Adapted from an 1841 novella by Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy, The Vourdalak marks the directorial debut of Adrien Beau. The Gothic vampire tale set in 18th-century Eastern Europe centers on a wayward Marquis (Kacey Mottet Klein) who finds himself at the mercy of a strange family living in a rural manor.

The old patriarch Gorcha has disappeared, leaving his kin to fight a band of Turks plaguing the area. He told his children, the effeminate Piotr and mysterious Sdenka (Vassili Schneider and Ariane Labed, respectively), that if he is gone longer than six days, but returns, he should not be let back into the house, as he will have transformed into a dreaded vourdalak. Gorcha’s eldest son, Jegor (Grégoire Colin), dismisses such concerns as mere superstitions, but Piotr, Sdenka and Jegor’s wife (Claire Duburcq) aren’t so certain. The Marquis isn’t sure what to think, and he is distracted by his sudden and insatiable attraction to Sdenka.

Gorcha returns just after the hour marking his sixth day gone, and he is very obviously no longer human. So much so, the character isn’t portrayed by a human at all, but rather a ghoulish puppet voiced by director Beau. Everyone can plainly see Gorcha is a vourdalak, except for Jegor, whose patriarchal stubbornness keeps him from seeing the truth the women and sensitive Piotr plainly see. He brings his father inside, and naturally, mayhem follows.

But this is mayhem of a more quiet sort, as the film is indebted to the atmospheric European horror films of the 1960s and 1970s. It also was shot on Super 16mm, giving its images sumptuous grains and ever-so-slightly faded colors, furthering its connection to cinema of old. The Vourdalak is quietly and grotesquely funny, especially in scenes involving Gorcha, whose blatant inhumanity is both perverse within the universe of the film and a practical effects marvel. It’s overall a stellar debut for Beau, one that feels more like the work of an old master than a relative newcomer, and a gloriously oddball entry into the vampire canon. —Christopher Shultz

Tastes of Horror is the Korean equivalent to Tales from the Darkside: The Movie, in that the anthology film is a feature version of an existing series. The difference here is that Tastes’ half-dozen stories aren’t new, but adapted from the animated show.

Absent of a wraparound, the segments bump against one another with merely a title card to separate them. In a TikToky take on “The Monkey’s Paw,” aspiring K-poppers encounter a witch’s dance video that, when performed, makes your wish come true. Fresh from winning a casino jackpot, a man is stranded at a strange hotel. Stuck in a purgatorial room, a woman must complete rehab within a specified time to escape.

A girl’s med-school dreams are in danger of being dashed until she learns a sacrifice will earn her good grades. Apartment tenants are warned not to use the building’s gym after hours, but they do, invoking a figure with requisite long, dark hair covering her face. Finally, two mukbang YouTubers face off in a stomach-stuffing eating contest, consuming nauseating piles of donuts, fried chicken, sushi and more.

If these six segments represent the best of Tastes of Horror’s run, I’d hate to see the remainders. All but one put forth an interesting premise, yet sluggish pacing in each fritters that away; the effect is like watching your frugal relative open her gifts verrry carefully so she can save the wrapping paper.

At least visually, the tales feel of a piece, rather than their true origins of coming from five directors. On the other hand, that means Tastes’ “house style” is bland — competent, but bland nonetheless . A few bright spots alight throughout, from clever setups in the gym to a Ringu-inspired nightmare and a sequence of rats raining from the ceiling, yet none enough to push the omnibus into a recommendation. —Rod Lott

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Operating somewhere between science and superstition, a shaman and her protégé (Kim Go-eun and Lee Do-hyun, respectively) acquire the case of a wealthy client (Hong Seo-jun) whose newborn son won’t stop crying. As the shaman determines, the baby and father are part of a lineage in which all firstborns are haunted, thanks to an ancestor having a tantrum.

With assistance from a mortician (Yoo Hai-jin) and an aging, vaping geomancer (Oldboy himself, Choi Min-sik), the solution exists in an exhumation ceremony. Or so they think. 

Told in chapters like a thick, chewy novel, Exhuma is a slow burn of high order, almost to the level of The Wailing. The way writer and director Jang Jae-hyun gets into the story is intoxicating, giving his audience a good 15 minutes to determine on our own whether the principal characters are believers or scammers.  

Following up his first two films, the acclaimed Svaha: The Sixth Finger and The Priests, writer/director Jang Jae-hyun completes an unofficial trilogy of religious-based horror. Rather than merely use the themes as a crutch or entry point, Exhuma positively drips in adherence to rituals, as well as man’s ability to set aside skepticism in times of desperation.

While the movie maintains an ominous vibe for more than two hours’ time, breaking tension only for masterfully constructed scares, its best scene is when our protagonists set out to ease the restless spirit in the excavation rite. We see it in full, step by step, including fire, knives, drums, dance and five impaled pig carcasses — all carefully choreographed in such a massive production it could take Broadway by storm. We accept it because the actors sell that their characters do; their incredible and realistic chemistry goes a long way, too.

Even if my knowledge of Korean culture isn’t up to the level the movie assumes, it doesn’t matter. I also can’t deny the mastery at work. With a few surprises up its sleeve — or in the ground and within mirrored surfaces — this is horror on an epic scale. Resist the urge to pause and rewind to confirm what you think you just saw. At least give yourself over to one full viewing first, the way it’s intended. —Rod Lott

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While watching any of the 10 Friday the 13th sequels, have you ever wondered how Jason Voorhees conveniently winds up at exactly the right place to impale a promiscuous camper? Chris Nash’s deconstructionist slasher, In a Violent Nature, provides an undeniably poignant answer: He just walks.

Well, he walks after a random camper nabs a necklace that kept the monster buried beneath a charred sawmill. The plot is intentionally bare bones: The killer wanders into town, then finds an iconic mask and weapon before brutally dismembering folks with blood-chilling creativity.

The film rebukes most of the genre’s typical quick cuts and relentless jump scares. Instead, it favors a slow, methodical and over-the-shoulder approach that follows a reanimated serial killer as he slaughters foul-mouthed farmers, angsty campers and a lawman with a narratively convenient legacy. It’d be easy to compare the shifted focus to Scott Glosserman’s Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon, though even that mockumentary falls headfirst into the conventions it tries to critique.

That’s not to suggest In a Violent Nature doesn’t lean on tropes, but it at least juggles and harnesses them in a unique and mostly satisfying way. Its contemplative pace and unflinching cinematography don’t beg questions, but evoke a feeling like David and Nathan Zellner’s Sasquatch Sunset. The film only wanes when it gives into slasher norms — specifically breaking away from the killer’s perspective — in what is presumably an attempt to break up the monotony. And though the frequent, slower sequences sometimes border meandering, they also allow the film’s bloated zombie to float above a swamp of nameless, uninspired killers.

In dissecting slashers, however, the flick also must lean into them. This means campy dialogue runs rampant. At times, it works to cast historically poor lighting in a different light, sort of like the ineffable chirps of some finches before they’re snagged by a bird-eating spider. A particularly egregious campfire scene almost squanders this effect, as the film spends a bit too long removed from its subject for the sake of dumping some ultimately unnecessary exposition. It’s as though Nash didn’t trust his premise, fearing it would veer into Skinamarink territory and bore the audience. While he might be right, leaning into the gory nature doc vibe a bit more could’ve help the film garner a little more permeance.

Some small stumbles aside, In a Violent Nature still manages to carve a path that should intrigue even those less inclined to slashers. Its clinical approach to kills paired with a genuinely haunting ending makes it a clear frontrunner (or maybe “frontwalker”) for the best horror film of 2024. —Daniel Bokemper

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Hell is other people. That, you knew. But in the case of Pandemonium, an artful French anthology, the saying is literal, as a newcomer to the underworld gets to see the origin stories of the corpses strewn about him.

That person is Nathan (Hugo Dillon, The Sisters Brothers), entering hell through a portal appearing on the snowy highway after he’s involved in a car crash that claims three lives in total. Upon arrival, it looks like he’s stepped into the barren wasteland at the finale of Lucio Fulci’s The Beyond. 

Furthering examining and exorcising themes he explored in 2018’s All the Gods in the Sky, writer/director Quarxx — just Quarxx, merci beaucoup — shows us how two others arrived there. First, a little girl (Manon Maindivide) who wakes to find her parents murdered, presumably at the hands of a deformed man (Meander’s Carl Laforêt, acting behind a triumph of makeup) residing in the cellar.

In another scenario, a single mother (Ophélia Kolb, Gainsbourg: A Heroic Life) goes to extremes in denying that her bullied daughter (Sidwell Weber, 2014’s Among the Living) has committed suicide. Finally, it’s Nathan’s turn. Then, unlike the others, we get to witness punishment meted. And, with Quarxx as a card-carrying member of the New French Extremity, it ain’t pretty.

Story to story, the acting is superb. As a child, Maindivide deserves special mention for turning in a performance somehow in line with the segment’s dark comedic overtones. Throughout, whether the vibe is philosophical or unspeakable, the visuals startle. As Pandemonium descends further and further, building to a depraved ending Clive Barker would admire, Quarxx’s imagination grows. Pretentious moniker notwithstanding, he’s one to watch. —Rod Lott

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