Unless you’re a real horror movie geek, I think it’s probably a safe bet for me to describe Jeff Lieberman’s Just Before Dawn as the best slasher movie you’ve never seen. Why it remains so obscure is something of a mystery, since the people who have seen it tend to get very excited when talking about it, and you’d figure that their enthusiasm would be contagious, but it’s never quite worked out that way.

It’s almost tempting to theorize that Lieberman might be suffering from some sort of curse, since his often-outstanding work never has gotten him the attention he deserves. His great sci-fi/horror satire, Remote Control, has yet to make it to DVD and his most famous effort, Squirm, has the dubious distinction of being the best film to have ever been mocked by Mystery Science Theater 3000 (and, yes, I happily would say that right to This Island Earth’s face).

Combining the standard elements of the slasher genre with the backwoods horror of Deliverance and The Hills Have Eyes, Just Before Dawn succeeds thanks to skillful direction, effective atmosphere and — most importantly — a cast of likable characters whose endangerment causes us to feel actual anxiety and empathy, rather than the usual slasher-movie schadenfreude.

The plot is bare-bones simple: Several campers in search of an inherited mine in a dangerous forest find themselves being hunted by the demented offspring of the area’s requisite family of religious freaks. But the beauty of the slasher genre is that the plot is always secondary to the execution, and by that standard, this neglected gem easily ranks as one of the best of its kind. —Allan Mott

Buy it at Amazon.

Attention, The Last House on the Left: Your reputation as a horror landmark is at stake. I call shenanigans! “Keep repeating: It’s only a movie …” and not a good one.

Yes, it has blood. Yes, it has rape. Yes, it has scenes of more unrelenting violence. But it also has slapstick comedy with rednecks, complete with “wacky” music. And a near-toothless African-American woman who would seem at home on a MADtv sketch. And dare I even mention the banjo-pop soundtrack with songs about the villains? Bad guys’ themes should not be played on the instrument most associated with TV’s Hee Haw.

But onto the story, which marks the screenwriting and directorial debut of Wes Craven, who later would birth terror icons in Freddy Krueger, Ghostface and whoever Meryl Streep played in that violin movie: Virginal 17-year-old Mari Collingwood (Sandra Cassell, Teenage Hitchhikers) and her best pal (Lucy Grantham) have the unfortunate experience of trying to score pot, but instead running into a felonious foursome led by Krug (David Hess, instantly typecast).

Krug’s so evil, he got his own son (Marc Sheffler) hooked on heroin. Weasel (Fred Lincoln) is a child molester, and Sadie (Jeramie Rain, later Mrs. Richard Dreyfuss) is merely a psycho bitch from hell. Rape and murder ensue, then the tables are turned when car trouble puts Team Krug as guests in the Collingwood home.

Craven and company’s absolute amateur-hour efforts kill whatever power was intended. That’s not to say what Krug and f(r)iends do isn’t horrible; it is. But torture of characters doth not a good movie make, and there’s nothing offered — original or otherwise — to elevate Last House. I even think some of its many rip-offs do the same story far better — Italy’s Night Train Murders, for one — and Hollywood’s vastly superior 2009 remake boasts suspense and style. Yeah, I said it. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.