
At once a tribute to Italian horror of the 1980s — “the times of Lamberto Bava, when monsters and dolls squirted blood” — and a modern-day attempt to reinvent it, Ubaldo Terzani Horror Show is more successful at the first point than the second. Regardless, it’s both comforting and disturbing that wardrobes of fright-film geeks in both hemispheres consist almost entirely of black horror tees.
Likely an onscreen substitute for sophomore Italian writer/director Gabriele Albanesi, the 25-year-old Alessio (Giuseppe Soleri) is a horror-flick nut and a wannabe filmmaker who’s too tied up in the splatter on which he’s been suckled for so long. His producer insists he try something more psychological, and sends him to Turin to collaborate on a script with the famous horror novelist Terzani Ubaldo (Paolo Sassanelli).
The author’s books prove mighty intense to Alessio, so much that they provoke explicit nightmares. Ubaldo delights in the madness that pours from his pen; in working with this young man, the mentor hides the degree of his nefarious intentions as he gradually becomes a corrupting influence — especially when Alessio’s girlfriend (Laura Gigante) comes to spend the weekend at the host’s insistence.
By and large, this little Horror Show is a twisted love triangle that delights in digging in to the gut-strewn genre that inspired it. Those sequences of pain and death are undeniably grotesque, in the unflinching manner of Lucio Fulci. Those who knows that man’s wet works are most likely to appreciate this flawed but admirably fucked-up valentine. That its final shot fades to a blur is no accident, as Albanesi smudges the line between fantasy and reality throughout. —Rod Lott

Mere minutes after learning his long-dead father was the celebrated superhero Copperhead — a secret, despite the costume being left in the top of his adopted dad’s desk drawer — Tekin carries on the family tradition of fistfighting, leaping onto moving trains, and dressing in a sparkly silver mask and flowing red neckerchief. He leaves a novelty snake figurine at the scene of each skirmish, like a parting gift for kicking your ass. 

With cinema attendance then taking a licking at the antennas of free TV, director Frank Tashlin literally stopped the story of his 1957 comedy, 

As if New Orleans didn’t have enough problems already, what with the occasional hurricane, frat-boy vomit in the streets and the constant smell of hobo urine, the city has to deal with an arachnoquake — that is, an earthquake that unleashes giant spiders, doy! — in … wait for it … Arachnoquake. It’s one of those made-for-Syfy movies, but you probably knew that.
Spiders are so creepy that the concept doesn’t require a big budget to exploit audiences’ readymade fear. (Take, for instance, 1977’s 