Only Neil Jordan’s second feature, 1984’s The Company of Wolves can be viewed as Gothic testing ground for his eventual epic blockbuster in Interview with the Vampire one decade later. For all its here-and-there hiccups, however, I find Wolves to be the far superior film.

Visually sumptuous and rich in detail, Wolves is a remarkable adaptation of Angela Carter’s dark fiction, written with Jordan by Carter herself. Almost all of it takes place within the feverish, fairy-tale dreamworld of young, blossoming Rosaleen (Sarah Patterson, 1987’s Snow White). In a sequence that’s one of the screen’s best-ever representation of nightmares, her older sister dies; to let her parents properly mourn, Rosaleen goes to stay with her grandmother (Angela Lansbury, The Manchurian Candidate), who shares some seriously macabre bedtime stories. Like Alice plummeting down Wonderland’s rabbit hole, the picture keeps drilling into deeper levels as Granny’s tales are depicted.

In one story, a newlywed man (Stephen Rea, The Crying Game) skips consummation in order to answer the call of nature, only to reappear years later. In another, a spiteful witch (Dawn Archibald, Caravaggio) turns a wedding reception turned into a circus of Canis lupus proportions. Eventually, Rosaleen and Granny take part in a twisted update of Little Red Riding Hood.

Horror fantasy at its classiest, The Company of Wolves uses its once-upon-a-time canvas to explore budding sexuality, just as the Brothers Grimm did in their original, unexpurgated tales. The film’s purposeful artificiality, created by production designer Anton Furst (an Oscar winner for 1989’s Batman) is seductive in its own right, drawing the viewer into a surreal existence of the filmmakers’ imagining. The werewolf transformations are superb in their grotesque nature, and when Rosaleen’s real and unreal worlds collide at the end, the effect is chilling. The material works so well, it’s a shame more of Carter’s works weren’t brought to life, especially by Jordan. —Rod Lott

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When Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later … premiered in 2002, nearly everyone reacted to its fast-moving zombies as if the director were the concept’s inventor. Wrong! Others had pulled that trick long before, including Umberto Lenzi (Ghosthouse) in the pasta-puker Nightmare City.

Rendered Superman-strong by a radioactive spill at a nuclear plant, Lenzi’s zombies move quick as ever, travel in packs, have faces that resemble day-old guacamole dip, exhibit a vampiric thirst for blood and, post-feeding, often wipe their mouths on their sleeves. (“Tsk-tsk,” tsks etiquette queen Emily Post from the grave.) Some come armed with guns, but the majority prefers weapons of the stabby variety: knives, machetes, axes and even the occasional scythe — if it cuts, it makes the cut.

Also known by the ho-hum title of City of the Walking Dead, Nightmare City is no great shakes in the plotting department; it’s one attack right after the other. What separates it from so many similar pics of the era is Lenzi’s staging of said attacks in unusual places, starting with an airport-runway bloodbath witnessed by our TV-reporter protagonist (Hugo Stiglitz, Survive!). From there, the undead:
• interrupt a live broadcast of a disco/aerobics show, wherein one spandex-clad dancer undergoes an impromptu mastectomy;
• commit a siege on a hospital, where the reporter’s wife (Laura Trotter, Miami Golem) works as a doctor and one zombie sucks on a bottle of platelets as a baby would to Mom’s nipple; and
• crash an amusement park (Six Flags Over Apocalypse?), where a body drop from atop a coaster track is one of the film’s lowbrow highlights.

As with other entries in the Italian zombie subgenre, gore is the score here. Many a head is blown off, many more throats and/or torsos are slit, but of particularly gruesome note is a female character’s eyeball removal. Only the peeper-meets-splinter scene in Lucio Fulci’s epic Zombie the year prior qualifies as more upsetting. —Rod Lott

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Half a dozen friends are so obsessed with an online game that one of them, not being of sound mind and body, is driven to suicide. (Note: This film predates Farmville.) Two years later, all but the headstrong Chelsea (Amusement‘s Katheryn Winnick, the Canadian Scarlett Johansson) are still into the game — Hellworld, a role-playing version of Clive Barker’s Hellraiser series — and they flip the freak out when they unlock an invitation to a secret, fans-only party. Begrudgingly, Chelsea attends only as the designated driver / voice of reason.

The soirée takes place in a mansion that, according to the host (Lance Henriksen, Aliens), once was a convent and an asylum, although not at the same time. Regardless, for this night, it’s a multilevel monkey house of bacchanalian activities, complete with numbered face masks for anonymous sex — the kind of environment conducive for pickup lines like, “I’d love to see your puzzle box” (uttered by future Man of Steel Henry Cavill) and, naturally, the eventual death and dismemberment of the guests by party-crashing Pinhead (Doug Bradley) and his fellow Cenobites.

The eighth film of the franchise, Hellraiser: Hellworld is the first to present its source material as something that exists outside the bounds of itself, with the young cast portraying ‘Raiser superfans who not only play the game, but wear Pinhead T-shirts and “ooh” and “ahh” over official merchandise. As with 2002’s Halloween: Resurrection, it was only a matter of time that the Hellraiser sequels use that bitchin’ Internet as a springboard, and Hellworld‘s one-by-one kills bear striking influence of the then-ascendant Saw series.

All the Hellraisers in which Barker was not involved take a lot of heat as inferior product, and Hellworld doesn’t exactly help its own cause when Henriksen’s host quips, “Like a bad horror movie, isn’t it?” Such statements invite viewer ire. But separate from the others and taken on its own, Hellworld is an enjoyable slasher, competently directed by Rick Bota, who helmed the previous two sequels as well. Packed into black leather pants, Winnick is a heroine I can get behind — and do — in everything she appears; her skills as an actress keep this afloat and far from sinking into the sludge. —Rod Lott

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With Curse of the Stone Hand, enterprising producer Jerry Warren (The Wild World of Batwoman) whipped up something special for moviegoers: a big, steaming bowl of Chile. That is, he butchered a couple of existing Chilean films from the 1940s and ’50s to create a patchwork horror anthology barely over an hour. Because mere spit won’t bind reels of celluloid, he hired John Carradine for the wraparound footage, but was too lazy to give the veteran actor a name for his character. Why bother when “The Old Drunk” will do?

So The Old Drunk (we’ll call him TOD for short) comes across a man painting a picture of an old, sober mansion before them. TOD tells the artist he used to live there and gives him the grand tour, taking care to point out the eerie sculptures of an open-palmed hand, placed in every room by previous tenants. TOD believes intent behind the statuettes was to bring about a curse, because that’s just what well-to-do families wish to do: purposely fuck up their lives.

Robert Braun sure did. In the first story, based on Robert Louis Stevenson’s “The Suicide Club” stories of 1878, the insolvent man played by Carlos Cores faces eviction if he can’t scrounge up a hunk of dough, pronto, so he takes what little cash his wife has and puts all his hopes in gambling. To paraphrase a flying squirrel, that trick never works, and you can guess how dire the stakes are merely from the source material’s title.

As for the second story, it’s about … well, hell if I know. A brother and a sister is about all I can be certain of; it’s that muddled. Somehow, the tale involves marriage, Batwoman star Katherine Victor, a water well, an off-limits cellar, a series of portraits, a science-class skeleton and much confusion on my part. —Rod Lott

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While I’m thankful Dario Argento was able to complete his long-gestating “Three Mothers” trilogy, the witch-centric films were subject to the law of diminishing returns. They began with 1977’s expert Suspiria, continued with 1980’s decent Inferno and concluded with 2007’s disappointing Mother of Tears. According to this capper, the latter is thought to be the most cruel and chaos-reveling of the three witches, but you wouldn’t know it judging from the screen’s limp results.

In the present day, a coffin and urn from 1815 are unearthed and sent to the Museum of Ancient Art in Rome. There, restoration specialist Sarah Mandy (Dario’s daughter Asia Argento, xXx) finds what’s inside: three butt-ugly statuettes and a “magic red tunic.” All hell literally breaks loose, starting with the slaughter of her co-worker but extended to the Roman citizenry at large, many of whom act like kooks, some of whom commit suicide, and one of whom throws her baby over a bridge.

Meanwhile, a coven of young, female witches arrives via commercial airlines to usher in the second age of their kind. Sarah does everything in her power to stop them — suddenly, she has acquired skills of invisibility and getting tips from her dead mother — and that includes mashing the Asian witch’s head to a pulp by slamming it in a door. Only in such oopy-goopy scenes does Papa Argento’s film seem to exhibit any spark.

Budgetary constraints ground Mother of Tears from the start. A period-piece sequence intended to fill in some witchery backstory is shown only in black-and-white illustrations; it may as well have been PowerPoint. Computerized effects embedded in the live-action scenes are unpolished enough to stick out as pixels, which goes against everything that makes Argento’s classics — and even his not-so-classics — click. His made-for-cable movies of the same era satisfy more than this half-baked work of the big screen, unable to cast any spell beyond that of boredom. —Rod Lott

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