It’s obvious that the people behind The Thing remake studied John Carpenter’s gruesome masterpiece before they began their prequel. But studying ain’t the same as mastering; while Thing 2011 plays the same notes as Thing 1982, there’s barely any music to be heard. Maybe it’s an unfair comparison, but when you produce a prequel to one of the genuine horror classics of all time, you know the risks going in.

Carpenter attached the scenario of an alien that perfectly mimics other life forms to an isolated arctic base and amped the claustrophobia, resulting in a paranoid classic that is also one of the great practical effect showcases. Matthijs van Heijningen Jr. follows the template, but leeches away any hint of tension. It’s not that the audience knows the ending going in; it’s far more that you should never trust a brand property to an unproven talent (see also: anything produced by Platinum Dunes, Michael Bay’s production company). There isn’t one moment in this Thing that isn’t completely predictable.

Where does it go wrong? It’s the overuse of painfully obvious CGI where practical effects would have been a far superior choice. It’s the unnecessary Americans that join a group that we have, for 30 years, assumed to be completely Norwegian. It’s the marked lack of Kurt Russells, Wilford Brimleys and Keith Davids. It’s the oversights of particular plot points in the original (what happened to the thermite charges?). It’s the replacement of Ennio Morricone’s eerie score with a bombastic symphony that telegraphs every scare. It’s the disappointment of seeing that the inside of the spacecraft is just stereotypical weird tunnels. It’s rejigging the idea that anyone could be the monster to, “Oh, I think I know who the monster is: that two-headed guy running down the corridor.”

It’s all this, and more. When only one scene even approaches the level of terror and/or coolness of the original (think face-melting), you don’t have a true sequel, an adequate prequel, a loving tribute or an energetic fan film; you have a sweaty-faced Elvis impersonator in a polyester suit, fighting a heart attack while he bellows “Suspicious Minds” to a group of bored tourists in Nevada.

That said, it’s still better than anything Platinum Dunes has ever released. —Corey Redekop

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Women’s prison was a cinch compared to the boardinghouse for Margaret, aka The Girl in Room 2A. And not because of the blood spot under the carpet or the god-awful wallpaper. It’s the guy in the red-pantyhose mask and matching cape who steals the babes who live there and takes them to a torture dungeon, where they are whipped, electrocuted, prodded and poked.

Margaret (Daniela Giordano, Mario Bava’s Four Times That Night) was busted at a party where grass and pills were being consumed; while she didn’t partake, guilt by association landed her behind bars for a short time. Upon release, one of the guards steers her toward a place to stay, ran by the kindly Mrs. Grant (Giovanna Galletti, Kill Baby, Kill). On her first night, a nerve-addled Margaret “hallucinates” the pantyhose man coming into her room.

The brother (John Scanlon, Escape from Alcatraz) of 2A’s previous occupant investigates his sister’s out-of-character death: “Cut the jazz! What’s she talking about?” Could it be Frank (Angelo Infanti, The Godfather), Mrs. Grant’s nerdy son whose workshop is filled with mannequin heads and miniature guillotines? Or perhaps that strange cult that holds meetings on the ground floor, hmmmmm?

The final film directed by sex-pic auteur William Rose, The Girl in Room 2A doesn’t quite reach the Hostel-ility posed by its prologue. Whenever the L’eggs-clad villain shows up, the Italian thriller fills with a little life for scenes of death. Whenever it doesn’t, the movie feels like a series of red herrings biding time until the inevitable conclusion. —Rod Lott

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