If you think watching people play Dungeons & Dragons is boring, Knight Chills would like to have a word with you. Now, you’re correct and the shot-on-video movie is dead wrong, but Knight Chills wants a word nonetheless. It’s either not listening or doesn’t care an iota. You’re going to see some serious, no-move-spared RPGing, dammit.

Once a week, a handful of students meet for D&Ding in the basement of a teacher (Tim Jeffrey) who doubles as dungeon master: “The scent of nutmeg is overwhelming.” John (Michael Rene Walton, Superfights) is one of the regulars, despite being openly ridiculed and bullied by the others. John’s dogged attendance might have something to do with fellow gamer Brooke (Laura Tidwell) looking like a layaway-plan Jessica Chastain.

After Brooke soundly rejects John’s date offer in front of the others, he dons the full regalia — from armor to sword — of his gaming character, Sir Kallio, and embarks on a killing spree of vengeance. Even with “Sir Kallio” being a name one shouldn’t speak in the presence of others, Knight Chills’ premise is terrific for a slasher movie, yet near-instantly squandered by first-/last-time director Katherine Hicks.

Although each kill is different, milady, that variety across homicides isn’t enough to offset the mind-numbing scenes of seemingly eternal game play. The scent of something is overwhelming, all right, but it sure ain’t nutmeg. Zero hit points. —Rod Lott

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A somewhat forgotten folk horror film from Australia, Alison’s Birthday begins with the titular character (Joanne Samuel) playing with a makeshift Ouija board with her friends at age 16. One of the girls, Chrissie (Margie McCrae), becomes possessed by a spirt claiming to be Alison’s father, who warns his daughter not to go home on her 19th birthday, insinuating that something horrible will happen. Moments later, a strong gust of wind invades the room and tips over a bookcase, crushing poor Chrissie to death. It’s as exciting and audacious opening to a film as you’re likely to find.

Things slow down a bit as we jump ahead about three years. Alison’s 19th birthday is a few days away, and she’s been summoned to the home of her Aunt Jennifer and Uncle Dean (Bunney Brooke and John Bluthal, respectively). Seems old Dean’s health is failing, and all he wants is one last family birthday celebration with Alison, who hasn’t been back to her childhood abode in quite some time. Despite her reservations (remember that deathly warning she got at 16?), Alison agrees, and convinces her boyfriend, Pete (Lou Brown), to accompany her.

From the outset, it’s pretty clear everything isn’t kosher with Alison’s surrogate parents. For one thing, a mysterious structure in their back garden resembles a miniature Stonehenge. For another, occupying the room across the hall is a spooky old woman who wears a strange amulet around her neck and likes to watch the teenager sleep. She’s explained away as Alison’s great-grandmother, but Alison remembers no mention of the woman all throughout her upbringing.

If you’ve seen a lot of horror movies, you probably have a decent idea where this plot is going, and by and large, it does, though it does so through the POV of Pete, who becomes a final boy of sorts as he investigates the creepy goings-on while Alison gets sidelined to her bed, having been drugged and hypnotized by the now obviously villainous Jennifer and Dean and their physician cohort (Vincent Ball).

Without giving too much away, the ending to Alison’s Birthday is just as audacious as its beginning, and well worth the wait. The film overall is a solid watch, an engaging, if somewhat flawed, entry into the folk horror canon that remains criminally underseen and underappreciated. —Christopher Shultz

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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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