As the seventh in the utterly splendid, 14-film series that paired Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, 1944’s The Spider Woman is one of the most purely entertaining. It’s also as close as the franchise got to adapting Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Speckled Band” story — a perennial favorite.

In a lively opening montage, London is abuzz about the rash of “Pyjama Suicides,” so named because people have suddenly killed themselves in the middle of the night, with neither rhyme no reason. But as Holmes notes, suicides are apt to leave notes, which these unfortunate souls didn’t; therefore, he suspects murder, my dear Watson, murder.

He’s right, of course, especially since the victims were catching Zs behind locked doors. Before the midpoint of the film, both Holmes and the viewer already know the culprit — the titular female, Miss Adria Spedding (Gale Sondergaard, The Mark of Zorro) — but not her methods. One can surmise from the title that spiders may be involved, and they are, but there’s more to it than that.

With arachnids, Holmes’ presumed death, a creepy mute boy and a nerve-wracking finale at a carnival shooting gallery that presages Saw‘s devilish traps, The Spider Woman throws lots at the wall, and nearly all of it sticks. It helps the running time is 63 minutes, period, but a greater emphasis on comedy keeps proceedings from even nearing the realm of dull, as well. —Rod Lott

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You know that segment of the German population that refuses to acknowledge the existence of the Holocaust? Perhaps they should focus such futile energies on the Krauts’ kraptastic Midnight Cop instead.

It’s a dull, dreary, thrill-free thriller starring Armin Mueller-Stahl (The Game) as Alex Glass, a sloppy and depressed jazz-loving, turtle-owning, pickle-eating police commissioner out to bust a serial killer who slathers Vaseline on the faces of the young women he’s killed.

Weaving in and out of the supposed mystery are Frank Stallone, Sly’s brother, as Jack, a drug-pushing heavy who wears a towel far higher on his waist than any man should; Michael York (Logan’s Run) as Armin’s close pal Karstens, whom York has chosen to play in “sleep” mode; a late-night cafe owner with some kind of funky bloody nub on his shaved head; and Morgan Fairchild (whom I’m slept with) as Lisa, a high-class hooker who falls in love with Glass and sports one incredible behind.

Trust me: Armin’s hands are all over it in several scenes, and I do not blame him; she’s a gorgeous woman.

You’ll have the plot figured out before what little actually happens happens. Mueller-Stahl is typically a fine actor, but you wouldn’t know it with this half-assed German production. You haven’t seen a Terrible Acting Showdown until you witness Stallone and Fairchild go airhead-to-airhead. And the ending is jaw-droppingly terrible on so many levels that I’d almost recommend watching the movie just to see it. Easy there, horsey, I said “almost.” —Rod Lott

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Edgar Allan Poe, father of the detective story, plays detective in The Raven, neither based on the iconic poem nor a remake of the 1963 Roger Corman adaptation. Instead, the box-office bomb from V for Vendetta director James McTeigue draws on a handful of the master of horror’s work to weave a “what if?” tale depicting his final days.

In 1849 Baltimore, a double homicide is discovered bearing uncanny similarities to the locked-room puzzle of Poe’s “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” At first, Poe himself (John Cusack) is suspected — then another deadly crime occurs, this one to the razor-sharp tune of “The Pit and the Pendulum.” With Poe helping lead detective (Luke Evans, Immortals) to crack the clues, the case gets awfully personal when Poe’s beloved (Alice Eve, She’s Out of My League) is kidnapped by the killer.

For Poe fans especially (provided they aren’t purists so picky about many liberties taken), the premise is irresistible, also incorporating elements of “The Masque of the Red Death,” “The Premature Burial,” “The Cask of Amontillado” and “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Cusack portrays Poe as a man whose raging ego is matched only by his alcoholism — a bit over-the-top, but more lively than the expected timid take.

The Raven‘s overall effectiveness is clouded by an elongated second act, but production design and costuming are all appropriately Gothic and, therefore, tops. McTeigue appears to have recycled all the obviously CGI blood directly from his equally misunderstood Ninja Assassin. —Rod Lott

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My dad always told me that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. What he failed to mention is that a rapist may be hanging out somewhere around the middle. That’s the case for the pink-skirted schoolgirls who, while on their way home, take a shortcut In the Devil’s Garden.

A young Lesley-Anne Down (The Great Train Robbery) is the first girl to be attacked; she survives, but is rendered virtually catatonic from the shock. After a second girl goes missing, hot art teacher Julie West (Suzy Kendall, Torso) goes hunting for her student. Julie finds the girl — dead, unfortunately, but also gets a glimpse of the likely killer, who she testifies looks “exactly like the devil.”

Well, except he had no horns. Admittedly, that’s a pretty stupid thing to say in such a public forum. Way to go, Teach.

Ms. West makes up for it by hatching a plan to draw out the killer. It involves convincing a journalist to run her drawings of Satan on his newspaper’s front page. Don’t question it — just know it’s crazy. In fact, we’re told, “It’s so crazy, it might work.” Really!

Alternately known under many titles that include Assault, Tower of Terror and Satan’s Playthings, the movie sprouts a big, brassy score that grows so loud, it suggests “THRILLS!” in places where there aren’t any. That’s not to say the film is bad — just very, very British, in that it exudes a different sensibility than an American film would. In our hands, it’d be a pulse-pounding thriller; in those of director Sidney Havers (Circus of Horrors), it’s more a standard, mild-mannered whodunit, painted with just a streak of the perverse. Casting someone as lovely and lively as Kendall makes following the trail more pleasurable than otherwise. —Rod Lott

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Samuel Fuller’s Shock Corridor is an unconventional mystery unlike any other, and not just because it opens with a quote from that ancient playwright Euripides. Newspaper reporter Johnny Barrett (Peter Breck, The Crawling Hand) narrates the whacked-out, envelope-pushing drama, about his feigning a sexual fetish to enter mental hospital to solve a murder. It’s easier to do behind the door rather than peeking through the keyhole.

Johnny’s girlfriend, Cathy (a knockout and excellent Constance Towers, who reteamed with Fuller for 1964’s The Naked Kiss) is against the idea, but he sees infiltrating Ward B’s hall as the “magic highway to the Pulitzer Prize.” She’s also pretending in a way, spending her nights as a singing stripper, playing upon her audience’s lurid desires.

Inside the snake pit, Johnny has no shortage of suspects, because every patient is seriously unhinged, from the man who believes he’s a Confederate general (James Best, TV’s Dukes of Hazzard) to Trent (Hari Rhodes, Detroit 9000), who steals pillowcases and, despite being black, espouses white-supremacist rhetoric.

Predictable is one of the last adjectives anyone could affix to Shock Corridor — one moment, Johnny’s being attacked by women at dance therapy; another, Cathy taunts him sexually while appearing as a slumberland specter. This black-and-white exercise in abnormality about the abnormal is a fever-dream masterpiece, and its sterling reputation as a before-its-time classic more than deserved. —Rod Lott

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