As if October wasn’t already scary enough, my laptop is slowly dying and, with my luck, it probably won’t even return as a zombie. Fortunately, it still has enough life in it for me to do at least one more edition of Lisa Marie’s Favorite Grindhouse and Exploitation Trailers.
1) The Curse of the Crimson Altar (1968)
This is apparently an old Hammer film. I haven’t seen it but the image of a blue Barbara Steele seems to show up in just about every other horror movie guide.
I actually have this on DVD but I haven’t watched it yet and this trailer doesn’t exactly inspire a whole lot of hope. That said, I love how the narrator makes such an effort to sound enthusiastic. Our next trailer will feature “Oscar nominee” Linda Blair as well…
This is a good example of an accidental grindhouse film. The producers and the director may have been going for something different but the end results are pretty much evident from the trailer. The best thing about this trailer is Ennio Morricone’s score. (By the way, I would also suggest that all of you people going all cuckoo over the teaser trailer for David Fincher’s Girl With The Dragon Tattoo compare this relatively entertaining trailer with the actual film it was advertising.)
One thing about the zombie monster is that they’re pretty much a blank slate and anyone with an idea on how to use them can add their own spin to this undead staple in horror. Some have made zombies be undead Templar knights who hunted by sound. Some have even been made in combination with Egyptian mummies. There has even been zombies underwater fighting and trying to feed on sharks. In 2009, Norwegian Tommy Wirkola filmmaker took the zombie and combined it with that other icon of evil in entertainment, the Nazi. What he was able to create with this combo is the horror film Dead Snow.
The film begins with a lone woman running frantically through the snows somewhere in the mountain fjords of Norway with unknown figures chasing her. Like most horror films which begins like this her fate looks to be predetermined and how she finally buys it shows the audience that this is not going to be the usual zombie film as undead figures tear her apart and devour her while wearing the typical Nazi regalia. This gory start segues into the unfortunate group who will end up having to experience and deal with the sudden problem of WWII-era Nazis who had occupied Norway during the war and had ended up being buried (and presumed killed by the Norwegians near the end of the war) for decades in the snows of the Norwegian mountainside.
There’s really nothing too special about the seven students who decided to spend their Easter vacationing in the mountain cabin owned by the young woman killed earlier in the film. They’re not one-dimensional characters, but they’re also not the smartest tools in the shed as they make the usual mistakes young people make while staying at an isolated cabin high up in the mountain with a reputation for being haunted and cursed. The film’s director also co-wrote this script with screenwriter Stig Frode Henriksen and one could almost sense they were trying to emulate the group dynamics of the group in Edgar Wright’s instant zombie-comedy classic Shaun of the Dead. While Wirkola and Henriksen never reach the same level of creativity in their characters the actors playing them do a good enough job that we root for them to survive the siege of the suddenly hungry Nazi zombies outside their cabin.
Dead Snow does have something which raises the film from being dull and predictable into something very entertaining and thrilling through it’s many gory set-pieces. These scenes as the survivors try to fight their way and escape the Nazi zombies (or are they zombie Nazis) doesn’t skimp on the blood and gore. Wirkola may have known that the story of his film was very thin on plot with charactersa step or two above cardboard so decided to just let the grue fly. It’s here that Dead Snow suddenly becomes jet-fueled rollercoaster ride as bodies (both living and undead) get mutilated, decapitated, blasted, shot-up and everything in-between. The final stand-off with the final survivors and an increasing number of Nazi zombies makes this film worth watching.
Tommy Wirkola’s Dead Snow doesn’t bring too many new things to the zombie genre (Nazi zombies having been done decades earlier in films such as Shock Waves and Oasis of the Zombies), but he does add some dark humor and a healthy dose of over-the-top zombie mayhem that makes the film quite entertaining despite it’s flaws. Plus, how can one go wrong with picking something to watch that has Nazi zombies gallivanting their bloody way through Norwegian mountainsides with a hankering for Norwegian students.
“Who’s going to believe a talking head? Get a job in a sideshow.” — Herbert West
When discussing horror films of the 1980s, the conversation almost always turns to whether one has seen a particular cult classic. One such film is Re-Animator, Stuart Gordon’s 1985 adaptation of a little-known H.P. Lovecraft short story originally serialized from 1921 to 1922. While the story itself isn’t considered one of Lovecraft’s best, it inspired Gordon to create his own grisly take on the classic “Frankenstein monster” tale—with a unique blend of horror, humor, and gore.
The film follows Herbert West, a young, promising medical student obsessed with bringing the dead back to life. After being expelled from a Swiss university for his unorthodox experiments, West relocates to Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, to continue his research in secret. He soon gains an unlikely partner in Dan Cain, a fellow medical student and landlord, who discovers West’s glowing green reagent and the terrifying results it produces.
Re-Animator plays out much like an over-the-top EC comic from the 1950s and early ’60s, full of lurid visuals and melodramatic dialogue. It’s a pulp horror film with a sci-fi twist, reveling in slapstick gore as the zombie-like corpses injected with West’s reagent come violently back to life. Unlike the flesh-eating zombies popularized by George A. Romero, these reanimated corpses are unique in their behavior, making the film stand out from typical zombie fare.
If the blood and gore weren’t enough, Re-Animator etched its place in exploitation horror history with one of the most infamous scenes ever: Megan (played by Barbara Crampton) and the severed reanimated head of West’s nemesis (played by David Gale) in a tense and chaotic encounter. This scene remains one of the most widely discussed moments in horror film history.
Gordon’s attempt to create his own “Frankenstein movie” was a huge success within the horror community, leading to two sequels. Jeffrey Combs continued to portray Herbert West in the follow-ups, though they never quite reached the original’s cult status. Still, Re-Animator firmly put both Stuart Gordon and Jeffrey Combs on the horror map—and horror fans everywhere are thankful they did.
For my latest horror review, I will be reviewing another classic film from one of my favorite directors, Mario Bava. Following the suggestion of my twitter friend Tom, I spent last night watching Bava’s 1963 classic Black Sabbath.
Starring Boris Karloff, Black Sabbath is a compilation film that’s made up of three different horror-themed stories. Originally entitled Three Faces of Fear, Black Sabbath has been released in many different versions over the years. Depending on which version you seen, the stories may be in a different order than in the order that Bava intended. The version I watched was the original, uncut, Italian-language version that was released by Anchor Bay. For those of you who want to truly experience the genius of Mario Bava, this is the version to see.
Black Sabbath begins with Boris Karloff playing himself, giving a deliberately over-the-top introduction and informing us that there could very well be vampires and werewolves sitting next to us in the theater. Yes, it’s silly and yes, it’s campy but it’s also a lot of fun. A lot of this is because these words are delivered by Karloff, an actor who could make even the silliest of dialogue sound important. The other part is that, as silly as the introduction may be, it’s beautiful to look at. Instead of going for the standard spooky narrator in a cobweb-filled library approach, Bava frames Karloff standing against a brilliant dark blue backdrop that establishes that this isn’t just your typical horror host … this is BORIS FREAKIN’ KARLOFF!
After Karloff’s introduction, we move on to the first of Black Sabbath’s three separate stories, The Telephone.
In The Telephone, Michele Mercier plays a Parisian prostitute who returns to her apartment after an evening out. As she tries to change for bed, her bright red telephone rings. Every time Mercier opens the phone, she hears a man’s voice taunting and threatening her. Finally, the caller claims to be Frank, Mercier’s former pimp who has just escaped from prison. The terrified Mercier calls her estranged lesbian lover (Lydia Alfonsi). Alfonsi comes over to the basement to comfort Mercier. However, what Mercier doesn’t realize is that it wasn’t Frank calling her. It was Alfonsi, pretending to be Frank. However, needless to say, there’s more twists to come before the night’s over.
Of the three segments, The Telephone is probably the least succesful if just because it has the most pedestrian plot. At the same time, this segment also show just how good Bava was at creating tension even with so-so material. Speaking as someone who has been stalked in the past, I can say that both Mercier and Bava perfectly captures the way that one seemingly simple intrusion on your privacy can leave you suddenly feeling very isolated and very alone. Finally, even after the segment’s over, it’s impossible to forget the sight of that vibrantly red phone sitting like a lurking monster in that artfully drab apartment.
The Telephone is followed by probably the film’s most famous segment, The Wurdalak.
Based on a short story by Tolstoy, The Wurdalak opens with a Russian nobleman (played Italian exploitation mainstay Mark Damon) on a long trip through the Russian wilderness. He comes across a headless corpse with a dagger plunged into its heart. Damon takes the dagger as a morbid souvenir of his trip.
As night falls, Damon comes across a small cottage and asks the family inside for shelter. Inside the cottage, Damon discovers a wall that is covered with daggers similar to the one he found earlier. His hosts explain that the daggers belong to the family patriarch, Gorcha (Boris Karloff). Gorcha left five days earlier to kill a wurdolak (or vampire, by any other name). As the family waits for Gorcha to return, not knowing whether or not he himself is now a vampire, Damon finds himself falling in love with Gorcha’s daughter. When Gorcha finally does return, it’s obvious that he’s not the same man he was when he originally left.
Of the three segments, The Wurdolak is probably the most obviously Bavaesque and a whole lot of the same images and themes would later turn up in Bava’s masterwork, Kill, Baby, Kill. Everything, from the constantly howling wind to the sense of isolation to the well-meaning but ultimately impotent upper-class hero, is classic Bava. Special mention should also be made of Boris Karloff’s performance here. Because Karloff was best known for appearing in “monster” movies, he never gets enough recognition for being a pretty good actor. His performance here, which is full of malice and threat, is just as menacing as his earlier appearance in the introduction was fun and campy.
The final segment of the film is entitled The Drop of Water.
In many ways, The Drop of Water is the simplest segment of the film but for me, personally, it’s also the scariest. In London, a nurse (Jacqueline Pierreux) is called to a large house to prepare a medium for burial. While doing this. the nurse notices a large (and, quite frankly, kinda gaudy) ring on the medium’s finger. The nurse steals the ring and returns to her own apartment. As soon as she goes to her apartment, she finds herself haunted by increasingly ominous events: a buzzing fly refuses to leave her alone, the sound of water dripping echoes through the apartment, the lights go on and off, and — naturally — a mysterious figure suddenly appears in her bedroom.
Mixing the sense of growing paranoia that characterized The Telephone with Wurdolak’s sense of predestined, metaphysical doom, The Drop of Water is the perfect concluding chapter of Black Sabbath. It also happened to scare the Hell out of me. Along with Bava’s usual superb direction, this film was distinguished by some wonderfully creepy make-up work. Seriously, once that mysterious figure reveals itself, you’ll wish it hadn’t.
I usually don’t enjoy compilation films because, too often, it seems that you’re lucky if you get just one above average story surrounded by a bunch of forgettable filler. Far too often, the stories themselves don’t seem to go together. Instead, they just appear to have been tossed together randomly with the weakest of possible connection. Black Sabbath is an exception and that’s largely because of Mario Bava’s iconic direction. The stories aren’t linked together by plot as much as their linked together by motif and theme. Each story — from the emphasis on isolation to the creative use of color to suggest mood and menace — is linked by Bava’s style. Boris Karloff may have been the name emphasized in the credits but the true star of Black Sabbath is Mario Bava.
The genius of Bava wasn’t in the originality of the stories he told but instead, in the new ways that he found to tell familiar stories. Usually, I hate it when directors describe themselves as being about “style” as opposed to “substance.” Too often, it seems like that’s just an excuse to not come up with an interesting story. However, Bava is one of the few directors about whom the term “style over substance” can be used as a compliment. Bava knew how to make style into art and he certainly did that in Black Sabbath.
Later tonight, I’m going to watch Mario Bava’s Black Sabbath but before I do, I want to take a few minutes to review another one of Bava’s films, 1965’s sci-fi/horror hybrid Planet of the Vampires.
Taking place in the far future, Planet of the Vampires begins with two space ships receiving a distress call from an unexplored planet. While landing, the two ships are separated from each other. As the Argos lands, its crew is possessed by an unknown force and suddenly start trying to kill each other. Only the ship’s captain (Barry Sullivan, who gives a surprisingly good performance in a role that most actors would have just sleepwalked through) is able to resist and he manages to snap the rest of the crew out of their hypnotic state.
Once the Argos lands, search parties are sent out to find the other ship. They find themselves on a barren planet where the surface is obscured by a thick, multi-colored fog. As they wander through the planet, it quickly becomes apparent that they aren’t alone. The searchers may have left the ship as human but they return as something else all together. It all leads up to a surprisingly bleak conclusion.
If the plot of Planet of the Vampires sounds familiar, that’s because it’s probably one of the most influential, if not widely known, films of all time. The film has been imitated in several other, far more expensive films but few of them manage to capture Planet of the Vampires’ sense of isolation and impending doom. With this film, Bava again showed that he was one of the few directors wh0 could accomplish so much with so little. While this isn’t an actor’s film, fans of Italian horror will squeal with delight to see Ivan Rassimov pop up here in a small role.
I’ve mentioned Planet of the Vampires before on this site when I was giving 10 reasons why I hated Avatar. To me, Planet of the Vampires stands as proof that you don’t need a gigantic budget to make an effective horror (or sci-fi film). In fact, often times, all a huge budget does is shut down the audience’s imagination and quite frankly, nothing on film will ever be as impressive as what the audience can imagine. With Planet of the Vampires, all that Mario Bava had to create an alien world were two plastic rocks and a smoke machine. Working without the crutch of CGI, Bava had to pull off most of the film’s special effects “in camera,” and he would later say that one of the benefits of all that smoke was that it helped to obscure just how low budget this film was. In short, Bava was working under circumstances that James Cameron would refuse to even consider and yet Planet of the Vampires holds up better upon repeat viewings than Avatar ever will. The low-budget forced Bava to emphasize atmosphere over effects. Yes, this film has its share of gore (it’s an Italian horror film, after all) but ultimately, this is another example of a horror film that works because of what it doesn’t show. This is a film that exploits your imagination, working its way into the darker corners of your consciousness. Bava creates a palpable atmosphere of doom that makes Planet of the Vampires into a surprisingly effective film.
During the late 1970s and early 1980s, one could hardly step into a theater during the fall or winter movie season without seeing a trailer for the newest Stephen King adaptation. His name had become synonymous with cinematic horror, and nearly every year brought a new film promising supernatural terror or psychological unease.
Among this wave of adaptations came a 1983 film that united two masters of the genre—Stephen King, the reigning literary giant of horror, and John Carpenter, the filmmaker who had already cemented his reputation with Halloween and The Thing. Their collaboration resulted in the sleek, deadly story of a boy and his car: Christine.
The film opens on the assembly line of a Plymouth factory in 1957, immediately signaling that something is off about this particular 1958 Plymouth Fury. From the first note of the retro rock soundtrack to the gleam of that deep crimson paint, Carpenter frames the car with both nostalgia and menace. The lighting in this opening feels almost clinical—bright, sterile, mechanical—yet Christine’s red sheen cuts violently through it, a visual omen that this machine is infused with something beyond metal and chrome. Carpenter wastes no time making it clear that this car is not an inanimate prop; it’s a living entity from the moment it’s born.
We’re soon introduced to the film’s human core—Arnie Cunningham (Keith Gordon), a shy, bookish teenager tormented by bullies and smothered by his controlling parents, and his best friend Dennis Guilder (John Stockwell), the confident star athlete who often looks out for him. One afternoon, during their drive home from school, Arnie spots a rusting, decrepit Plymouth Fury in the front yard of an old man named Roland D. LeBay. Where Dennis sees a heap of junk, Arnie sees perfection. Ignoring his friend’s concerns—and later, his parents’ outrage—Arnie buys the car and names it Christine.
As Arnie begins restoring Christine to her former glory, a transformation occurs—not just in the car, but in Arnie himself. The once timid, acne-scarred teenager grows into a confident, even arrogant young man, donning slicker clothes, sharper speech, and a darker aura. Christine becomes his obsession, his refuge, and ultimately, his identity.
Carpenter crafts this metamorphosis with eerie precision, pairing the car’s physical renewal with Arnie’s psychological decay. The cinematography shifts accordingly—the lighting grows darker, drenched in neon reds and shadowy blues, mirroring Christine’s two faces: seductive allure and demonic possession. Carpenter’s score, a pulsing blend of electronic rhythm and minimalistic dread, underscores these shifts. It functions almost like Christine’s heartbeat—steady, mechanical, and ominously sensual.
Between the vintage rock tracks that accompany Arnie’s moments of infatuation and the electronic motifs that follow Christine’s predatory stalks, Carpenter manipulates sound to blur the lines between teenage romance and supernatural horror. Every rev of the engine feels rhythmic, almost musical, as if the car itself communicates through vibration and tone rather than words.
Arnie’s newfound confidence even earns him Leigh Cabot (Alexandra Paul), the most desired girl in school—a relationship that initially feels like a symbol of his triumph. But Christine is no fairy tale. When Arnie’s bullies vandalize his beloved car, the story turns from eerie to vengeful.
In a now-iconic sequence, Christine repairs herself before Arnie’s stunned eyes—the crumpled metal expands, glass re-forms, headlights ignite like eyes opening from a nightmare. Carpenter lights the scene with a soft, golden underglow that turns mechanical resurrection into a hauntingly beautiful transformation. It’s both horrifying and hypnotic—a perfectly scored ballet of vengeance set to the hum of machinery and the director’s unmistakable electronic pulse.
What follows is a furious killing spree. Christine prowls the night streets for retribution, a creature of fire and gasoline more alive than metal should ever be.
While Carpenter’s adaptation diverges from King’s novel, it remains faithful to its emotional and thematic essence. King’s book delves deeply into the idea of objects absorbing the evil of their owners, suggesting that malevolence can linger in things as much as in people. Carpenter, however, turns the focus inward.
His version becomes a tragic character study—a battle for Arnie’s soul between the cold, seductive power of obsession and the fragile warmth of human connection. In one corner stands Christine, the car that offers Arnie unconditional love but demands total possession. In the other are Dennis and Leigh, desperate to save the friend they’re rapidly losing to something they can’t fully understand.
Carpenter’s signature touches—his electronic score, minimalist framing, and cynical tone—imbue the film with a dark romanticism. Christine is less a haunted object than a femme fatale: a mechanized embodiment of jealousy and desire. The film’s atmosphere bridges two eras, combining the nostalgic vibe of 1950s Americana with the grim realism of Reagan-era suburbia.
By the end, Christine becomes both a story of supernatural obsession and a commentary on teenage identity—the hunger to shed weakness, to command respect, and to control one’s fate, even at the cost of one’s soul.
Upon its release in December 1983, Christine performed modestly at the box office but was far from a failure. Over time, it has developed a strong cult following, cherished by both Carpenter devotees and Stephen King fans. Though often overshadowed by Carpenter’s heavier-hitting works like The Thing or Escape from New York, Christine remains one of his most technically polished films. It also stands as a fascinating bridge between studio horror and Carpenter’s independent sensibilities—where the shine of a Hollywood production mingles with the grit of a B-movie heart.
If Christine teaches any lesson, it’s that love and possession are two sides of the same coin. Arnie’s tragedy lies not in falling for the wrong woman, but in falling for one that burns with literal hellfire. In Carpenter’s vision, the road to damnation isn’t paved with good intentions—it’s lined with chrome, lit by headlights, and always hungry for one more ride.
I have something of a tradition with John Carpenter’s The Fog. Every year, I try to watch the film on the date and time where the story starts – April 20th, at around 11:55pm. It’s not the scariest of stories, but it does have a spooky atmosphere that lends itself well to Halloween – or any late quiet night. I love this movie.
The Fog marked the first film that John Carpenter worked on after Halloween, collaborating with the late Debra Hill, who also produced the movie. She’d go on to also produce both Escape From New York and Escape from L.A for Carpenter. While it didn’t really have the impact of Halloween, it held up until Escape from New York came out the following year.
Here’s the story:
In the town of Antonio Bay, an old captain (John Houseman) explains to some children about the ill-fated Elizabeth Dane (what a beautiful name, I might add), a ship that belonged a rich of crew of lepers led by someone named Blake. The heads of the town conspired to steal the gold by setting up the ship to crash against the docks. It works out for the Conspirators, as they are “aided by a unearthy fog” that blinds the Leper ship’s navigators. and the gold they collect helps to form the great town the kids play in to this day.
What they don’t realize is that vengeance is coming in the form of that very same fog, as the ghost of the Lepers have come to claim the lives of the six conspirators…or their direct descendants.
As a kid, I had a problem with that. You mean because my great great grandparents messed up somewhere ages ago, I have to get killed for it? I remember thinking that it really wasn’t fair, but I’m kind of diverging from the topic here. The story gives you four points of view. You have Nick (Tom Atkins, sans his signature mustache) and a hitchhiker he picks up played by then scream queen Jamie Lee Curtis. You have Curtis mother, Janet Leigh, who’s character is working on the anniversary party for the town and her assistant, Sandy, played by Nancy Loomis (who appeared in the first three Halloween films). The third comes from Adrienne Barbeau’s character, Stevie Wayne, who works for the local radio station. Her character acts as the warning voice for the town and she starts to notice that something’s going on when her son gives her a piece of Driftwood that later echoes Blake’s warning. The final viewpoint comes from Father Malone (Hal Holbrook), who discovers Blake’s diary and learns the truth about what happened 100 years ago. His character helps to piece the mystery together, somewhat.
Carpenter and Hill gathered many of their friends, who went on to work on other films for this. Tommy Lee Wallace went on to direct Halloween III: Season of the Witch (and coincidentally did the voice of the Silver Shamrock ad-man in the commercial) and Vampires: Los Muertos. Wallace’s name was given to Carpenter fan favorite Buck Flower. Nick Castle’s name was given to Tom Atkins character. Makeup Wizard Rob Bottin (who also played Blake in the film) went on to do some of the effects in The Thing.
The makeup effects in this film were okay. The lighting and fog did more to obscure than to actually help one see what was doing the attacking, but it really worked for some of the shadowing in the film. If the movie has any drawbacks, it’s that there’s a really low body count to the film. In essence, there are only 6 people the ghosts are after, so these are only the ones they actually get. It would have been interesting if there were a few random deaths, or more individuals in danger, but I supposed it worked out well for the time period.
The Fog is a nice film to catch late at night. You won’t find it at the upper rankings of top horror films, but it’s one to try, at least. Don’t even bother with the Remake for this one. It’s not even work talking about.
This is the worst review I’ll ever write. I’ll admit to that up front. This is a highly biased review.
I recently underwent a colonoscopy for what doctors refer to as “excessive bleeding”, which your body isn’t really supposed to do. Part of this also involves a biopsy of tissue to determine if it’s cancerous. I’m still due to find out what was found (because I’ve been dancing around going back as much as I have writing this review), but there’s a sense of dread in knowing that your life can change with just a few sentences from a doctor. That, coupled with the knowledge that my mom underwent chemo for Lung Cancer and a friend who’s also living with it made 50/50 a hard film to sit through at some points.
I saw the movie on Friday Night, and literally spent the entire weekend with my laptop on my lap with Scrivener open, trying to get this written. The only reason it’s happening now is because I started admitting why I didn’t and wrote a paragraph. If I stop now, this is going to be another Sucker Punch, a film I was going to review when it came out, but refrained from doing so because it hit a little too close to home.
I walked into 50/50 expecting a heavy handed story along the lines of either the last half of Beaches or My Life with Michael Keaton. After all, the story deals with Cancer, which we all know is very serious. I actually left the film glancing at the movie schedule, looking to find out how soon the next showing was. It was a little later than I hoped, so I headed home. If it were any earlier, I would have gone right back. I laughed so much that I might have scared a few of the people sitting in the back of the theatre, and was thankful for the extra tissues I took with me when I cried.
Based on a true story of the film’s writer, Will Reiser, 50/50 is the story of Adam Lerner (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), who goes through life making all the right choices. He eats right, jogs regularly and crosses when the walk sign is clear. He loves his girlfriend (played by Bryce Dallas Howard), and his best friend Kyle (played by Seth Rogen) helps him laugh through it all. After experiencing some pain in his back, he heads to the doctor, only to discover that he has developed a rare form of Cancer. The actual moment of awareness when he’s told is done so well that I had to bite my lip. Once you know the truth of things, you can’t return to a state where you “don’t” know, and I’ll admit that shook me.
The greatest part I loved about 50/50 was that it was more a story about the Support Groups that keep us afloat than it was about the problem of the illness itself. There are just some things in the world that you shouldn’t go through alone. Each person in Adam’s circle had a different reaction to what was occurring, but Seth Rogen’s character was by far the best, choosing to not allow Adam to wallow too much in what was happening to him.
Adam is assigned a therapist in the form of Kate McKay (Anna Kendrick), who tries to get him to relax and explain how he’s feeling, to which in most cases, he’d say “I’m fine.” It’s amazing how quickly and easily we can say that phrase to deflect every other emotion we may be feeling, and the writing in this film was good enough to play on that angle as well. His mother (Angelica Houston) wants to help her son a little too much, but Mothers can be that way, I suppose.
Just because this happens to be a story about illness doesn’t mean that it has to be non stop gloom and doom. There were a number of scenes that were laugh out loud funny, particularly those with Rogen. It’s Gordon-Levitt, however, who really carries the film. He does a great job here, and it’s a shame with the weekend over that it seems the film won’t overshadow either The Lion King or A Dolphin’s Tale. It would be interesting if the film has enough legs to last over the next few weeks. It definitely deserves a viewing.
Werewolf horror films have not enjoyed the same prolific output as zombie or vampire cinema in recent decades. While the undead and bloodsuckers dominate both mainstream and indie horror, lycanthropes remain relatively underrepresented. In the last ten to fifteen years, the number of truly memorable werewolf films is small enough to count on one hand, suggesting that the subgenre is persistently niche despite the creature’s long-standing place in horror folklore. This scarcity makes standout entries even more notable, and among those, two titles remain touchstones for modern audiences: Neil Marshall’s gritty low-budget Dog Soldiers (2002) and the Canadian cult classic Ginger Snaps (2000), which preceded Marshall’s work by two years.
Ginger Snaps is as much a coming-of-age drama as it is a horror film, weaving werewolf mythology into a biting exploration of adolescence, sisterhood, and female identity. Set in a seemingly quiet Canadian suburb, the story follows sisters Ginger and Brigitte Fitzgerald, misfits bound by their shared cynicism, morbid sense of humor, and disdain for high school conformity. Isolated from their peers, they find comfort in their own dark, goth-influenced world, preferring late-night cemetery photography to pep rallies or social gatherings. Their bond is strong, but it faces a severe test one fateful night.
While walking home together, the sisters encounter something in the darkness—an unseen, feral creature that lunges, attacking Ginger with brutal force. The animal’s bite leaves a wound that begins to heal at an unnatural speed, and soon, strange transformations begin to manifest. At first, these changes seem physical—accelerated hair growth, heightened senses, and an insatiable appetite—but as time passes, her personality shifts as well. Ginger grows more assertive, sexually confident, and rebellious, traits that make her magnetic to others yet alienate her from her once inseparable sister.
Director John Fawcett and screenwriter Karen Walton craft the lycanthropy metaphor with unusual clarity: the werewolf curse mirrors puberty’s upheaval. Much like films inspired by the “body horror” sensibilities of David Cronenberg, Ginger Snaps draws unsettling power from portraying transformation as both horrifying and intoxicating. This duality captures adolescence’s contradictions—its liberating confidence and its destabilizing volatility—while reframing the traditional werewolf narrative to center on female experience. For Ginger, the physical metamorphosis coincides with new social dominance, a rejection of her former outsider identity, and an embrace of raw, animalistic freedom. For Brigitte, these same changes signify danger, loss, and the unraveling of the relationship she once relied upon.
The narrative excels in balancing its supernatural premise with human emotional stakes. While a less thoughtful script could have leaned entirely on gore and special effects, Ginger Snaps roots its horror in character dynamics. Walton’s writing, although sometimes heavy-handed in its metaphors, is remarkably strong for a film produced on a modest budget. Themes of loyalty, femininity, sexuality, and transformation run parallel to the literal werewolf plot, creating layers of meaning. This thematic richness ensures that the story resonates beyond its horror trappings, inviting audience discussion in a way that pure creature features often do not.
Central to this success are the performances. Katharine Isabelle embodies Ginger with feral charm, adeptly shifting from sardonic teenager to predatory seductress. Her portrayal never loses sight of the character’s humanity, even as the animal side takes over. Emily Perkins delivers an equally strong performance as Brigitte; her quiet, introverted resolve becomes the emotional anchor of the film, providing a moral counterbalance to Ginger’s volatility. Together, they create a convincing sisterly dynamic where love is tested by fear, jealousy, and survival.
Even the supporting cast contributes meaningfully, with Mimi Rogers standing out as Pamela Fitzgerald, the sisters’ well-intentioned but oblivious mother. Rogers resists the temptation to overplay the role for comic relief, giving Pamela a genuine warmth that contrasts the darkness overtaking her daughters’ lives. This restraint keeps the film grounded, preventing it from becoming camp and ensuring its humor arises naturally from character interactions rather than exaggerated antics.
Visually, Ginger Snaps sidesteps the glossy look of higher-budget Hollywood horror, opting instead for the muted realism of suburban streets and dimly lit interiors. This aesthetic choice enhances the film’s authenticity, making the supernatural intrusion feel more jarring. The creature effects, while limited by budget, are used sparingly and effectively; rather than relying on endless transformation sequences, the filmmakers allow viewers’ imaginations to fill in the most disturbing details. This restraint mirrors the approach of Dog Soldiers, demonstrating that practical effects and atmospheric tension often outshine CGI spectacle.
The film’s release trajectory reflects its cult status. Premiering at the 2000 Toronto International Film Festival, Ginger Snaps did not achieve immediate mainstream attention. Instead, it found its audience gradually, through word of mouth and home video rentals. Horror fans discovered it over time, drawn to its unconventional blend of teenage angst and supernatural dread. In the years since, it has earned a devoted following and spawned two sequels—Ginger Snaps 2: Unleashed (2004) and Ginger Snaps Back: The Beginning (2004)—that expanded the lore while retaining the core themes of the original.
Part of the film’s enduring appeal is that it approaches werewolf mythology with fresh eyes. Traditionally, cinematic werewolves are framed around male protagonists, their curse tied to aggression, uncontrollable rage, or forbidden lust in a way that reflects masculine fears and desires. By centering two teenage girls and equating lycanthropy with female sexuality and transformation, Ginger Snaps subverts these tropes, adding complexity to a genre often dominated by male perspectives. The werewolf becomes a vehicle for exploring how society reacts to—and attempts to control—the emergence of female autonomy.
Dark humor plays an important role as well. The Fitzgerald sisters’ sardonic wit is woven throughout, providing moments of levity even as events grow increasingly grim. These comedic beats arise out of their personalities, underscoring their outsider status and emotional coping mechanisms. The humor and horror work in tandem, preventing the film from collapsing into bleakness while maintaining its bite.
Thematically, Ginger Snaps joins a short list of werewolf films that transcend their genre trappings, akin to An American Werewolf in London (1981) or The Company of Wolves (1984). It invites analysis not just for its scares but for what those scares signify: the fear of change, the allure of liberation, and the strain placed on human bonds by transformation—be it supernatural or psychological. In this respect, it aligns with Cronenberg’s The Fly, where bodily change becomes the central metaphor for loss and evolution.
Two decades later, the film remains a touchstone for horror fans advocating for more diverse and conceptually rich werewolf stories. Its success highlights that the subgenre’s scarcity is not due to audience disinterest but perhaps to a lack of filmmakers willing to innovate beyond conventional “monster hunt” templates. As the horror landscape continues to evolve, Ginger Snaps offers a blueprint for blending creature mythology with compelling character drama, ensuring that lycanthropes can be as emotionally resonant as their undead or vampiric cousins.
For viewers wondering why werewolf cinema lags behind zombie apocalypses and vampire sagas, Ginger Snaps provides an answer: when the subgenre is approached with thematic depth, sharp performances, and genuine character stakes, it can be every bit as compelling—and perhaps even more relatable—than its supernatural peers. In weaving together dark humor, horror, and adolescence’s raw turbulence, the film stands as a rare entry that deserves both its cult following and its place in the broader horror canon.
As I try to put into words my reaction to the new film Dream House, one phrase comes to mind:
Bleh.
Dream House is about this guy played by Daniel Craig who we’re told, at the start of the film, is a writer. He’s moved out to his “Dream House” out in the middle of one of those cinematic suburban communities. He shares his dream house with his wife Libby (Rachel Weisz) and his two little girls. However, things aren’t quite what they seem. The girls keep seeing a shadowy figure watching them. Teenagers keep performing Satanic rituals in the basement. Craig’s neighbor looks just like Naomi Watts. Oh no! Has he been sucked into Mulholland Drive!?
No, not quite. Instead, he’s just found himself trapped in a painfully slow movie that takes itself and it’s half-baked plot way too seriously. This film is being advertised as if it’s a horror movie but there’s nothing scary about it and it’s almost as if the film itself is refusing to lower itself to providing us with any “cheap” thrills. The film instead is a mystery but it’s one of those mysteries where we discover the solution not through any artfully placed clues but instead by random characters showing up and having flashbacks.
There’s a big twist about 80 minutes into this 99 minute film and, as a reviewer, I know that it would not be right for me to spoil that twist. Fortunately, however, Morgan Creek Productions decided to include that twist in the film’s trailer so, if you want to know, here you go:
Again, it takes this film 80 minutes to reach the twist that the trailer reveals after 1 minutes and 17 seconds. So, as a result, you spend the first 80 minutes going, “Okay, we know…” Once the twist is revealed, there’s only 18 minutes to wrap up the film’s plot and this is done in the clumsiest way imaginable.
Now, one reason for this might be that the film’s producers reportedly clashed with director Jim Sheridan and eventually took the film away from him. Sheridan, Craig, and Watts have all refused to do any promotion for the film and have publicly stated that they hate the version that has been released. I don’t know. My natural impulse has always been to side with the artists as opposed to the corporate people. After all, we’ve all heard about what happened to Erich Von Stroheim’s original cut of Greed and about what Terry Gilliam went through with Brazil. Still, it’s hard to look at the assembled footage and see any hint that this film could have been anything more than the film that’s currently playing at your local theater.
When I told Arleigh about my feelings towards Dream House, he asked me if I felt it was the “worst one of the year.” I wouldn’t go quite that far. Dream House is forgettable but it’s not as pompous as The Conspirator or as insulting as Straw Dogs.
