Take one blind and cranky war veteran, replace “Hoo-ah!” with howls, and you have Late Phases, arguably the best pure werewolf film since 2000’s Ginger Snaps. To be fair, that category is not exactly snapping with fierce competition — Wes Craven’s Cursed, anyone? Thought not! — so let’s broaden the genre and call it a solid suspenser.

The sight-challenged military man at the center of this hairy tale is Ambrose McKinley (Nick Damici, Stake Land), whose son (Ethan Embry, Cheap Thrills) moves him into the Crescent Bay Retirement Community despite recent reports of residents disappearing. Sure enough, Ambrose barely has time to unpack before his next-door neighbor is mauled to death by a werewolf.

Well, we know a werewolf is to blame, because director Adrián Garcia Bogliano (Penumbra) lets the viewer in on the claw-gashing action. No one else is privy to the slaughter, yet Ambrose not only somehow surmises the culprit is of the felled-by-silver-bullets variety, but also correctly predicts the next strike will arrive with the following month’s full moon. You can question the “how” all you want; it won’t change a damn thing, so may as well just go with it as Bogliano does.

That you’ll want to speaks to the Spanish filmmaker’s strengths as a director. Late Phases marks his inauguration into English-language features, and he commemorates the challenge by bringing the best of his previous work with him: the mounting tension of 2010’s Cold Sweat and the hallucinatory horror of 2012’s Here Comes the Devil. His eye considerably elevates the so-so script by Eric Stolze, whose 2012’s Under the Bed is as dull as Phases is sharp.

Strangely, its weakest link is the lead performance from Damici, who makes an already crotchety character damn near insufferable — and certainly annoying — by adhering to a needless accent exaggerated to the point of comical: “Those” become “dose”; “thing” becomes “tang.” Good thing his supporting cast is so strong, it truly supports; standouts include Manhunter’s Tom Noonan, Bitch Slap’s Erin Cummings and The Last Starfighter himself, Lance Guest.

The MVP might be David Greathouse (Jug Face), who dons the werewolf suit — that’s right: suit instead of CGI, thereby working wonders in the projection of menace through the screen. The final showdown of man vs. lycanthrope provides much of the movie’s meat; pay particular attention to the 1:15:31 mark, where the beast takes a flying, slow-motion leap toward a car. It’s begging for animated-GIF immortality. —Rod Lott

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This much I recall about The Reincarnation of Isabel, less than 24 hours after viewing:

1. It opens with the memorable image of a nude nun, her chest cavity blackened and burned as if she’s missing a heart.

2. Holy shit, she is!

3. A vampire played by Mickey Hargitay (Bloody Pit of Horror) is trying to revive his deceased lover (Rita Calderoni, Nude for Satan) through a ritual requiring the ticker and peepers of a virgin.

4. Everything else played like a loathsome fever dream mixed with Dramamine and three vodka tonics.

The Italian film from writer/director Renato Polselli (The Vampire and the Ballerina) also is known under of the alternate, better title Black Magic Rites. That’s a very important piece of info, as I almost bought this maddening piece of shit twice. #themoreyouknow —Rod Lott

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Poor, lonely, miserable, working-class cog Donald Kohler (Dan Grimaldi, best-known as twins Patsy and Philly Parisi on TV’s The Sopranos) is having a very bad day. First, his boss berates him for not coming to the aid of a co-worker who bursts into flames when a can of spray paint explodes in the incinerator. Then, Donald slumps home to find Mom (Ruth Dardick) dead in her rocking chair. His initial reaction is shock, until reality hits: Now he can play his disco LPs at full volume and jump on the living-room furniture from the Old Biddy collection!

Oh, and of course, flame-broil some broads. Hi-diddle-dee-dee, the bachelor’s life for me …

Welcome to Don’t Go in the House, the only slasher film I can think of where the killer’s signature outfit is a head-to-toe asbestos suit. Because the child Donald had his arms held over the gas stove by his mother — an apparent honors grad of the Piper Laurie in Carrie School of Parenting — the adult Donald likes to lure young, beautiful women into his spacious home, knock ’em out, strip ’em nude, tie ’em up and unleash the cruel, hot licks of a flamethrower upon their easy-to-bubble bods. Good thing the Kohler residence comes with a steel-paneled room! (Hell, when you have that, who needs an extra powder bath?)

Most slashers would be content to stop there, but first-time director/co-writer Joseph Ellison takes things a little further by giving us a glimpse into Donald’s mixed-up mind; he is haunted by the literal ghosts of his crispy victims, whom he imagines come to life at inopportune times. (He keeps their ashen corpses in an adjoining room, each dressed to the nines and seated in her own chair as if on display like a menagerie.) It’s a halfway-novel twist to an otherwise dreary, dirty tale, and as Don’t Go in the House’s resident Norman Bates, Grimaldi turns in a pretty good performance of an utterly despicable human being.

Even with depicting the abuse Donald suffered, Ellison fails to establish a credible link for the grown man’s newfound, strike-anywhere hobby. He also fails an opportunity for a killer joke in not having Donald drop the needle on “Disco Inferno.” That’s the one instance in which an increased budget would have helped. —Rod Lott

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