbait” being among her go-tos. In the less-PC 1980s, that kind of talk was standard vocab among young people, delivered without dripping in prejudice marinade; I believe this was the case here, too, since the shot-on-video movie is boneheaded in so many other departments as well.

Even lines lacking dirty talk remain crouched in dumbness, from “I’m going to the kitchen to munch out” and the twice-spoken “Let’s go rustle up some men folk” to the coup de grâce worth the price of admission, when Chris whines to someone on the other end of the phone line, “Who’d the hell you think it was, Shelley Hack?” That’s my pick for the most unquotable quotable line in a Z-grade movie, and trust me: Reading it is not the same thing as experiencing it. And this movie is an experience — granted, an experience for which most haven’t the fortitude, but that’s their problem.

Shot in the Louisiana suburbs by writer/director Stephen Tyler (who also plays the mute maniac and is not to be confused with Aerosmith walking corpse Steven Tyler), this 99 Cents Only Stores version of The Slumber Party Massacre feels less like a slasher movie and more like a loosely strung-together collection of its characters climbing in and out of the window of Linda’s room (notable for its Sesame Street poster) and/or walking up and down the stairs. The many scenes shot in that garishly wallpapered stairwell and adjoining hallway are so underlit and overgrained, you’d expect Andy Milligan to earn a credit as guest director. Tyler sure shares and exercises Milligan’s grasp on tension, which is to say one slathered in Astroglide. Fittingly, the monotonous score sounds as if Tyler’s cat walked across a synth and managed to hit “record.”

Actually, the whole of The Last Slumber Party reeks of that, down to its sudden, nonsensical ending. And more power to it. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Six crazed murderers enter a popular Halloween-night haunt. Next to no one exits. And that, ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages, is what we call The Funhouse Massacre.

Led by the charismatic cult leader Uncle Manny (Jere Burns, Otis) and his dead-sexy paramour, the Harley Quinn-styled Dollface (model Candice De Visser, making a memorable and assured screen debut), this very dirty half-dozen of Statesville Mental Hospital escapees is drawn to the bloody attraction because its various themed rooms depict the devious crimes that got them committed in the first place.

For example, Animal the Cannibal (E.E. Bell, Herbie Fully Loaded) is a chef who cooks with human ingredients; Dr. Suave (Sebastian Siegel, Risk for Honor) specializes in dentistry that flies in the face of the Hippocratic oath; the Taxidermist (Clint Howard, because duh) is “sew” good with skin, but we’re not talking animals; and Rocco the Clown (Mars Crain, Hancock) has a penchant for … well, as the old saying goes, if you can’t put a smile on their face, tear off the face.

Because the haunt is inspired by the loons’ infamous handiwork, they fit right in. A running joke of the film by Andy Palmer (Alien Strain) is that the crowds think them to be part of the plan. (Okay, so it’s not a good running joke.) It’s only after grisly slayings occur among their group that visitors take notice, that amusement is usurped by bemusement.

Funhouse’s flavoring? The 1980s — very, very ’80s. If you’re not going to be original, there are worse things from which to take inspiration. In his first feature as a screenwriter, The Hungover Games actor Ben Begley (who also fills the comic-relief role of the genre’s requisite bumbling deputy) clearly displays a soft spot for that era’s horror icons à la Freddy Krueger — not for nothing does Robert Englund cameo in the prologue — and in particular their more humor-driven misadventures, where the metaphorical stakes mattered little compared to the physical stakes … or any implement that was sharp, serrated and/or pointed. The balance between this Massacre’s light tone and heavy bloodletting works pretty well. Its effervescence just runs out of bubbles before Palmer and pals officially are done. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.