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Review: Frank Herbert’s Children of Dune

Posted on by Arleigh

“To know the future is to be trapped by it.” — Leto II Atreides

Children of Dune is one of those sci-fi miniseries that feels a little rough around the edges, but still manages to hit with real ambition, atmosphere, and a lot more emotional weight than its modest TV budget might suggest. It is based on Frank Herbert’s Dune Messiah and Children of Dune, aired on the Sci Fi Channel in 2003 as a three-part miniseries, and it serves as a continuation of the 2000 Frank Herbert’s Dune adaptation.

What makes this version stand out is that it doesn’t just try to retell a story about desert politics and giant worms. It digs into legacy, prophecy, religious fanaticism, and the terrifying cost of being treated like a messiah. That sounds heavy, and it is, but the miniseries keeps moving with enough drama, betrayals, and strange mythic energy that it rarely feels static.

The opening section works especially well because it immediately reminds you that Paul Atreides’ victory was never a clean one. By the time the story gets going, his empire is already rotting from the inside, and the series makes a strong case that power on Arrakis is always poisoned by something, whether it is politics, faith, or the sand itself. The shift from Paul’s once-legendary rise to the unraveling of the world around his children gives the story a tragic tone that fits Herbert’s universe perfectly.

A big reason the miniseries works is that it understands Dune is not really about flashy action, even though it has some. It is about ideas, and this adaptation is willing to spend time on them. The show’s best material comes from the way it frames religion as both weapon and trap, especially once the myth of Muad’Dib starts consuming the people who worshiped him. That theme gives the whole thing a haunted feeling, like everyone is living inside a prophecy they do not fully understand.

The cast does a lot of heavy lifting, too. Alec Newman brings a wounded, exhausted quality to Paul that fits the role well, and his scenes carry real sadness because he feels like a man who has seen too far and cannot unsee it. Jessica Brooks, James McAvoy, and Julie Cox all help ground the family drama, while Susan Sarandon brings a cold intensity that gives the political side of the story some bite. Even when the dialogue gets stiff, the actors usually sell the material better than the script itself does.

One of the most interesting choices in Children of Dune is how it treats the twins, Leto II and Ghanima, as more than just plot devices. Their importance is obvious from the beginning, but the series gradually builds them into the real center of gravity. That works because the story is partly about inheritance, and these kids are inheriting not just a throne, but a nightmare of destiny, expectation, and manipulation. The series knows that the most dangerous thing in this universe is not a blade or a bomb, but a future someone insists is already written.

The production design is another area where the miniseries earns a lot of goodwill. It has that early-2000s TV look, sure, and some effects are clearly limited by the era, but the sets, costumes, and overall visual imagination give it a strong sense of place. Arrakis feels harsh and ceremonial at the same time, which is exactly what it should feel like. The costumes also help sell the political divide between factions, making the whole thing look more like a living empire than a generic sci-fi stage.

There are moments where the miniseries feels very theatrical, almost to a fault. Characters occasionally deliver lines with so much seriousness that the show risks sounding like it is declaring its themes instead of dramatizing them. That said, this is also part of the charm. Children of Dune is not embarrassed by its own scale or its own weirdness, and that confidence helps it pull off material that could easily have collapsed under a more self-conscious approach.

The pacing is mostly solid across the three parts, though it does have the usual miniseries issue of compressing a very large story into a limited runtime. Because it covers most of Dune Messiah in the first installment and then adapts Children of Dune in the later parts, some transitions feel abrupt and some developments move faster than they probably should. Still, the adaptation largely keeps its focus, and it is impressive how much story it packs in without turning into total chaos.

If there is a weakness here, it is that the miniseries can sometimes feel like it is working harder to explain the mythology than to make you feel it. Herbert’s world is notoriously dense, and this version does not always smooth that out for viewers who are not already familiar with the books. A newcomer could easily feel like they have been dropped into the middle of a dynastic collapse with very little hand-holding. But for a follow-up to Frank Herbert’s Dune, that density is more of a feature than a bug.

The best compliment I can give Children of Dune is that it respects the seriousness of its material without becoming completely lifeless. It has the courage to be grand, strange, and a little mournful all at once. Even when the execution is uneven, the miniseries understands that the heart of this saga is not a simple battle for power. It is the burden of seeing the future and realizing it may be worse than the present.

As a sequel, it improves on the sense of scale and emotional consequence from the earlier adaptation. It feels less like an introduction to a universe and more like the tragic fallout of one. That makes it a more satisfying watch for viewers who want Dune to feel like an epic family tragedy instead of just a sand-covered political thriller. The fact that it does this on TV, with all the limitations that implies, makes the achievement even more impressive.

In the end, Children of Dune is a flawed but memorable miniseries that succeeds because it commits to its own strange seriousness. It may not be sleek, and it may not always be easy to follow, but it has ideas, mood, and a genuine sense of doom that suits Herbert’s universe. For fans of the books, it is one of the more interesting screen adaptations because it is willing to lean into the philosophical and tragic side of the saga rather than sanding it down into something safer. For everyone else, it is still a fascinating piece of early-2000s sci-fi television that swings bigger than most shows of its era.

Review: Frank Herbert’s Dune

Posted on by Arleigh

“Mercy is a word I no longer understand.” — Paul Atreides

Frank Herbert’s Dune, the 2000 Syfy Channel miniseries, stands as a scrappy yet heartfelt attempt to tame the untamable beast that is Frank Herbert’s sprawling sci-fi epic Dune. Clocking in at nearly four hours across three parts, it doesn’t pretend to be the cinematic knockout punch of Denis Villeneuve’s Dune: Part One and Dune: Part Two, nor does it dive headfirst into the psychedelic rabbit hole of David Lynch’s notoriously bonkers 1984 film. Instead, it carves out its own lane as the faithful workhorse adaptation—the one that prioritizes stuffing in every major plot thread, faction rivalry, and philosophical nugget from the novel without apology. That dogged completeness earns it major points from book purists, even if the early-2000s TV production values leave it looking like a glorious mess next to today’s blockbuster standards. It’s the version you revisit when you want Dune’s full political chessboard laid bare, rough edges and all.

Right from the opening narration, you sense this miniseries is playing a different game. While Villeneuve hooks you with those thunderous sandworm roars and vast desert expanses that make Arrakis feel like a character unto itself, and Lynch blasts you with industrial-gothic sets and nose-plug close-ups that scream “weird,” the Syfy take eases in with expository voiceover and sweeping shots of Caladan’s misty nobility. The budget screams made-for-TV: thopters wobble like cheap models on strings, sandworms shimmer with dated CGI that wouldn’t pass muster even in 2000, and interstellar travel feels more like a quick fade than a hyperspace spectacle. Yet there’s charm in the earnestness—the ornate costumes drip with imperial excess, from House Atreides’ regal blues to the Harkonnens’ sickly pallor, capturing Herbert’s baroque universe better than Lynch’s fever-dream excess or Villeneuve’s minimalist severity. It’s alien and opulent without trying to reinvent the wheel visually, letting the story’s inherent strangeness do the heavy lifting.

What truly sets this adaptation apart is its unhurried commitment to Dune’s core as a tale of interstellar realpolitik, not just laser swords and monster chases. The miniseries luxuriates in the scheming: extended scenes of Bene Gesserit whispering manipulations across generations, Emperor Shaddam IV plotting from his golden throne, and the Spacing Guild’s monopoly stranglehold get room to breathe. Lynch crammed this into a frantic 137 minutes, resorting to on-screen crawls and “the spice must flow” explainers that border on parody, while Villeneuve elegantly implies much of it through mood and subtext, trimming for pace. Here, the trap closes deliberately—Duke Leto’s honorable doom unfolds with all its tragic inevitability, Paul’s Fremen transformation simmers with ecological and messianic tension, and the Baron’s depravity feels like a rotting empire’s symptom. It’s talkier, sure, but that density mirrors the novel’s heady mix of ecology, religion, and colonialism, making the good-vs-evil surface hide a much murkier power grab.

Faithfulness is the miniseries’ superpower, and stacking it against the films drives that home. Lynch’s Dune is a directorial fever dream—brilliant in bursts (those Guild Navigators floating in spice tanks are iconic), but it mangles the timeline, invents “weirding modules” and pain boxes that Herbert never dreamed of, and caps with a cheesy resurrection and empire-toppling finale that feels like fanfic. Villeneuve’s duology is a masterclass in restraint and awe: Part One builds unbearable dread through silence and scale, Part Two unleashes Paul’s holy war turn with chilling clarity, but both demand sequels and sacrifice chunks like Thufir Hawat’s full betrayal arc or the ecological long-view for runtime efficiency. The Syfy version? It hits about 90% of the book’s beats in one self-contained package—Paul drinks the Water of Life, rides the first worm, unites the tribes, all while fleshing out Yueh’s guilt, Gurney’s survival, and Irulan’s expanded role as a scheming narrator who spies on the action. Smart tweaks like inner-monologue voiceovers clarify the mental gymnastics without Lynch’s exposition overload.

The ensemble punches above the production’s weight, delivering performances that ground the sprawl. Alec Newman’s Paul Atreides evolves from callow youth to burdened Kwisatz Haderach with a steely intensity—more seasoned than Kyle MacLachlan’s wide-eyed innocent in Lynch’s film or Timothée Chalamet’s introspective minimalist in Villeneuve’s, but convincingly haunted by prescient visions. William Hurt’s Duke Leto radiates quiet nobility, a paternal rock that Oscar Isaac matches with fiercer charisma but less screen time. Saskia Reeves’ Lady Jessica is a coiled operative, mastering the Voice while Rebecca Ferguson brings feral maternal fire and Francesca Annis floats as an ethereal priestess. Ian McNeice’s Baron Harkonnen oozes grotesque glee, echoing Kenneth McMillan’s scenery-chewing blimp but with slyer malice; Stellan Skarsgård’s version chills as a tactical monster sans the floating fat-suit camp. Chani fares best as Barbora Kodetová’s fierce Fremen equal, outshining Lynch’s rushed Sean Young and edging Zendaya’s mythic close-ups with raw tribe loyalty. Even bit players like Robert Wisdom’s Idaho shine brighter than their film counterparts.

Directorial choices by John Harrison emphasize theatricality over cinema flair, turning court scenes into operatic standoffs that suit Dune’s ritualistic pomp. Princess Irulan’s upgrade—from bookend quotes to active imperial intriguer—adds a vital scheming perspective Lynch ignored and Villeneuve teases for later. The gom jabbar test throbs with intimate terror, Fremen sietches pulse with cultural depth, and the final duel crackles despite modest effects. Pacing lags in spots—the Atreides downfall stretches, subplots like Feyd-Rautha’s gladiatorial intro feel obligatory—but that thoroughness lets overlooked gems like the dinner-table tensions and spice-blow ecology lectures land fully. Brian Tyler’s score swells bombastically, aping Zimmer’s primal dread without the subtlety, yet it propels the saga forward.

Flaws glare under modern scrutiny: effects age like milk (those ornithopters!), editing chops unevenly between threads, and some line deliveries veer stagey next to Villeneuve’s hushed precision or Lynch’s unhinged energy. It lacks the 1984 film’s quotable weirdness (“The sleeper must awaken!”) or the recent epics’ IMAX transcendence, feeling more like a filmed audiobook than immersive event cinema. Still, that scrappiness fits Dune’s prickly soul—ornate yet precarious, cerebral yet visceral. Herbert crafted a warning about heroes and empires; this miniseries trusts you to unpack it, preserving the unsettling texture the smoother films sometimes polish away.

Revisiting after the others clarifies its niche perfectly. Lynch’s Dune is the cult oddity—fractured, visionary, endlessly memeable despite narrative chaos. Villeneuve’s saga is prestige sci-fi at its peak: disciplined, subversive, a slow-burn symphony begging Part Three. The Syfy miniseries? Your completist’s deep cut—comprehensive, unpretentious, ideal for dissecting the guilds, houses, and prophecies on a rainy weekend. Constraints hobble the spectacle, but the ambition to honor Herbert’s labyrinthine blueprint shines through.

Ultimately, Frank Herbert’s Dune miniseries claims no crowns as the ultimate adaptation—that debate rages between Lynch’s deranged heart, Villeneuve’s cool mastery, or the book itself. At around 1150 words, it’s a worthy underdog: earnest, exhaustive, and true to the novel’s tangled genius. Fire it up if you crave Dune’s unfiltered intrigue over heart-pounding visuals. It respects the spice’s full flow, worms and all.

Horror Review: Day of the Dead (dir. by George A. Romero)

Posted on by Arleigh

“You want to put some kind of explanation down here before you leave? Here’s one as good as any you’re likely to find. We’re bein’ punished by the Creator…” — John “Flyboy”

George A. Romero’s 1985 film Day of the Dead stands as an unflinching and deeply cynical meditation on the collapse of society amid a relentless zombie apocalypse, intensifying thematic and narrative complexities first introduced in Night of the Living Dead (1968) and Dawn of the Dead (1978).

Originally, Romero envisioned the film as an epic, describing it as “the Gone with the Wind of zombie films.” His screenplay featured above-ground scenes and a more expansive narrative, but budget cuts halved the original $7 million budget to $3.5 million, forcing a drastic paredown. While much grandiosity was lost, the trimming resulted in a tighter narrative and heightened the nihilistic tone, deepening the film’s focused exploration of humanity’s darkest aspects during apocalypse.

Set after civilization has collapsed, Day of the Dead places viewers in the suffocating confines of a missile silo bunker in Florida, where scientists and soldiers struggle for survival and solutions amid encroaching undead hordes. The claustrophobic atmosphere—born partly from the abandonment of Romero’s broader original sequences—intensifies the tension between the hopeful scientific pursuit of salvation and the harsh pragmatism of military authority. These competing ideologies escalate into authoritarian violence, embodying the fractured microcosm of a dying society.

Within this claustrophobic world, a third group—composed of characters Flyboy and McDermott—emerges as a stand-in for the rest of humanity. They observe the scientists and soldiers—institutions historically symbols of security and innovation—but witness how these deeply entrenched ways of thinking only exacerbate problems instead of solving them. This third faction characterizes humanity caught between rigid orders and doomed pursuits, reflecting Romero’s broader commentary on societal stagnation and fragmentation.

Central to this conflict are Dr. Logan, or “Frankenstein,” a scientist obsessed with controlling the undead through experimentation, and Captain Rhodes, the hardened soldier who believes survival demands ruthless control.

Logan’s controversial research seeks to domesticate and condition zombies, notably through his most celebrated subject, Bub—the undead zombie capable of rudimentary recognition and emotion—challenging assumptions about humanity and monstrosity.

Here the film benefits greatly from the extraordinary practical effects work of Tom Savini, whose contributions on Day of the Dead are widely considered his magnum opus. Savini’s makeup and gore effects remain unsurpassed in zombie cinema, continually influencing horror visuals to this day. Drawing from his experience as a combat photographer in Vietnam, Savini brought visceral realism to every decomposed corpse and violent injury. The close-quarters zombie encounters showcase meticulous practical work—detailed wounds, biting, and dismemberment—rendered with stunning anatomical authenticity that predates CGI dominance.

Bub, also a masterclass in makeup and animatronics, embodies this fusion of horror and humanity with lifelike textures and movements that blur the line between corpse and creature, rendering the undead terrifyingly believable.

The film captures the growing paranoia and cruelty as resources dwindle—food, ammunition, and medical supplies—and the fragile social order begins to shatter. The characters’ mounting desperation illustrates Romero’s thesis that humanity’s real enemy may be its own incapacity for cooperation.

The moral and social decay is vividly portrayed through characters like Miguel, whose mental breakdown sets destructive events in motion, and Rhodes, whose authoritarian survivalism fractures alliances and moral compass alike. Logan’s cold detachment and experiments push ethical boundaries in a world on the brink.

Romero’s direction combines claustrophobic dread with stark psychological terror, further amplified by Savini’s effects. The cinematography’s low lighting and tight framing create an oppressive environment, while graphic violence underscores a world irrevocably broken. The unsettling sound design—moans, silences, sudden outbreaks—immerses viewers in a relentless atmosphere of decay and fear.

Romero described Day of the Dead as a tragedy about how lack of human communication causes chaos and collapse even in this small slice of society. The dysfunction—soldiers and scientists talking past each other, eroding trust, spirals of paranoia—serves as a bleak allegory for 1980s America’s political and cultural fragmentation. Failed teamwork, mental health crises, and fatal miscommunication thrive as the bunker metaphorically becomes a prison of fractured humanity.

Though not as commercially successful as its predecessors, Day of the Dead remains the bleakest and most nihilistic entry in Romero’s Dead series. Its overall grim tone, combined with mostly unlikable characters, establishes it as the most desolate and truly apocalyptic film of the series. The characters often appear fractured, neurotic, and unable to escape their own destructive tendencies, making the story’s world feel even more hopeless and devastating.

Far beyond a simple gore fest, Day of the Dead serves as a profound social critique infused with psychological depth. It explores fear, isolation, authority abuse, and the ethical limits of science, reflecting enduring anxieties about society and survival. The film’s unsettling portrayal of humanity’s failings, embodied in broken relationships and moral decay, presents a harsh reckoning with what it means to be human when humanity itself is the ultimate threat to its own existence. This thematic complexity, combined with Romero’s unyielding vision and Savini’s unparalleled effects, crafts a chilling and unforgettable cinematic experience.

Late Night Retro Television Reviews: Nightmare Café 1.4 “The Heart of Mystery”

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

Welcome to Late Night Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past!  On Mondays, I will be reviewing Nightmare Café, which ran on NBC from January to April of 1992.  The entire show is currently streaming on YouTube!

This week, a dying detective is allowed a chance to solve one last case.

Episode 1.4 “The Heart of Mystery”

(Dir by John Harrison, originally aired on March 20th, 1992)

This week’s episode of Nightmare Café is the first to largely focus on a guest star.  While Jack Coleman and Lindsay Frost do play roles in this week’s episode and Robert Englund’s Blackie actually gets to do more than usual, the majority of the episode is still dominated by Timothy Carhart as Detective Stan Gates.

One dark night, Stan chases a young thief (played by Alfonso Quijada) into a dark alley.  When the thief pulls a gun on him, Stan explains that he’s a police officer and he’s not trying to take the thief to jail.  He explains that he knows the young man is on drugs and is not in full control of his actions.  He asks the young man to give him the gun.

Meanwhile, in the nearby Nightmare Café, a bored Frank and Fay are playing a game of Clue.  (Colonel Mustard did it.)  Stan walks into the café and asks for a cup of coffee.  Robert Englund’s Blackie suddenly appears sitting in a booth and eating from a bag of popcorn.  He introduce himself to Stan and then leads Stan over to a window.  Looking through the window, Stan can see himself and the thief in the alley.  The thief has fired the gun and the bullet appears to be suspended in the air.  Blackie explains that the café has slowed down time to give Stan the chance to solve one last case before the bullet hits and kills him.

The case involves the death of Charlotte Bening (Laura Mae Tate), a wealthy woman with whom Stan was in love.  One night, when Stan was investigating a break-in at her mansion, Stan fired his weapon at what he believed to be the burglar.  Someone hit him from behind, knocking him out.  When Stan woke up, he discovered that the person who was actually shot was Charlotte!  While the police ruled it an accidental shooting, Stan was convinced that someone specifically set him up.  Could it have been Charlotte’s brother, a frustrated artist named Philip (Denis Forest, who also appeared in last week’s episode of Friday the 13th)?  Or could it have been …. well, there is no one else, actually.  The great Lochlyn Munro does make a brief appearance as one of Charlotte’s more aggressive suitors but he’s only onscreen for a few minutes.  There’s not much suspense to this mystery.

That said, I did enjoy this episode of Nightmare Café, which not only pays homage to film noir but which also features Robert Englund at his quippy best as he passive-aggressively pushes Stan into solving the case.  Fay does briefly leave the café so that she can pretend to be the producer of a true crime series and interview some of the people who knew Charlotte and Stan but, for the most part, this episode is centered around Timothy Carhart and Robert Englund and both of them carry things nicely.  Though the episode’s format probably confused those who, on the basis of the previous three episode, didn’t realize that Nightmare Café was originally envisioned as being an anthology series, The Heart of Mystery holds up very well.

Horror Film Review: Tales From The Darkside: The Movie (dir by John Harrison)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

First released in 1990 and based on a horror-themed television series that was created by the one-and-only George Romero, Tales From The Darkside: The Movie is an anthology film.  Usually, I can’t stand anthology films because it seems like the viewer only gets one good story and has to sit through two or three mediocre stories to get to the worthwhile stuff.  However, I have to say that I really enjoyed all of the stories featured in Tales From The Darkside: The Movie.

The film opens with a wrap-around story, featuring Timmy (Matthew Lawrence), a young boy who is chained up in a pantry and who a local witch named Betty (Debbie Harry) is planning on cooking for a dinner party.  Timmy tries to distract Betty from her kitchen duties by telling her three stories.

The first story features Steve Buscemi as a nerdy college student named Edward Bellingham.  On the verge of getting a much-needed scholarship, Edward is framed for theft by two of his classmates (one of whom is played by Julianne Moore) and loses the scholarship.  Edward responds by doing what anyone would do.  He unrolls an ancient parchment and brings to life a mummy who kills his rivals.  A very preppy Christian Slater plays Andy, the smug brother of one of the victims who seeks revenge against Bellingham.  In a surprise twist, Bellingham is able to get some vengeance of his own.

The second story features William Hickey as Drogan, an annoying old man who is convinced that he is being stalked by an evil black cat.  Drogan hires a hitman (David Johansen) to kill the cat but, as we all know, black cats are far more clever than anyone realizes.  The story ends on a notably grisly note because cats rule!

Finally, the third story features James Remar as a struggling artist who, one night, discovers that the stone gargoyle that sits atop of his apartment building is actually alive.  After witnessing the gargoyle kill someone, the artist promises never to reveal that the gargoyle exists.  “Cross your heart?” the gargoyle asks before flying away.  Later, the artist meets a mysterious woman (Rae Dawn Chong) who helps him to become a success on the art scene.  However, even after he marries the woman and they start a family, Remar is still haunted by his memories of the gargoyle.

As I said at the start of this review, I’m not a huge fan of anthology films but I really liked Tales From The Darkside: The Movie.  All three of the stories are equally good and there’s really not a slow spot to be found.  This is a horror anthology that manages to balance scares and laughs without becoming too silly or forgetting that the movie is meant to be a horror story.  Steve Buscemi, Christian Slater, and James Remar are stand-outs amongst the cast.  Even the wrap-around story had a good ending!

If you’re going to watch an anthology film for Halloween, allow me to recommend Tales From The Darkside: The Movie!

Creepshow, S1 Ep 1, “Gray Matter” “The House of the Head” Review by Case Wright

Posted on by casewright

Creepshow

Happy Horrorthon! We are in the thick of it and it is AWESOME! Yes, I got another streaming subscription service, but I draw the line at Disney and CBS because they’re boring.  In 1982, Creepshow was a film written, produced, and directed by horror masters, including Stephen King.  The stories were an homage to the EC Horror Comics from the 1950s and 1960s.  The show has become reincarnated on the Shudder streaming service and I will review all of the episodes as they are released.

What’s great about these shows (except for Two Sentence Horror, which is a steaming pile of garbage) is that they give talented people a chance to direct or write when they haven’t had the opportunity prior. Also, because Greg Nicotero (Executive Producer Of The Walking Dead and friend to everyone in horror) is helming it, the show has tremendous access to great stories by Stephen King and actors like Tobin Bell (Saw) and Giancarlo Esposito (Breaking Bad).

The two stories in the premiere were Gray Matter – a Stephen King short story from Night Shift, Directed by Greg Nicotero and The House of the Head was the second story and was Directed by John Harrison, written by Josh Malerman.  The two stories and direction were completely different.

Gray Matter was what I expected: an over the top story with lots of gore that would have been totally at home in a Tales From the Crypt episode.  The House of the Head, on the other hand was genuinely TERRIFYING! I had trouble watching this story because it was so intense that I really worried about the characters and the figurines- I’ll explain later.

Gray Matter is about a son who’s trying to live with his alcoholic single dad.  Everyday the Dad promises to stop drinking and everyday it ends with both of them disappointed.

One day, the father drinks some tainted beer and turns into a slime monster with a craving for beer and people.  The son who enabled his father’s drinking now enables his father’s thirst for human flesh.

This enabling dooms mankind. In essence, the disease of alcoholism consumed the alcoholic and destroyed everyone around him. Sounds about right.

At this time in the 1980s, Stephen King was in the worst period of his cocaine and alcohol addiction and many of his stories revolve around the enabling and tragedy that followed his disease.  In an interview, he described how he put cotton balls up his nose from the frequent bleeds and he kept a sugar bowl filled with cocaine next to him while he wrote.

The symbolism in the episode was not that obvious; it was much into dramatic performances and gore. The monster was a classic Tom Savini art work.

The House of the Head was amazingly unexpected.  It was tense, subtle, and had you on the edge of your seat for the entire episode.  Evie, the central protagonist in The House of the Head, is a nine year old girl whose father got her a dollhouse. Screenshot (98).png

The dollhouse is adorable with cute figurine parents and a child.

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Unfortunately, the dollhouse is also haunted by a severed head!!!! Yikes!

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The writing and direction ramps up the tension as we see that reality is being blurred by this supernatural entity.  The figurines in the dollhouse get terrorized and murdered by the severed head.  It’s real nightmare fuel.

The suspense/thriller writing and directing was also unexpected.  I thought it was going to be a Tales From the Crypt style story; instead John Harrison (Dir) and Josh Malerman (Writer) relentlessly pull the viewer into the haunted dollhouse where every shot is filled with uncertainty and terror.

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The dollhouse itself becomes a character and the viewer is forced to wonder if our protagonist and her parents are in fact figurines themselves with shots like this.

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The parents are laying in an doll-like manner and the furniture also looks like a dollhouse’s accessories. Is the Head pulling them into a dollhouse world? Is it pushing its way into our reality? Much like the episode itself, you never really know. Every time Evie looks from one room to another, the camera pans back and the figurines have changed and it’s rarely good.

This show was a lot of fun and it’s great to see a horror anthology story done well!

It’s not really enough to recommend this show without recommending Shudder itself. It’s not a lot of money per month and has a lot of original programming.

Horror On TV: Tales From The Crypt 3.8 “Easel Kill” (dir by John Harrison)

Posted on by Lisa Marie Bowman

For tonight’s excursion into televised horror, we have the 8th episode of the 3rd season of HBO’s Tales From The Crypt!

Easel Kill feels a bit like a remake of Color Me Blood Red.  Tim Roth plays a painter who appears to have lost his talent.  Apparently, he has recently stopped drinking and he’s just not that inspired when he’s sober.  (However, he’s just as angry as he’s always been.  He’s the type of neighbor who will push someone off of a fire escape if they’re playing their music too loud.)  Fortunately, once he starts painting with blood, people are suddenly interested in his paintings.

The only problem is getting the blood…

This episode originally aired on July 17th, 1991.

Enjoy!