Late one night, all-girl punk group Kill, Pussy, Kill! (exclamation certainly not mine) gets stranded on the road to the next gig. The band members are kidnapped by a would-be Good Samaritan (’90s TV heartthrob Richard Grieco), who tosses them into the basement of a former American solider now calling himself “the Mastermind,” a self-ascribed moniker as pretentious as it is mysterious.

Voiced by Megadeth founder and frontman Dave Mustaine (not that his speaking voice triggers such recognition) and played by Jed Rowen (That’s a Wrap) in physical form, the Mastermind is all kinds of fucked up after being captured, tortured and facially mutilated by the enemy in Pakistan on Halloween 2004.

Now, from the confines of his wheelchair and Darkman getup, he teaches lessons in sacrifice to clueless, carefree youth. In a progression of dingy cement rooms that look the same, the Mastermind forces Amber Stardust (Sara Malakul Lane, Beyond the Gates) and her fellow pawns through tasks and traps involving a motorized rifle, sarin gas and old-timey Oscar winner Margaret O’Brien (Meet Me in St. Louis), presumably because Marcus Welby, M.D. episode royalties ain’t what they used to be.

With Halloween Pussy Trap Kill! Kill!, prolific writer and director Jared Cohn (Street Survivors: The True Story of the Lynyrd Skynyrd Plane Crash) takes the concept of Grand Guignol gamesmanship to new lows of attempted viewer engagement, so prepare to Saw some logs. When the sight of Grieco (who’s actually good here) is ultimately more welcome than nudity, you might feel as imprisoned as the leads.

While Cohn’s idea isn’t original, it’s certainly ripe for exploitation. But also with better execution. A failed Rob Zombie imitation, Pussy Trap aims for an oil-and-water mix of heavy transgression and light comedy. I did laugh once, when trick-or-treaters complain about the candy offered at the Mastermind household, so Mrs. Mastermind (Kelly Erin Decker, Dracula in a Women’s Prison) blows them up with a live grenade. That’ll teach ’em.  —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

I truly liked the 1989 adaptation of Stephen King’s Pet Sematary, not to mention the rocking theme song by the Ramones. And I kinda liked the 1992 sequel, even if it shouldn’t have been made, but I dug its early ’90s atmosphere, even it if was a broken fog machine with too much dry ice. I was not enthused by the 2019 remake, with good reason: It was a broad, cynical movie that played like I was trapped in a Spirit Halloween shop on the grounds of an abandoned CVS drugstore. Spooky!

And, in the undead spirit of nonliterary gravedigging, the new prequel, Pet Sematary: Bloodlines, is more of the rotting same, with 50% more David Duchovny. Thank you? (It’s presented by the Paramount Players, a production company which sounds like an ensemble cast of stage and screen actors brought to you by the DuMont Television Network, but not as sociable or talented. Discuss…)

Set in 1969, the film follows Jud Crandall (originally played by Fred Gwynne, then John Lithgow, but here essayed by Jackson White with no Maine accent) and his girlfriend as they leave town to join the Peace Corps. That seems like a good deal until a bird flies into their car window — and, into the front, a growling, disheveled dog on the road.

Taking the dog to his former friend’s house who just came back from the war, where, apparently, a Miꞌkmaq demon possesses you and turns you into a clinically depressed jerk with a chronically bad attitude. Following a pro-war speech, the dog mauls the girlfriend furiously, or as much as the budget will allow.

Meanwhile, Jud’s friend Manny (Forrest Goodluck) — here they insert some Indigenous teachings that are half-baked, for the most part — finds his sister murdered, then resurrected, albeit zombified. In a series of flashbacks, we learn it’s due to an ancient curse. You should know the one. 

Either way, the last 15 minutes are so badly, lit I couldn’t tell what was happening. Sometimes, dead is better than an unlit film, even if it premieres on a streaming service?

Sure, it seems like these movies are part of some Injun sideshow, featuring stereotypical use of the Indigenous tribe; once again, the Miꞌkmaq tribe and their stories are used in a degrading way. But what about how Samantha Mathis, who I thought had been dead for years, is wasted in a nearly wordless role.

Sometimes, with Bloodlines … ah, never mind. —Louis Fowler

Get it at Amazon.