Billing itself as “Nuttier than a Squirrel Fart,” Hillbilly Horror Show makes one long for the subtlety of Elvira. The mixed-mailbag showcase of horror shorts takes a comedic approach to its very brief host segments, although the four featured films are serious on the whole. The Hillbilly clan’s Hee Haw sensibility hardly meshes well with the contents it purports to champion.

Doing those duties from the innards of a mobile home are trailer-trash bumpkin Bo (Bo Keister, The Taking of Deborah Logan); his mumbling cousin, Cephus (Scott Geiter, Midnight Matinee Psycho); and Bo’s “kissing” cousin, Lulu (Maxim model Rachel Faulkner). In a stereotypical thick-hick accent, Bo does most of the talking: “You know whut that means? We gettin’ piss-ant drunk and watchin’ movies!”

Four “movies” play, with Lulu sporting skimpier clothing — star-spangled bikini included — between each one. First up is Franky and the Ant; not only is it questionable to qualify it as horror, but the story struck me as pointless and, worse, its two hit men annoyingly speak as Quentin Tarantino rip-offs. Next is the wordless Doppleganger, a fine, stop-motion animation with two skeletons. Although wonderfully executed visually, it also leaves the viewer wanting in all other departments.

Almost free of dialogue, Amused is another inconsequential bit, this one of a woman fleeing a zombie in a snow-covered rural area. Finally, there’s The Nest, the lengthiest segment of all. Its primary special effect — of killer bees stripping their victims to the bone — is excellent, but wears out its welcome, much like Hillbilly Horror Show itself. —Rod Lott

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Wracked with guilt and grief over the “fast driving” that caused the death of his wife, businessman Fred Saunders (Barry Coe, Jaws 2) believes his beloved Laura (Jo Morrow, 13 Ghosts) will return to him from her tomb. Eager to speed that process along, he resorts to visiting a séance and a secret society, both of which are revealed to be a sham. Fred’s chances of a spousal reunion seem slim until he meets … Doctor Death: Seeker of Souls!

An amateur magician with G.I. Joe hair, Doctor Death (John Considine, The Thirsty Dead) possesses the power to transfer the soul of a freshly departed body into a corpse, thereby reviving the latter. This trick he demonstrates to a small audience (with elderly former Stooge Moe Howard seated in the front row) by sawing a suicidal woman with hideous facial burns in half: “As she requested, she must — as we call it — ‘die.’ And so we shall gladly fulfill her request, and in so doing, why not be entertaining at the same time?” Ergo, the girl is split in two, and her life force stuck into a busty blonde (Sivi Aberg, The Teacher) who will come to wear flimsy nighties to meet the doc’s desires. Sold!

Fred agrees to pay the $50,000 cash fee in advance. But no matter how many women Doctor Death kills and orders, “I command you! Enter that body!,” he is unsuccessful at fulfilling his end of the deal. Fred, meanwhile, starts dating his pretty secretary (Cheryl Miller, TV’s Daktari), so you know how the lines of that triangle will intersect.

The only film directed by career A.D. Eddie Saeta, Doctor Death is yet another variation on Georges Franju’s Eyes Without a Face, but without any airs of artistry or metaphors; in garish colors, he pumps up the exploitable elements for all they’re worth. The movie is, I think, rife with self-awareness; Considine’s gleeful performance is simply too chewy for this not to be the case, and raises Seeker of Souls above a made-for-TV look to tongue-in-cheek enjoyability. —Rod Lott

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With Day of the Mummy, it’s tough to tell who had it easier: William McNamara (Chasers), since his role is largely offscreen and spoken? Or Danny Glover (Saw), who literally sits behind a desk for the entirety? No matter your answer, the loser is clear: We.

That’s because the movie is as wretched as the Day is long. And damn, does this ever feel like director Johnny Tabor (Eaters) took the time of the title to heart. His horror flick is so lazy that its opening credits present a pair of (no-)names in a typeface that has defaulted from the fancy one everyone else gets. If they didn’t bother, why should we?

McNamara’s Dr. Wells seeks a big ol’ diamond from an Egyptian king’s tomb, rumored to be cursed and of course it is. To get his hands on the goods, he joins a team of archaeologists — who look like they’d be on such an adventure only if MTV crafted a reality show around such a concept — and together, they penetrate the tomb. I hate to spoil it, but with just a few minutes left in the movie, our asshole archaeologists find a CGI mummy.

Because Wells’ eyeglasses have a built-in camera, we see what he sees. Given that much of Day of the Mummy takes place within narrow cave paths in the dark, the POV gives viewers the feel of watching — but not playing — a first-person shooter. In the corner of the screen, Glover’s character sits and watches and guides and comments and occasionally gets flustered. (For proof of the latter, check out the eight-second clip below from the final scene, which I shot with my iPhone. Doesn’t it seem like he’s having a stroke while pitching a fit?)

If you’ve seen the trailer, you’ve seen the movie; I wish I had not progressed past that first step. —Rod Lott

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Directed by the fallen-from-grace Tobe Hooper, who did the killer-croc thing before in 1997’s Eaten Alive, Crocodile kicks temporary-escapist ass for one simple reason: It does not skimp on the bloody croc attacks. So many animal-attack films seem to miss this point entirely, resulting in utter disappointment, but Hooper gives nearly 10 violent on-screen deaths! Yes!

The rote story puts several drunken frat types and their so-hos on a houseboat during spring break. The lake they visit should have a sign posted reading, “DO NOT FUCK WITH CROCODILE EGGS,” because once these immature bozos do, it’s feedin’ time! And that’s what Hooper does right. What he does wrong is put a poodle named Princess in jeopardy at least three times, yet ultimately lets her live. (I’m also curious why he let the croc vomit up the annoying punk kid at the end, but that’s beside the point.)

Members of the cast are unremarkable and unmemorable — they’re just croc food, after all — with the possible exception of Caitlin Martin (When Billie Beat Bobby), playing the kindhearted Girl Next Door who charms the screen with her crooked-eye-and-bit-lip routine. She did not return for 2002’s expected sequel, Crocodile 2: Death Swamp, but neither did Hooper. —Rod Lott

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Part of what made Nicholas McCarthy’s The Pact so effective was its twist — one not of plot, but overall structure. Without spoiling its secret, the 2012 indie chiller cleverly led viewers to believe it belonged to one horror subgenre, only to reveal itself as another. Without spoiling the sequel, either, it is disappointing to see The Pact II undo that trick. It’s tough to tell for certain, but if it hasn’t fully embraced its predecessor’s initial path, it has blurred the line.

Although Caity Lotz (The Canary of TV’s Arrow) returns for what amounts to an extended cameo, the central character this time around is June (Camilla Luddington, TV’s True Blood), a crime-scene cleaner by day and aspiring graphic novelist by night. One of her freelance scrub-downs of gray matter is, believes no-nonsense FBI Agent Ballard (Patrick Fischler, 2 Guns), the work of a serial killer. To say more would ruin everything I warned against in the previous paragraph.

I can say that co-directors Dallas Richard Hallam and Patrick Horvath (Entrance) do their best to stay true to the tone established by McCarthy in the original Pact — and carried through to his similarly eerie follow-up, 2014’s At the Devil’s Door — but their screenplay ultimately keeps this reverent-in-intention sequel from being nearly as good. Luddington and Fischler deliver big nonetheless. While the film is spooky in places, The Pact II cannot replicate its big brother’s feat of eliciting real scares. At least it tried. —Rod Lott

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