New York Ripper, The  (1982)

If you’re sick of the heavy-breathing, hulking slasher and the wise-cracking chatterbox psycho, then check out this skeevy little thriller from Italian gore maestro Lucio Fulci.  Set in the Big Apple, women of low moral character are falling victim to a killer armed with razor blades, butcher knives, broken bottles and….a Donald Duck voice.  Jack Hedley stars as the burned-out detective assigned to the case, wading through a cornucopia of screwball suspects.  Fulci delights in exploring the seamier side of NYC with shots of Times Square and strip clubs so grimy you’ll be itching in your seat after fifteen minutes.  Our fowl-mouthed killer isn’t shy about spreading the red stuff around (a stripper’s backstage vodka-bottle surprise is particularly nasty), and Fulci makes sure we see every stomach-wrenching drop. Be warned, however:  The scene in which a prostitute is systematically sliced and diced through her delicate areas borders on the obscene, even for a slasher film.  There’s a fair amount of sleazy sex and nudity on display here, though it’s far from titillating stuff.  Excellent, lunch-buckling makeup effects, with an ingenious phone call-tracing sequence that delivers both suspense and surprise.  Perhaps a little heavy on the red and the herrings, but rarely a dull moment throughout, culminating in a typically bewildering Fulci wrap-up.

Nightbreed  (1990)

Based on his novel Cabal, Clive Barker’s follow-up to Hellraiser exhibits as many of that film’s strength’s (vivid, original storyline and exemplary makeup effects) as its weaknesses (uneven performances, gore without scares, jarring jokes).  Craig Sheffer stars as Boone, a troubled mental patient whose implication in a series of violent murders leads him to Midian, an underground “other-world.”  Within this subterranean city, we encounter the “Nightbreed,” a wonderfully grotesque collection of freaks and mutants (wonderfully realized by makeup designer Paul L. Jones) that populate the shadows of the human world, unable to venture into the light.  Painting his monsters as the sympathetic characters, Barker attempts some fine points about the human tendency to hate (and consequently destroy) anything we find foreign and/or ugly.  Unfortunately, his message is often drowned out by slick special effects, smart-alecky dialogue, and a splattering carnage that robs the movie of any emotional resonance.  Filled with obnoxious, two-dimensional characters (whiny heroes, growling Nightbreed, redneck cops), the viewer is ultimately left with no one to root for, and must content themselves with the noisy, cartoonish mayhem.  Canadian director David Cronenberg, in a rare onscreen appearance, lends a spooky aloofness to the role of Boone’s psychiatrist.

Nightmare on Elm Street, A  (1984)

Horror Hall-of Famer Wes Craven created this hugely successful fright flick, which spawned multiple sequels, launched New Line Cinema, and introduced the moniker of “Freddy Krueger” into pop culture consciousness.  Attractive (if acting-talent-challenged) Heather Langenkamp plays a teenager plagued by dreams of a horribly scarred figure wearing a distinctive red-striped sweater, battered fedora, and a glove with knives attached to the fingers.  Robert Englund, in the role he would forever be identified with, creates an original and frightening villain in Freddy, an executed child-murdering psychopath who has found the means to keep up his gruesome work by entering his prospective victim’s dreams.  Not yet the wisecrack-spouting centerpiece of future installments, Englund’s minimal appearances pack a darkly effective punch.  As Langenkamp and company (including Johnny Depp, in his feature film debut) struggle to stay awake, Krueger’s sinister history is gradually revealed, along with the small town’s dark and horrifying secret.  There is certainly much to applaud in the film’s fiercely innovative concept, nightmare imagery, and gory special effects; but the line between Craven’s real world and dream counterpart becomes so blurred in the end, there is no logic remaining except dream logic.  Consequently, it often feels like the viewer is being cheated of a legitimate story for the sake of some “really cool kills,” (many of which are admittedly memorable, particularly one in which a character is swallowed and regurgitated by their own bed).  This aspect, along with stiff performances and a really weak ending, lands Nightmare on a slightly lower rung than other modern horror classics.

Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy’s Revenge, A  (1985)

Picking up five years later, this slapdash sequel violates what few rules the original had to offer, storming into bloody senselessness and not letting up until the end credits roll.  Sensitive teenager Mark Patton’s family moves into the Elm Street house, and he begins to experience unsettling nightmares featuring that knife-fingered wonder boy, Freddy Krueger (again portrayed by Robert Englund, who also cameos sans makeup as a school bus driver.)  Before long, Englund is possessing Patton’s body, forcing the boy to commit grisly murders with the slice-n’-dice glove while sleepwalking.  Wes Craven’s “don’t go to sleep” mythology is thrown out the window here, as Freddy can inhabit the hapless adolescent sleeping or waking, even going so far as to gruesomely emerge from Patton’s body like a snake shedding its skin.  Frequent visual references to heat and flames are scattered throughout, ostensibly to accord special effects opportunities, including one of the more absurd sequences (and there are many) where a killer canary explodes in an inexplicable fireball.  While acting has never been the series’ strong point, Clu Galager as Patton’s papa seems to be in a completely different movie, alternating between unpleasant and unpleasantly goofy.  The numerous homoerotic references present throughout the film will raise as many eyebrows as any of the gory slayings.  Jack Sholder takes over the directing reins from Craven, managing to create a few interesting visual stunts amidst the lunacy.  Truth be told, though, one could easily skip right to Part 3 and not miss much.

Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors, A  (1987)

Picking up as though Part 2 were a bad dream itself, everyone’s favorite slashing sandman, Freddy Krueger (played with increasingly psychotic zeal by Robert Englund), is back in this, the third and strongest of the popular series.  Writer/director Chuck Russell, and his writing team (including Wes Craven and Shawshank Redemption’s Frank Darabont) finally get all the right elements, combining a strong story, interesting characters and whiz-bang-boom dream effects.  Heather Langenkamp reprises her character from the original, now a dream specialist assisting psychiatrist Craig Wasson with troubled adolescent patients.  Seems Wasson’s subjects (“the last of the Elm Street children”) are suffering from nightmares of The Gloved One, and subsequently dying in their sleep.  Patricia Arquette is terrific as a scream teen with the gift of pulling other people into her dreams, and through her, the survivors unite to battle Freddy in a slumberland slugfest.  Russell strikes just the right balance of gory fright and fun, introducing the concept of “dream powers” and adding a dash of sly humor (as opposed to the trowel-like gaggery of later installments) to the mix.  There’s a real sense of rooting for the sleep-addled misfits, and a genuine sense of loss as the merry band fall victim one by one to Freddy’s razor-sharp claws and fatally pithy zingers.  The acting is more than capable across the ranks, and the plot introduces some intriguing Krueger family history.  A thoroughly entertaining venture, with the added pleasure of tough guy John Saxon (returning as Langenkamp’s father) trying to look intimidated by the wimpy, puffy-haired Wasson.

Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master, A  (1988)

After the impressive and cohesive Dream Warriors, this is a serious drop-off in all departments, with much of the responsibility lying with hit-and-miss director Renny Harlin. Admittedly, the script by future Oscar-winner Brian Helgeland (L.A. Confidential) and “Scott Pierce” (an amalgalm of five other writers) doesn’t do anyone any favors, least of all the audience.  When Freddy Krueger is revived (courtesy of flaming dog urine, no less), he sets out to polish off the survivors from Part 3 – and the rest of the film’s attractive teenage cast, just for the heck of it.  Robert Englund can thank his agents for getting him billing above the title, but he is given little to do here except cackle and wisecrack while messily dispatching his victims (backed by a sub-par pop music soundtrack).  Tuesday Knight appears as Patricia Arquette’s character from DW, despite bearing no resemblance to her predecessor either looks or talent-wise (she also sings the awful “Nightmare” song over the opening credits). With logistics and mythologies from previous installments mangled and muddled beyond recognition, the horrific deaths, the most gruesome thus far, are the only gooey glue holding the movie together.  No longer content with simply slashing, Freddy now utilizes outlandish dream methods to execute his hapless prey, with the “roach motel” sequence taking top gross-out honors.  But it all feels as fake and rubbery as Englund’s makeup, with heroine Lisa Wilcox inexplicably acquiring attributes from her fallen classmates in order to “suit up” for the inevitable showdown.  Yawn, yawn, yawn, time to put this tired series to bed.

Nightmare on Elm Street 5: The Dream Child, A  (1989)

While Dream Master badly stumbled, this one just falls on the ground and flails wildly.  For about five minutes it seems like there might be hope, as the film opens with an intriguing shower dream sequence that gives way to a flashback of the moment of conception of Freddy, “the bastard son of a hundred maniacs.”  And then, the dream ends, returning heroine Lisa Wilcox awakens, and the sheer awfulness that is the remainder of the movie begins.  Plot?  The vanquished Freddy attempts to be reborn in the budding subconscious of Wilcox’s unborn child.  Does it work?  No.  Oh, heavens, heavens, no, it does not.  But since all director Stephen Hopkins and screenwriter Leslie Bohem are concerned with is how to best utilize their dumpy special effects (which have been shopped out to a half dozen different effects houses), it hardly seems to matter.  Robert Englund is barely in the movie, and when he is, it only makes things worse.Not through any fault of the actor, but because the worm has turned and Freddy is in full-on stand-up killer comedian mode now, delivering not one, but eighteen “zingers” for each kill and they’re all awful.  As Wilcox’s insufferable circle of friends decreases (though honestly, Freddy seems to be doing her a favor, all things considered), further history regarding the unfortunate Amanda Krueger comes to light and oh, who cares?  Reprehensible is not too strong a term for this odious swill.  In fact, the only terms that do fit the crime cannot be printed in most adult magazines.  Unless you’re an incurably masochistic completist, this is not for you.  You have been warned.

Nightmares (1983)

I had seen this compendium back in the day, and remembered it being fairly decent but nothing that special. Well, that view still stands upon a revisit 20 years later. My favorite is still the opening sequence with Christina Raines and an escaped maniac, my least favorite is the Emilio Estevez vs. the video game gods in "The Bishop of Battle." The other two fall somewhere in the middle: Lance Henricksen plays a priest dealing with a—altogether now—crisis of faith who does battle with the Evil One in the form of a Big Black Pickup Truck (the scene where the BBPT emerges from underneath the turf is a doozy) while the last chapter concerns Richard Masur and Veronica Cartwright as the world’s unhappiest couple healing their marital problems by battling the world’s largest rodent. Amusing ’80s cheese, no more, no less.

Night of the Demon (1980)

Oh. My God. This was one amazingly bad, amazingly bloody, amazingly twisted, amazingly brilliant little pic.  I'm still trying to wrap my head around it.  I used to think that Abominable (2006) held the title for best Sasquatch movie, but while the latter certainly is more technically proficient (and also features Tiffany Shepis), I'm thinking this one might take the prize for sheer bloody gusto.  From the opening credits where a guy’s arm gets ripped off and a Bigfoot track fills up with blood, James C. Wasson’s trashy, flashback-filled hoot has low-budget charm to burn.  Um, dual girl scout massacre?  Inter-species rape?  Biker stops to take a leak and gets his Johnson pulled off?  Yes, yes, and YES!!!   The finale is a jaw-dropping masterpiece of mayhem, and how about the crazy van lovin' gal with the scary boob job?  Her proooooloooooonged screams of terror are the least convincing in the history of cinema outside of DePalma’s Blow Out. Only there, the cries are supposed to be unconvincing.  Wow.  For fans of tasty grilled turkey and cheese, this is a must-see.

Night of the Living Dead  (1968)

Filmed on a shoestring and using a cast of no-name local actors from his native Pittsburgh, writer/director George Romero delivered his brutal in-your-face tale of corpses rising from their graves to feast on human flesh and changed the face of horror films forever.  While zombies had appeared onscreen before, never had they been so plentiful…or so hungry.  With its stark black-and-white photography, the movie possesses a documentary feel, the horrific events depicted with unrelenting realism through Romero’s cold, unflinching camera.  Following a stunning curtain-raiser in a desolate cemetery, the majority of the film’s action centers on a small group of panicked strangers taking refuge in an isolated farmhouse, reluctantly thrown together by the shocking events outside.  The claustrophobic screenplay (co-written by John Russo) shrewdly works on two levels:  stimulating the audience’s imaginations as incoming television and radio news reports describe horrific events in the outside world, while we simultaneously witness the conflicts within the farmhouse firsthand.  The harsh reality that the fearful and angry inhabitants inside are just as savage as the drooling zombies outside quickly becomes evident.  The grisly, close-up images of shambling ghouls sating their appetites shocked audiences, but just as shocking was the casting of Duane Jones, a black actor, as the strong, decisive hero.  During the racially charged political climate of the day, Romero’s decision was an extraordinary act of courage, imbuing the film with an allegorical tone open to multiple layers of interpretation.  A true genre landmark.

Night of the Seagulls (1975)

The fourth installment in Amando de Ossorio’s “Blind Dead” films takes place on an isolated fishing village, with a young doctor and his wife coming to settle among the superstitious townsfolk.  They soon learn of an ancient rite:  For seven nights every seven years, human sacrifices must be made to the bloodthirsty Knights Templar into order to maintain the village’s safety.  While the spectral riders and their slow-motion horses still cast an unusual and dreamlike spell for newcomers, there’s not much new here for fans of the series – becoming a case of A) abduct screaming female victim, B) tear open screaming female victim’s bodice, C) tear out screaming female victim’s heart, D) insert 20 minutes of yawn-worthy screen time with our “heroes” trying to figure things out, E) rinse, lather, repeat.  Still, the strengths of the series remain intact:  The choral moaning of the Knights, their inevitable advance, the novelty of blind antagonists, and de Ossorio’s undeniable talent for creating claustrophobic atmosphere.  There are no real surprises here, but you gets what you came for.

Night Train Murders (1975) 

Transplant Wes Craven’s Last House on the Left onto a late night European passenger train, then bump up the sexual violence (no mean feat) and the result this trashy, but undeniably powerful sleazefest from writer/director Aldo Lado.  While traveling home from school for the holidays, two girls (Irene Miracle and Marina Berti) are accosted by two thugs and a bored, thrillseeking high society lady (Macha Meril).  As the nefarious trio puts their victims through a series of harrowing humiliations, Lado intercuts the action with scenes of Berti’s socialite parents entertaining the idle rich in their luxurious home.  Sledgehammer social commentary, to be sure, but the shocking and unrelenting viciousness of the thugs’ crimes overwhelms any sociological statement Lado might have been attempting.  Grudging kudos must be given for going “there,” but you’ll probably want to take a good long shower afterwards.  Meril played the doomed psychic Helga in Dario Argento’s giallo classic Profondo Rosso (aka Deep Red) the same year.

Nosferatu  (1922)

Renowned German filmmaker F. W. Murnau brought to light this first film version of Bram Stoker’s Dracula.  When unable to procure the rights, the tenacious director proceeded to change the names and locations and released the film as an original creation.  Stoker’s widow instantly recognized Murnau’s “Count Orlok” as her husband’s brainchild and sued, and the film was subsequently ordered pulled from theatres and destroyed.  Luckily for the filmgoing public, a few copies survived and Nosferatu is now recognized as a classic of both the silent era and the horror genre.  Less romantic than Universal’s 1931 version starring Bela Lugosi, the stark black-and-white cinematography (with blue filters used for the nighttime scenes) provides an unforgiving atmosphere of gloom to the bloodsucker’s Carpathian castle abode.  And for sheer terror, few special effects can compete with Max Shreck’s bald, hunchbacked undead with his oversized pointed ears, rodent-like teeth, and long curling claws.  The image of Orlok’s hideous shadow creeping along deserted staircases is true nightmare material.  Highlights include Hutter’s (the Jonathan Harker character) first meal with the predatory Count, the haunting sea voyage, and the ethereal climax which introduces the concept of a vampire’s demise by sunlight, previously unheard of in cinema or literature.