Hell Night (Tom DeSimone, 1981)

A convoluted night of collegiate hazing involving four potential fraternity and sorority pledges being forced to spend the night at a creepy mansion in period clothing sets the simplistic stage for Hell Night ("Pray For Day"), a highly effective survival horror flick that plunges our collective faces deep into to dark recesses of Linda Blair's cavernous, bodice-assisted cleavage. Now, it may be dark down there, but the nook and cranny filled abode is thankfully well-endowed when it came to lit candles. Of course, I'm talking about the luminosity of the Garth Manor, not the exquisite plumpness of Miss Blair's bosom segmentation. Anyway, akin to the photographic work of John Alcott in Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lyndon, cinematographer Mac Ahlberg (My Boyfriend's Back) and director Tom DeSimone (Reform School Girls) have fashioned a shadowy infernal region where light and darkness literally battle each other in a series of enclosed, dimly lit spaces. Decked out in 19th century regalia, four prospective members of the prestigious Alpha Sigma Rho find themselves willfully confined to the foggy grounds of a roomy mansion with a murderous past. Eloquently informed of this ominous history beforehand by the fraternities charismatic leader, Peter Bennett (Kevin Brophy), the foursome enter the house and split into groups of two.

Party animal/surfer dude Seth (Vincent Van Patten) is paired with a British lingerie fancier named Denise (Suki Goodwin), while the dashing Jeff (Peter Barton) and the classy Marti Gaines (Linda Blair), a hush-hush mechanic who believes in ghosts, team up for the long night ahead of them. Not one to let an opportunity for nocturnal prankishness slip through his fingers, Peter Bennett and a couple of his buddies (Jenny Neumann and Jimmy Sturtevant) have booby trapped the house with a wide array of spooky bells and whistles.

Initially, the pranks are a minor annoyance (a harmless mix of bloodcurdling screams and disparaging shrieks), but when the pranksters themselves begin losing their heads in a non-consensual manner, the stories about deformed freaks living in the tunnels underneath the house start to sound less and less far-fetched. Boasting multiple scenes that revolve around quiet lurking, Hell Night is somehow able create to a lurid atmosphere through simple act of depicting a character slowly investigating their sinister surroundings in a patient manner.

Keenly aware that some people might get a tad weary of watching overdressed youngsters inquiring about the origins of a particularly curious noise, Tom DeSimone does subtle things like focus of the foppish symmetry of Suki Goodwin's garter belt, and makes sure the fright that punctuates each exploratory endeavour is well-earned.

The gorgeously attired presence of the lovely Linda Blair was the predictable highlight of this surprisingly taut slasher film. Sure, the fact that the deformed entity, who threatens our fraternal/sororal heroes/heroines was kept hidden for a good chunk of the piece, did a terrific job of generating suspense, and I liked how the film's overall Gothic tone rarely clashed with the year it was set. (You almost forget that the early 1980s are chugging along beyond the mansion's spiky iron gates.) However, to pretend not be moderately enamoured by the undiluted elegance that Miss Blair put out there as Marti would be an act of extreme foolhardiness.

Saddled with an outfit so dainty, that even the most accomplished of actresses would be intimidated by its apparent uncomfortableness, Linda Blair takes her frilly, bodice gown, shell cameo (attached to a tasty neckband), and white boots and proceeds to execute her thespian duties like a seasoned professional. In search of something different after the leg revealing splendour that was Roller Boogie, it's obvious that Linda wanted to shine the spotlight on the partition that keeps her ample breasts from touching one another for a change.

Which was not only appreciated on a perverted level, but also a cinematic one.

You see, the film, like I said before, is rather dark from a photographic point-of-view, and most time Linda's pearlescent cleavage was the sole object visible at times. As you would expect, this chest-based beacon not only elevated her performance, but was the main reason why this slasher turned out to be a resounding success.

video uploaded by DEAD END DRIVE-IN

...

Mirror Mirror (Marina Sargenti, 1990)

A mirror normally provides nonjudgmental feedback to those who look upon its surface. Whether it be a causal glance or a more purposeful glare, the mirror will not lie to you. No matter the level of your self-esteem, the information retained will be coming from a totally unbiased place. On the other hand, if, say, the mirrored surface, the one that just happens to be creepily sitting in the corner of your newly acquired bedroom, is the gateway to a demonic netherworld, the reflections it furnishes may not be the most trustworthy. I'd recommend keeping it turned against the wall in the back of a barely opened closet. I mean, other than throwing it in the ocean or shooting it into space, this is probably the best, and the least expensive solution to curbing its wicked behaviour. Unfortunately, the complete opposite occurs in Mirror Mirror, Marina Sargenti's creepy teen horror extravaganza that owes a large debt to film's like, Carrie, Heathers, Beetlejuice and Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael. The mirror is promptly awoken from its fifty year slumber, by someone who has little or no experience fighting epic battles with possessed furniture, and is ready to once again inflict harm on those who dare to look in its general direction. What is essentially a Goth survival guided masquerading a supernatural thriller, the film follows the shy misadventures of one Megan Gordon (Rainbow Harvest), who has just moved into a new house with her recently widowed mother (the always awesome, always wonderfully deranged Karen Black) and her two dogs. As expected, the not-so perky student repeatedly finds herself at odds with her overly chipper classmates. (The looks of derision she gets will ring true for anyone who has selected sullen stripling as their subculture of choice.)

Sporting a healthy penchant for dark clothing, the black-eyed newcomer defies the odds and befriends a non-Goth named Nikki (Kristin Dattillo), much to the chagrin of her athletic, sandwich-loving boyfriend. (I wish I had lived in a 1990 where Goths had friends named Nikki.)

The friendship with the kindhearted Nikki eases Megan's awkward transition and gets her used to new surroundings. However, nothing can seem to stop the constant harassment she faces at the hands of Charleen Kane (Charlie Spradling), a catty wench who bullies Megan with the help of her sycophantic friends. In fact, it's gets so bad, that the oppressed outsider resorts to, like the majority of aggrieved teenagers, employing the malevolent assistance of the bloodthirsty mirror in her bedroom.

Her single-minded intention? Exact some painful vengeance on those who dare to agitate her Gothic integrity. Of course, things start off small: a vicious nose bleed here, a heart attack there. But soon the acts of retribution increase in their ghastliness, as Megan begins to slowly succumb to the mirror's evil allure.

The morbid splendour that is the performance and wardrobe of Rainbow Harvest as the glum Megan is what constantly elevates Mirror Mirror from being your standard mirror gone awry flick. Obviously emulating the stellar work of Beth Gondek as Jess Browning, the doomed new waver in Hello Mary Lou: Prom Night II, Miss Harvest manages to excrete a graceful elegance as the troubled mirror owner.

Which is something you wouldn't normally expect from someone who spends a great deal of time lurking around in a black Boy George style cowboy hat. But that's just it, despite these apparent roadblocks, Rainbow comes off as sexy and mysterious. So much so, that even her impromptu make out session with her blood covered mirror comes across as mildly titillating.

Also an eyeopener was the film's unique take on goths and physical education. Now, as a rule, the two usually don't mix. But, like its kooky premise, this film isn't about doing what's conventional. I can't count the number of times I saw Goths, or as they were called in my day, "Freaks," fleeing phys-ed for darker, less structured pastures. Yet, to see the ashen skinned Megan partaking in tennis and water polo was not only an illuminating spectacle, but a bewitching treat for the goth/freak senses.

I'd like to comment more on the merits of Mirror Mirror as a horror film; you know, things like gore, atmosphere and Yvonne De Carlo. But since I didn't really pay much attention to that aspect of the film, I'm gonna have to pass.

I will say that I did enjoy the editing of the water polo-shower sequence. Cutting back and forth between shots of a bodacious Charlie "Take a bite of peach" Spradling in the shower and underwater footage of her classmate's legs frantically kicking during a heated water polo match, the tension of this particular bit was just smidgeon behind Rainbow Harvest's mirror molestation scene in terms of perversion and overall entertainment value.

...

Society (Brian Yuzna, 1989)

We all want to feel like we belong to something that is greater than ourselves. In olden times this belonging void was filled by either dying of typhoid at early age (thus eliminating the need to discover a future outlet) or heed the nonsensical words uttered by undersexed men in robes. Call me someone who is full of piss yet nary a drop of vinegar, but as far choices go, that's not much of a selection. Nowadays, though, it has become a lot harder to find a group or thing to latch onto; in that, there so many different types of diversions, that choosing the one that is right for you can take as long as twenty years–I didn't discover I was into garish eyeshadow until I was 19 years old. Well, in Brian "Return of the Living Dead 3" Yuzna's twisted and strange Society, that choice is made for you, as in you're either a member of a society or you're not. What these so-called members of society do exactly in their precious society isn't quite clear early on, but you know you want to be associated with them one way or the other. Being the member of an affluent family, captain of the football team and the debating team, relatively handsome, the owner of a black jeep, and dating the head cheerleader, you'd think Bill Whitney (Billy Warlock from TV's Baywatch) would be a card carrying member of society.

However, that's not even close to being the case with the seemingly perfect high school senior. In-between psychiatry sessions and paranoid delusions, Bill has always suspected that there was something weird going on with his family. Up until now, the Beverly Hills, California teen's semi-regular bouts with hallucinatory madness have severely clouded his judgment when it comes to appraising sinister tomfoolery. This all changes when his sister's recently dumped (and extremely possessive) boyfriend (Tim Bartell) shares with Bill some of his disturbing discoveries while stalking her.

It turns out his paranoia is justified; this is especially true when he hears a tape of his sister Jenny (Patrice Jennings) getting it on (fornicating) with mom and dad.

Also giving Bill something to think about in the "my family is a highly organized collection of freaks" department was when the troubling sight of Jenny's irregularly located nipples first entered his visual arena. It's true, that he spots her back boobies through a blurry shower door. But still, there was definitely some mammary gland displacement going on in that spacious bathroom.

The fact that a guy with such a long list advantages in life, and, not to mention, a beautifully symmetrical head of hair, is having such a hard time fitting into a community that is pretty much tailor made for him was just one of the many fascinating things about Society, a film that dares to illuminate the dangers of yuppie acceptance, while simultaneously grossing out everyone within a four block radius.

If I was ignorant enough to think that the film's slight satirical bent, the pink bikini and acid wash accented gams of a structurally confident Heidi Kozak (Slumber Party Massacre II), and the front row exhibitionism of a noble-minded society member played by the delectable Devin DeVasquez (House II: The Second Story) was all Society had to offer in terms of corruptible nectar, I was promptly enlightened the moment the members of society began to disrobe at a swanky get together. Because what happens after they remove their clothes is something I will never forget.

Quite often when scribbling about encounters of an erotic nature, I will use the word "commingle," as in, "their firm bodies commingled with one another like a festering stew," to describe the act of inflamed human genitals lashing out at one another in a veiled attempt to find liquid satisfaction. It's a saucy metaphor for copulation, one that has yet to fail me when it comes to overstating the obvious. That is until I came face-to-face with the regurgitated mucus stain that is your average society orgy.

An extremely disgusting cornucopia of unknown wetness and coalescing flesh, the members of society have an irregular mind set when it comes to partying while naked. Gleefully feeding off the corporeal essence of any non-members of society they can get their elitist hands on, the debauched participants gather around their "meal" and absorb their fleshy nucleus by drawing it in through the pores of their skin.

I'll admit, I was genuinely appalled by this vile display. But a part of me was transfixed by the profound level of wrongness that was slimily playing out in front of my eyes. I mean, did I really just see Bill's dad transport his face to the dark, and normally uninhabited place, where his anus lives? (It gives new meaning to the crustacean colloquialism: "You've got crabs, ass-face!") Second in terms of did I just see that was the sight of Bill's mom with hands for feet and his sister's head inside her vagina. Whether these things actually transpired or not, there's no denying that the images witnessed during this gooey sequence will haunt me for days to come.

video uploaded by superillusion88

...

Visiting Hours (Jean-Claude Lord, 1982)

Ostensibly crawling with an unending supply of immobile victims, and, not to mention, sporting lax security and easy access, hospitals are the perfect breeding ground for serial killers and rapists. These blights on society are cowards and will do just about anything to lessen the strain of their heinous acts. (Look me, sticking it to murderers and their raping cousins.) The fictional perpetrator in Jean-Claude Lord's Visiting Hours, however, is the opposite of lazy. He's a spry psychopath who just happens to stumble across the advantages of stalking the halls of the local hospital purely by accident. In fact, if wasn't for his general sloppiness as a sleazy killer with woman issues (and I don't mean his issues with his vagina transplant, the dude hates women), he probably wouldn't have discovered the wonders of hospital homicide. Anyway, proving to be quite the improviser when it comes to devising new ways to sneak into hospitals in order to lavish malevolent praise on his intended victim with the sharp end of his fiendishly pointy friend, the killer comes and goes with an alarming ease.

A cautionary tale about the dangers of insecure health care facilities, this Montréal set film that pretends to be set in America is your classic stalker vs. victim endeavour, but with a medical twist. Inflaming the ire of the already unhinged Colt Hawker (Michael Ironside) with her uncompromising support for a woman on trial for killing her abusive husband, a no-nonsense talk show host named Deborah Ballin (Lee Grant) finds herself at his deranged mercy. Unperturbed by the fact that Debbie thwarted his initial attack on her by escaping via the laundry shoot located in her spacious home, Colt looks to finish off the severely wounded "journalist" by paying many antisocial visits to the hospital she is recuperating at.

Unhelpful in terms of protecting her ass from being straight up killed while sleeps in her room are the police; who thankfully aren't featured too heavily in this film -- I would have hated if this had turned into a lame procedural. Also unhelpful is a television colleague played by McGill alum William Shatner. In other words, Deborah is basically all alone. Luckily for her, Colt is a tad whimsical when it comes to stalking. Overhearing a young nurse belittle his talents as a lunatic while chatting on the telephone, the impulsive sicko right then and there decides to begin stalking her; he despises strong women, especially one's who criticize psychopaths in public.

Clearly intent on proving to the unaffiliated members of the demented weirdo community that he can stalk multiple victims at once, Colt jumps at the chance to pursue Nurse Monroe (the adorable Linda Purl) in an unromantic fashion. Besides, killing Deborah is turning out to be a lot harder than he thought it'd be, so a change of stalking pace is probably a good idea for all involved. Well, except for Nurse Monroe, who I'm sure doesn't appreciate all this newfound attention.

Armed with a simple switchblade and occasionally seen wearing a leather undershirt, Colt is the only interesting, non-Harvey Atkin aspect about Visiting Hours. Oh, sure, there were handful of other things that scratched my itch, horror wise, like, the point-of-view camera angles and final showdown, but it was Michael Ironside and the character he manages to create with minimal dialogue that keeps the film from being one long clichéd bore. Too repugnant to out-and-out root for, yet too charismatic to openly besmirch, the hopeless disquietude of Ironside's perverted rage made for some mildly fascinating viewing.

The fact that Colt was a bit of genius when it came to gaining entrance to the hospital (which was fortified after a couple of his attempts to kill the object of his murderous desire met with failure) and that he was apparently a voracious letter writer (his wall is a testament to his editorial prowess) were  also on the cusp of being fascinating.

Now, there are a number of different reasons to look at Canadian slasher flicks from the early 1980s. The nail biting intensity of the stalking scenes, for example, are always a big draw when it comes to these types of films (the experience can be very primal). However, I mainly watch them for the oft chance I might get to the opportunity to bask in the extraordinary glow that Lenore Zann radiates whenever she is on-screen. It's true, that in the case of Visiting Hours you gonna have to wait quite some time for her to appear. But when she does, it's totally worth it.

The Australian born, but wholly Canadian as far as I'm concerned, actress plays Lisa, a woman with low self-esteem Colt picks up at a scuzzy diner. Displaying the same beguiling sexiness she exhibited in One Night Only, Lenore manages to bring her trademark allure to what is essentially a thankless role. In that, by merely boasting crimped blonde hair, energetic trousers, a gorgeous pink, cyan and black top, and the tightest pair of panties this particular planet has ever seen, she somehow makes garish seem angelic.

I'll admit, the scene where Miss Zann and Mr. Ironside tease each other (her with her large Brittany Murphy style eyes and he with the shiny smoothness of his leather undershirt) was titillating... in a tawdry kind of way. But you could tell something egregious was about to go down. And I must say, that unnerving quality hampered my enchantment to some degree. Still, the sight of Colt's unpretentious switchblade slowly caressing the tantalizing lengthiness of Lenore's world class gams was pretty freaking awesome.

video uploaded by 666Horror666Freak666

...

Basket Case 2 (Frank Henenlotter, 1990)

The dark and mysterious caverns of the Sanctuary Vampire Sex Bar on Queen Street West and the unmistakable sexiness of Jamie Stewart's bang-friendly haircut bobbing about in the music video for The Cult's "She Sells Sanctuary" are first things that lurch/pop into my mind whenever I hear the word "sanctuary" bandied about in a public forum. What this particular nugget of information has to do with Basket Case 2, Frank Henenlotter's surprising yet logical followup to the first Basket Case, I'm not quite sure. But you gotta admit, I'm one groovy chickadee. I was gonna add this tasty morsel about this reoccurring dream I've been having lately, one that involves me easily winning a Rossy de Palma lookalike contest being held out in the wilds of Etobicoke and blowing my prize money on the recently stained pantyhose of porn stars who appear in pornographic movies where stains and pantyhose go hand in hand, but that would be overkill. Well, whaddya know, while I was not going on about adding my Rossy de Palma/pantyhose dream to the word mix, I happened to recall why I started off on that tangent about sanctuaries: It's because this chapter is all about Duane and little Belial's struggle to find sanctuary in a world that repeatedly rejects them. Somehow managing to survive their plummet-based engagement with the cold, hard sidewalk outside the Hotel Broslin in Manhattan, erstwhile conjoined twins Duane (Kevin Van Hentenryck) and Belial (???) find themselves living with Granny Ruth (Annie Ross), Susan (Heather Rattray) and a vast cornucopia of unique individuals in a stately home out on Staten Island. Of course, not before Belial can claw violently at the face of the policeman who was guarding the hospital room they were recovering in; it's what the twisted little scamp does best.

Luckily, the nurse, played by the statuesque Alexandra Auder (Viva Superstar's daughter, who looked like Zooey Deschanel from certain angles), is spared the unwanted facial rearrangement.

Anyway, a champion for disfigured freaks the world over, Granny Ruth has created a mini-mutant paradise in her spacious attic; a place where the deformed and the hideous can feel a sense of belonging, and not have to worry about the scornful glares of the so-called "normal people."

Feeling out of place in an environment where humans who look like frogs and have twenty-seven noses help carry in the groceries, Duane tries yet again to extricate himself from his needy twin brother. Falling gaga for the deceptively normal Susan, Duane dreams of running away with her and starting over. Only problem is she is just as dedicated to the creature cause as Granny Ruth. Plus, a nosy reporter (Kathryn Meisle) who works for a sleazy newspaper and a private dick (Ted Sorel) have caught wind of the goings on at the monster manor (Duane and Belial's story have become tabloid fodder), and threaten to expose the collection of oddballs to the unforgiving light of day.

The complex decision Duane has to make, you know, whether to stay and help his freaky brethren fight the intrusive outsiders or seek the autonomy he has always desired, is the film's strongest element. Sure, the face gouging and the jarring nature of some of the attic dweller's appearances were topnotch in terms of forcing out the facial contents of others and abnormalcy, but it was Duane's conflicted loyalties that elevated Basket Case 2 beyond the realm of your average freak show.

You see, he doesn't see himself, nor Susan, as one of them (other than the huge scar down his side, there's nothing overtly repelling about his visual presentation). The only thing keeping him there is his misguided commitment to his clearly deranged brother. Which, when you think about it, is a pretty astute metaphor for the festering sore that is family.

As with the first chapter, the film benefits greatly by the deadpan presence of Kevin Van Hentenryck as the mildly troubled Duane. Delivering each line with an unnecessary sincerity, the lanky actor, who, for some reason, only seems to appear in Frank Henenlotter films, manages to create a sympathetic character with a seemingly feckless brand of ease. The best example of this kindly earnestness comes when Kevin evilly explains the dichotomy of being normal in a world populated entirely by freaks to Ted Sorel's P.I. at a local watering hole.

Going in the opposite direction when came to acting strange in a suburban setting, Annie Ross (Pump Up the Volume) camps it big time up as Granny Ruth. Her pep talk to inspire her tight-knit horde of contorted weirdos against those who would dare violate their sanctuary displayed the kind of crazy that I can confidently throw my support behind.

The sex scene between Belial and a similar-looking creature of the opposite gender proves once and for all that Frank Henenlotter ain't hooked up right. It's true, that Belial tries to rub against the shapely thighs of Beverly Bonner (who makes a cameo in this film) in the first chapter – so, he is interested in sex. But I had no idea he had a functioning penis. I don't know what's more disturbing, the look on Belial's face the moment he made his pleasure ooze, or the fact that Kathryn Meisle can be seen at one point wearing white socks and sneakers with her ladies business suit.

video uploaded by Deathdealeus1984

...

From Beyond (Stuart Gordon, 1986)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.