It takes a bit for Jack Weis’ Crypt of Dark Secrets to achieve any sort of lucidity, as the NOLA-lensed, swamp-set “whore-or” indie begins wordlessly, with a witchy woman writhing in nature for a good two minutes before finally levitating up — and up against — a tree trunk. She is Damballa (Maureen Ridley), the rumored mystical “woman who lives in the lake and turns into a snake.” (Local legend ignores or fails to make clear whether she’s immune to splinters in the rear.)

What’s this have to do with anything? Well, cut to Sheriff Harrigan (Wayne Mack, The Savage Bees) discussing Damballa with Charlie the librarian (Donn Davison, Blood Beast of Monster Mountain), who found some of them there facts about her in one of those book thingies: “It’s very interesting. There’s pictures,” says Charlie, who had to go through “damn near every one” of nearly 6,000 volumes to find it, because apparently the Dewey Decimal system had yet to make it to their neck of the woods.

What’s this have to do with anything? Well, Harrigan boats over to Haunted Island, Damballa’s stomping grounds, to meet Ted (Ronald Tanet of Weis’ better-known Mardi Gras Massacre), a Vietnam vet who loudly tells everyone that he keeps his cash literally in a breadbox.

What’s this have to do with anything? Well, three ne’er-do-well rednecks take advantage of this financial tip, despite Damballa’s supposed presence there; says one, “I ain’t afraid of no ghost and no voodoo and no snake lady!” When the gents rob Ted — oh, and kill him in the process — that “snake lady” appears, fully naked and partially oily, to revive our fallen solider. Upon resurrection, he notes, “You’re the girl that lives in the lake. The one who turns into a snake,” as if the first sentence wasn’t specific enough and required a second to narrow the field.

What’s this have to do with anything? Yeah, damn good question, because it’s ol’ Damballa who does so much of the revengin’. And it’s a hoot to see her do that, because when she does, her eyes crudely go all-white, as if Weis cut them out frame by frame with an X-Acto knife — which he probably did, assuming the budget could afford one. The man is no director — nor writer nor producer — yet against all odds, Crypt is exceedingly well-photographed (if you can ignore that everyone appears in a shade of Oompa-Loompa orange). How it can look so good when the movie falls short in every other area — especially acting, since the leads speak … as if they … memorized their … lines only a … few words at a … time — is its only true Dark Secret. —Rod Lott

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Having paid homage to old-school slashers with the Hatchet trilogy, writer/director Adam Green tries a far more contemporary style of horror on for size: the mockumentary.

Playing himself to an assumedly exaggerated degree — one not far from the character he plays on his Holliston cable-television series, which is to say they reside on the same map point — Green documents his dealings with William Dekker (Ray Wise, TV’s Twin Peaks), who not only claims monsters exist, but that he can deliver undeniable proof. Amusement grows to amazement as Green — accompanying Dekker on nocturnal trips to Rocky Pointe Natural Park — begins to believe the truth is out there … right in front of his smirking face.

Remarkably, Digging Up the Marrow is what the Hatchets were not: scary. Genuinely freak-me-out scary. (Making this all the more rare: how purposely humorous much of the film is.) The monsters may be fleeting, but the appearances they make are frighteningly memorable. That may not be the case if someone else had designed them other than Alex Pardee. His work was foreign to me before this film, but the supremely gifted artist must be known well enough in some circles to merit equal billing with Green atop the poster. The placement is deserved.

From years of observation and study, Dekker has catalogued the creatures extensively, giving them names (like Vance) and knowing their quirks (“They like pancakes”). Sharing these tidbits deadpan is where Wise’s casting proves pitch-perfect. Without someone that solid an actor, who can straddle the beam of crazed yet likable, Digging Up the Marrow would be a pointless endeavor. Luckily, like Green’s 2010 thriller, Frozen, it shows his talents extend far beyond depicting ultrarealistic gushes of blood. —Rod Lott

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Despite its incredible simplicity, Unfriended is a tough film to review. Its characters are utterly vapid, hateful, spoiled, self-centered, despicable young people. But isn’t that its point?

The entirety of its story unfolds on the Mac laptop screen of high schooler Blaire (Shelley Hennig, Ouija), beginning with a conversation between her and her boyfriend, Mitch (Moses Jacob Storm), via webcam. (Were this section extended to feature-length, I’d be tempted to call it The Blaire Mitch Project.) Soon, they’re joined by three or four friends of varying superficiality, and the longest group Skype in cinema history begins. May its record never be shattered.

With Facebook, Gmail, Spotify, iMessage and Chatroulette serving as subplots, Unfriended keeps Blaire’s trackpad finger busy when an anonymous, unwanted icon gloms on to their call. Never heard, the presumed hacker claims to be Laura Barns (Heather Sossaman, 10.0 Earthquake), which would be NBD except the girl died the year before. In fact, she committed suicide on school grounds after a video of her drunk to the point of soiling herself earned her instant YouTube infamy … and a barrage of cyberbullying.

Now Laura wants revenge on those responsible. #andthentherewerenone

How could a dead student possibly wreak online havoc? Simple: Unfriended comes from Jason Blum, producer of Paranormal Activity, Insidious, Sinister and other evil-spirit horror movies more enjoyable than this one. It is not without welcome bursts of humor, mostly in its ironic song choices, but if watching entitled assholes bicker before an icon-strewn desktop for about 80 minutes sounds like fun, do log on.

But if watching entitled assholes bicker before an icon-strewn desktop for about 80 minutes sounds like torture … well, give Unfriended a shot anyway, because it seems to make a subversive statement about social media technically making us anti-social by bringing out the worst in us. It is a shame that members of its core audience may be too shallow to grasp its stance or in denial.

Directed by USSR-born Levan Gabriadze and originally intended as an MTV premiere, Unfriended is not scary in the slightest, but at least it’s different … until the microbudgeted copycats flood the torrent sites, that is. —Rod Lott

[REC] 4 is on a boat! It’s the veteran captain’s last voyage before retirement. A big storm is brewing. Radio communication is out. There also is a zombie-virus-infected monkey onboard. What could possibly go wrong?

All of it, including the movie itself. [REC] 4: Apocalypse arrives as such a letdown, I’ve rechristened it [REC]tum.

For the Spanish horror series’ reportedly final installment, Jaume Balagueró returns to the director’s chair after sitting out [REC] 3: Genesis. This one combines story threads from that 2012 prequel, as well as the earlier chapters, and aims to tie them up once and for all. Primary among them is Chiclet-toothed broadcast news reporter Ángela (Manuela Velasco, reprising her role from the 2007 original and 2009 sequel), now rescued from the apartment building and quarantined on an oil tanker to ensure total isolation.

Also on the ship is a laboratory, where scientists are working on a retrovirus. To do so requires they have the virus, however, which accounts for the aforementioned monkey. Don’t worry, because they have that little beast locked down in restraints and … well, you know how those things go.

But [REC] 4’s first problem is that it takes a full half-hour to go anywhere beyond one small circle. Balagueró takes too much time introducing crew members, nearly all of whom cry expendable at first glance. Doing so causes something from which none of the previous chapters suffered: serious lag. “¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!,” you’ll want to scream.

Once the undead finally start to spread, something about the proceedings feel like a third-rate copycat than a third official sequel. Typically, tight quarters raise stakes in a horror film; here, Balagueró exerts no attempt toward spatial orientation, which could account for what little action exists playing out halfheartedly, save for one over-the-top bit involving an outboard motor. It is not nearly enough.

Apocalypse, no. —Rod Lott

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Maybe I’ve got a thing for 100-year-old widows, because the 59-minute wonder known as The Naked Witch did it for me. This, despite an overnarrated, history lesson disguised as a nine-minute prologue — a slideshow of encyclopedia illustration after encyclopedia illustration that is less about educating audiences on witchcraft through the ages and more about the filmmakers trying valiantly to push the running time over the one-hour mark and into feature-length. They did not.

No matter. Deep in “the hill country of Central Texas,” a college student (Robert Short, wooden as a 1914 set of Tinkertoys) researching his thesis is on his way to “a singing festival” when the gas gauge on his sports car points to “E.” He’s forced to hoof it to the closest “thoroughly German village,” where he learns the legend of the Luckenbach Witch. Ever the nosy tourist, he ventures to the cemetery in the dead of (day-for-)night to locate the reputed sorcerer’s grave.

Succeeding, he selfishly removes the petrified stake from her mummified corpse, thus bringing her back to life and in the shapely form of a beautiful young woman (Libby Hall, Common Law Wife) with pert breasts. We know this because, as the title has it, she’s starkers. Acquiring a see-through nightie, the heretofore nude enchantress embarks on a plot of murderous revenge on the ancestors of those who treated her so ill many moons ago.

All of this is done to a baseball-game organ score and no recorded sound. With Mars Needs Women’s notorious Larry Buchanan at the helm, would you expect anything less? (Oh, you would? Good, because you’ll get that, too.) It’s really saying something to call The Naked Witch as among Buchanan’s cheapest of concoctions, yet its once-risqué charm, embodiment of minimalism and absolutely bonkers concept combine for a thoroughly memorable exploitation experience. —Rod Lott

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