Tag Archives: Tri-Star Pictures

Horror Film Review: Night of the Creeps (dir. by Fred Dekker)

Posted on by Arleigh

“Zombies, exploding heads, creepy-crawlies… and a date for the formal. This is classic, Spanky.” — Detective Ray Cameron

College is supposed to be a time for making questionable choices, but accidentally helping alien parasites invade campus probably falls outside the usual learning experience. That’s the basic joke behind Night of the Creeps, and Fred Dekker gets an impressive amount of mileage out of it. His 1986 horror comedy mixes the social embarrassment of a campus movie with the bodily violations of a creature feature, then throws in a detective who looks like he hasn’t enjoyed either company or daylight in years. The ingredients are familiar, but the combination has real personality. It’s messy, funny, occasionally touching, and much more interested in entertaining you than looking respectable.

Before the college kids get their chance to make everything worse, Dekker establishes that trouble has been brewing for decades. An opening aboard an alien spacecraft leads into a black-and-white stretch set in 1959, where young love runs into both an escaped axe murderer and an extraterrestrial experiment. It’s a wonderfully excessive introduction, almost daring you to question whether one movie needs all these threats. Somehow, the pieces fit. The opening establishes a history that will eventually catch up with the present, making the later outbreak feel like the continuation of a very bad night rather than a completely random disaster.

In 1986, Chris Romero, played by Jason Lively, has more ordinary concerns. He’s interested in Cynthia Cronenberg, played by Jill Whitlow, and figures pledging a fraternity might improve his romantic prospects. His best friend J.C., played by Steve Marshall, accompanies him on an initiation assignment to steal a corpse. This is, unsurprisingly, not a great plan. Their search brings them to a preserved body, and disturbing it helps unleash the alien slugs that drive the rest of the story. Dekker makes the escalation amusingly direct: Chris wants a more exciting social life, and the universe supplies one with considerably more decomposing flesh than he probably imagined.

The campus setting gives the movie an enjoyable contrast between petty problems and catastrophic ones. Fraternity status and romantic competition seem important until people start becoming breeding grounds for something from outer space. Still, the college-comedy material is also where the film feels most routine. The fraternity antagonists are obnoxious in predictable ways, and Chris spends a fair amount of time being the awkward underdog you’ve seen before. Lively keeps him sympathetic, but the character could use more spark. Cynthia is similarly likable without being especially developed. Whitlow gives her warmth, though the romance never becomes as engaging as the friendships surrounding it.

J.C. is a big reason those friendships work. Marshall brings a loose, teasing energy that makes his exchanges with Chris feel comfortable rather than written purely to deliver information. He can recognize that his friend is being ridiculous without making his affection seem conditional. That gives their relationship some substance beneath the jokes. In a lesser version of this movie, J.C. would exist only to encourage the romance and provide sarcastic commentary. Here, he becomes its emotional anchor. When the danger reaches him, the film briefly stops feeling like a harmless parade of genre references, and that change carries a genuine sting.

Tom Atkins gives the movie a different kind of personality as Detective Ray Cameron. He’s gruff, sarcastic, and seemingly irritated that another day has required his participation. Atkins knows exactly how to sell the dialogue, making “Thrill me” sound like the natural greeting of someone who expects disappointment and would appreciate being surprised. But Cameron isn’t just a collection of quotable lines. His connection to the events of 1959 gives his bitterness a history. Atkins lets that sadness sit beneath the swagger, which makes the character entertaining without reducing him to a tough-guy impersonation. He’s easily the strongest presence whenever he enters a scene.

Dekker deserves credit for allowing those feelings to coexist with the ridiculousness. Night of the Creeps has an obvious sense of humor about itself, but it doesn’t treat caring about its characters as another joke. The actors generally play the danger straight, leaving the comedy to emerge from their reactions and the increasingly unreasonable situation. That approach gives the darker moments room to land. The movie has heart, not because it pauses to insist on its importance, but because friendship and regret remain meaningful even when someone’s head might become a delivery system for space slugs.

The practical effects make that threat suitably unpleasant. There’s something especially nasty about creatures that don’t need to overpower you so much as find an opening, and the slugs turn an exposed mouth into a source of tension. The walking corpses have a grubby physicality that suits the film’s scrappy atmosphere. You can enjoy the craftsmanship while still appreciating how disgusting the result looks. The pacing isn’t quite as dependable: a few stretches of campus business delay the monster action, and the shifts between broad comedy and distress occasionally feel abrupt. Once the outbreak builds toward the formal dance, though, the movie finds the momentum it needs.

What ultimately makes Night of the Creeps work is that its foolish decisions have consequences worth caring about. Chris’s attempt to improve his college experience opens the door to a grotesque disaster, but Dekker doesn’t leave the story at “look what these idiots did.” He gives the characters reasons to stand by one another when their ordinary concerns become irrelevant. That makes the finale more satisfying than a simple procession of creature effects. The movie delivers its share of slime, corpses, and deadpan jokes, then leaves behind a surprisingly warm impression. For a story about things crawling inside people, it’s remarkably good company.

Review: Angel Heart (dir. by Alan Parker)

Posted on by Arleigh

“They say there’s just enough religion in the world to make men hate one another, but not enough to make them love.” — Louis Cyphre

Angel Heart is one of those ’80s movies that sneaks up on you, starting like a gritty detective yarn before plunging into supernatural muck that leaves you questioning everything. Alan Parker’s 1987 neo-noir gem, adapted from William Hjortsberg’s Falling Angel, stars Mickey Rourke as Harry Angel, a down-and-out private eye in 1955 New York who gets pulled into a case that reeks of bad karma from the jump. It’s casual viewing at first—rain-slicked streets, fedoras, the whole bit—but Parker’s got a critical eye for blending hardboiled noir with occult horror, making it stick like gum on your shoe long after the credits roll.

Harry’s your classic hard luck of a gumshoe, hustling divorce cases in a dingy office when this slick mystery man named Louis Cypher (Robert De Niro, chewing scenery with devilish glee—get the name pun?) hires him to track down Johnny Favorite, a crooner who vanished after World War II. Cypher’s got cash to burn and an unsettling vibe that hints at deeper darkness, pulling Harry into a web of lies from the start. Harry follows the trail from NYC’s jazz dives to the steamy underbelly of New Orleans, where voodoo rituals, bloody murders, and hallucinatory nightmares start piling up like bodies in a back alley. Parker does a solid job adapting the source material’s clash of noir cynicism with Southern gothic rot, but his direction leans too heavily on the style of what he thinks a Southern gothic noir is supposed to look like—overripe with misty bayous and candlelit rituals—instead of letting the narrative drive the supernatural melding with the hardboiled detective beats.

What hooks you early is Rourke’s performance—he’s at his pre-meltdown peak here, all brooding intensity and rumpled charm, nailing the everyman unraveling under cosmic pressure. De Niro’s Cypher is a masterclass in minimalism; he lounges in that art deco office peeling a hard-boiled egg with surgical precision, dropping biblical barbs that land like gut punches. It’s not showy, but every word drips menace, elevating the whole film from B-movie territory to something almost operatic. Then there’s Lisa Bonet, fresh off The Cosby Show, diving headfirst into an X-rated role as Epiphany Proudfoot, Johnny’s daughter with a voodoo twist. Her steamy, sweat-drenched sex scene with Harry is erotic nightmare fuel—raw, uncomfortable, and unforgettable, pushing boundaries in a way that got the film slapped with an X rating before settling on R. Parker’s not afraid to get gory either; decapitations and ritual killings hit with visceral thud, but it’s the psychological slow burn that really twists the knife.

The film’s neo-noir DNA shines through in its voiceover narration, shadowy cinematography by Michael Seresin (those rain-lashed rooftops and fog-shrouded bayous are poetry), and a Trevor Jones score laced with eerie blues that pulses like a heartbeat from hell. Parker shifts gears from straight detective procedural to full-on supernatural dread, introducing occult hints gradually—a creepy voodoo ceremony here, a phantom vision there—until the genre flip feels inevitable yet shocking. New Orleans becomes a character itself, all humid decay and ritual undercurrents, contrasting sharp with New York’s cold urban grind. It’s Parker’s only stab at horror (he’s more Mississippi Burning or The Commitments guy), but while he nails the glossy nightmare aesthetic, the heavy stylistic hand sometimes overshadows the organic fusion of noir fatalism and otherworldly dread that the story begs for.

Critically, though, Angel Heart isn’t flawless. The late-game turns pack a wallop but drag a bit in laying out their logic, making you question the elaborate cat-and-mouse when a quicker path might’ve sufficed. Some dated effects in the dream sequences feel cheesy now, a minor blemish on an otherwise polished gem. Pacing sags slightly in the middle as Harry chases red herrings, and while the cast is gold, supporting players like Brownie McGhee as Toots Sweet add flavor without always deepening the mystery. Still, these are nitpicks; Parker’s atmospheric command and thematic depth—exploring guilt, denial, and the inescapability of one’s darker impulses—elevate it above pulp, even if the visuals occasionally feel more like a mood board than narrative propulsion.

Thematically, it’s a devil’s playground. Angel Heart riffs on classic Faustian tropes, but Parker’s critical lens probes deeper into fractured identity and moral rot. Harry’s journey mirrors the novel’s hardboiled cynicism, but the film amps the supernatural, turning noir fatalism into outright damnation. Mirrors recur obsessively—shattered glass, reflections warped by blood—symbolizing a crumbling self-image as buried truths bubble up. Voodoo isn’t just window dressing; it’s woven into the fabric, blending African diaspora mysticism with Catholic guilt for a uniquely American horror. Parker’s post-war setting adds layers, nodding to shell-shocked vets and racial undercurrents without preaching, letting the era’s shadows do the talking, though one wishes the story’s momentum had guided the gothic flourishes rather than the other way around.

Visually, it’s a feast. Seresin’s camera glides through rain-swept nights and candlelit rituals with painterly flair, while Parker’s British outsider gaze infuses Americana with alien menace—think Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil but grimier. The egg-peeling scene alone is iconic, De Niro’s Cypher dissecting morality with yolk-stained fingers. And those final confrontations? Subtle, actor-driven tension that relies on faces, not effects, delivering chills through implication rather than revelation. Jones’ score weaves jazz horns with dissonant strings, amplifying the bluesy fatalism; it’s the perfect auditory companion to Harry’s descent, grounding the style in emotional truth.

For fans of the genre mashup, Angel Heart is essential—think Chinatown meets The Exorcist, with Parker’s glossy sheen making it pop. Rourke’s turn here is arguably his career best, raw and vulnerable before the tabloid implosion; De Niro proves he’s the king of charismatic evil. Bonet’s bold pivot shocked audiences, earning a career-defining role that proved her chops beyond sitcom smiles.

Rewatch value is sky-high; the slow build rewards patience, and clues hidden in plain sight make it a puzzle box. It’s not subtle—Cypher’s name screams spoilers—but that’s part of the fun, a winking nod to infernal cleverness. Parker’s eye for detail shines in production design: peeling wallpaper in tenements, incense-heavy apartments, gator-infested swamps. It’s immersive, oppressive, and oddly seductive, with every frame dripping atmosphere that pulls you deeper into the haze, even if the narrative sometimes plays catch-up to the visuals.

In a sea of jump-scare slop, Angel Heart stands tall as thoughtful horror-noir that lingers because it forces you to confront the monster in the mirror. If you’re digging into ’80s cult classics or just crave a detective tale with teeth, fire it up. It’s flawed, yeah—style occasionally eclipsing story—but those flaws make it human, much like Harry himself.

Review: The Monster Squad (dir. by Fred Dekker)

Posted on by Arleigh

“Creature stole my Twinkie.” – Eugene

Released in 1987, The Monster Squad has lived one of those strange afterlives that cult films sometimes enjoy—ignored or even ridiculed upon release, only to become a beloved artifact for the generation that found it later on VHS. Directed by Fred Dekker and co-written with Shane Black, the movie occupies an awkward but endearing space between horror, comedy, and kids’ adventure. It never fully settles into one tone, and that’s part of both its charm and its problem. Watching it today, the film feels like The Goonies took a detour through a drive-in double feature of Dracula and The Wolf Man. It’s clunky, funny, occasionally mean-spirited, and loaded with enthusiasm—qualities that make it a thoroughly guilty pleasure for fans of ’80s genre mashups.

The story wastes no time getting into its madcap premise. A group of suburban preteens calling themselves “The Monster Squad” find that the classic Universal-style monsters are real, and worse, they’ve come to town. Count Dracula has a plan to plunge the world into darkness using an ancient amulet, and to succeed he enlists a roster of familiar faces: Frankenstein’s Monster, the Mummy, the Gill-Man, and the Wolf Man. This roster is fan-service before fan-service was a marketing term—a kid’s monster toybox brought to life. The squad, of course, must stop them, armed with comic-book knowledge, wooden stakes, and a blend of reckless courage and youthful sarcasm.

Dekker’s direction and tone play like a movie made for kids but smuggled in some heavy teenage energy. There’s violence, crude jokes, and occasional language that Hollywood would never let slip into a PG-friendly franchise today. Yet that rough edge is part of why The Monster Squad aged into cult status. It’s unapologetically of its time, operating on the belief that kids can handle scares as long as they’re fun and that suburban fantasy can, for a while at least, coexist with real danger. The movie’s depiction of childhood feels filtered through a stack of comic books and Creepshow issues—hyper absurd but still emotionally grounded in a way only ’80s adventure films seemed to pull off.

The kids themselves are a mixed bunch of believable archetypes. There’s Sean (André Gower), the de facto leader with a bedroom plastered in monster movie posters; Patrick (Robby Kiger), his wisecracking sidekick; Rudy (Ryan Lambert), the too-cool-for-school older kid who smokes, rides a bike, and somehow becomes the squad’s weapons specialist; and Eugene (Michael Faustino), the youngest, who still sleeps with his dog and writes letters to the Army for backup. They’re joined by Horace, nicknamed “Fat Kid,” played with surprising vulnerability by Brent Chalem. Each character is drawn broadly but memorably, and even when the dialogue veers into dated humor, there’s an underlying sincerity. You can tell Dekker and Black really liked these kids. They might use slingshots and one-liners, but what unites them is their intense sense of loyalty to one another—the kind of friendship that survives both bullies and broomstick-wielding vampires.

If there’s an emotional anchor, oddly enough, it’s the relationship between the squad and Frankenstein’s Monster, played by Tom Noonan in an unexpectedly gentle performance. When the creature befriends the kids, particularly little Phoebe (Ashley Bank), the film shifts momentarily from wisecracks to something close to tenderness. Noonan gives the character a shy uncertainty, a weary loneliness that offsets the visual absurdity of the rubbery monsters around him. There’s even a tinge of tragedy in his final act, which echoes Frankenstein’s literary roots—a moment of real feeling buried inside an otherwise loud and gleefully messy creature romp.

The monsters themselves, created by legendary effects artist Stan Winston, are among the film’s biggest draws. Each design feels like a loving upgrade to the old Universal look—recognizable but more feral, angular, and rooted in late-’80s aesthetics. The Wolf Man, for example, looks simultaneously comic and menacing, while the Gill-Man costume still impresses for its texture and movement decades later. The decision not to rely on stop motion or heavy opticals gives the monsters a tactile presence that CGI could never capture. There’s something about watching full-bodied suits and prosthetics move in real space that makes the threats feel tangible even when the stakes are goofy. These creatures are fun to look at, even when the script doesn’t give them much to do beyond roar and stalk across smoke-filled sets.

Shane Black’s fingerprints are all over the dialogue—the sardonic banter, the genre in-jokes, the affection for both pulp tropes and subverting them. But perhaps because the film was marketed partly as family adventure and partly as horror spoof, it often can’t decide whether to play sincere or ironic. Some scenes lean heavily on nostalgic affection for monster movies, while others feel almost mean in their mockery of small-town innocence. The tone whiplash means The Monster Squad doesn’t build much consistent momentum; one minute it’s heartfelt, the next it’s a barrage of sarcastic one-liners. Still, its rough tonal juggling has a ragtag energy that keeps it lively, and the sheer commitment to blending genres is endearing.

When it comes to pacing, the movie flies by in under 80 minutes, which turns out to be both blessing and curse. On one hand, there’s no filler—every scene moves briskly to the next piece of monster mayhem. On the other, the movie’s emotional beats and mythology barely have time to breathe. We get glimmers of backstory (like Dracula’s cryptic hunt for the amulet and Van Helsing’s prologue battle) that hint at a larger world that the film never really explores. You sense that Dekker and Black were operating under the fantasy logic of childlike storytelling: don’t explain too much, just move fast enough that no one questions it. It works, more or less, because of the film’s sheer enthusiasm, but it leaves you imagining a richer version of this story that never quite made it onscreen.

Looking back from today’s lens, some parts of The Monster Squad show their age more harshly. Certain lines and stereotypes that went unnoticed in the ’80s now feel jarring, even uncomfortable, and the film’s cavalier tone sometimes undercuts moments that should feel more innocent. Yet despite that, most viewers who revisit it with awareness of its era find themselves disarmed by its sense of fun. There’s no cynicism driving it—it’s pure genre love, messy and sincere, like a handmade Halloween costume that’s somehow cooler precisely because it’s imperfect. The film represents a time when kids’ movies were allowed to have teeth, blood, and a few scary moments, trusting that a young audience could handle being spooked without needing everything smoothed over.

For many fans, The Monster Squad works less as a polished film and more as an experience—a flashback to VHS sleepovers, bad pizza, and rewinding favorite scenes. The movie’s newfound appreciation, fueled by screenings and documentaries like Wolfman’s Got Nards, speaks to that nostalgic bond. It’s less about objective greatness and more about the feeling it preserves. Sure, some of the jokes fall flat, and the plot functions mostly as connective tissue between monster gags, but few movies embody the gleeful chaos of late-’80s pop horror as affectionately as this one does.

The Monster Squad earns its title. It’s not a flawless film, nor even a particularly coherent one, but it’s deeply fun, carried by the conviction that monsters—real or imaginary—are made to be fought with courage, humor, and friends who have your back. Watching it now is like flipping through an old comic book you used to love: you can see every crease and faded color, but that doesn’t make it any less special. And in a cinematic era saturated with irony and nostalgia pastiche, The Monster Squad still feels refreshingly earnest about its own weirdness. Maybe that’s its secret power.