A desperate queen hires the enigmatic witch Gray Alys (Milla Jovovich) to journey across the treacherous Lost Lands in search of the power to fulfill her heart's desire. Joined by the warrior Boyce (Dave Bautista), Alys faces monsters, magic, and betrayal in a barren world where survival comes at a heavy price.
In the Lost Lands sets out to deliver a high-concept action-adventure, blending post-apocalyptic landscapes with the promise of pulse-pounding heroics. Yet from the outset, it feels weighed down by its own ambitions.
Released in 2025, directed by Paul W. S. Anderson and starring Jovovich, Bautista, and Blade's Arly Jover, In the Lost Lands is a frustrating mix of slow motion and CGI excess. The film's script, by Anderson and Constantin Werner, struggles under clunky exposition and awkward pacing, with flashbacks inserted with little narrative justification, interrupting whatever momentum the story - based on George R. R. Martin's short story - attempts to build.
The abundance of CGI, while visually striking, ultimately robs the action sequences of tension and danger - the stakes feel manufactured rather than earned. Anderson's grounded vision and visual flair, once evident in Soldier, Event Horizon, and Resident Evil, are missing here. Milla, action star of the likes of Resident Evil, The Fifth Element, and Ultraviolet, delivers agile combat within otherworldly set pieces reminiscent of Alice's adventures or a Joan of Arc-like heroism - yet these only highlight what the film could have been. Bautista feels he's just going through the motions, wishing he'd picked that other job, and looking forwards to the next. Despite the talent involved, something has clearly gone wrong. It's hard to tell who this film is being made for, or if the filmmakers even expect a sequel to justify the world-building.
In some ways it feels like Rebel Moon, but without the same connection; incidentally, its look echoes 300, only transplanted into a future setting. Perhaps I'm simply out of step with contemporary tastes, but while these films may be aimed at younger audiences, In the Lost Lands fails to connect - visually impressive yet emotionally hollow, a spectacle without weight.
Overall, it's a film of flashes and fury, but ultimately lacking substance. Those seeking true tension, coherent storytelling, or characters to invest in will be left frustrated.
Wes Craven’s Deadly Friend is one of those strange cinematic hybrids that could only have been born in the 1980s.I liked it, I literally have the T-shirt, and at one time treasured an ex-rental VHS.
Hot off the success of A Nightmare on Elm Street, Craven was an established name still testing where to go next. Scream was years away, Swamp Thing had already shown his lighter comic-book side, and in between he took a Disney gig and experimented with a tale that was originally more Short Circuit than slasher. What arrived on screens, however, was a Frankenstein’s monster in more ways than one.
The screenplay was written by Bruce Joel Rubin (who would later pen Ghost and Jacob’s Ladder) and adapted from Diana Henstell’s novel Friend. The story follows Paul, a young robotics genius who has built a clunky but oddly charming robot named BB. Moving to a new town, he befriends the girl next door, Samantha. When tragedy strikes and Sam is killed by her abusive father, Paul refuses to let her go and implants BB’s circuitry into her brain. The result is equal parts tragic romance, suburban melodrama, and unhinged gore.
What makes Deadly Friend fascinating is its complete tonal schizophrenia. Craven originally set out to make a PG-rated, touching sci-fi love story, and much of that survives in the early acts—the warm teenage friendship, BB’s playful charm, even a hint of Spielbergian suburbia captured by cinematographer Philip H. Lathrop. Studio test screenings, however, brought it crashing down. Audiences expecting another Freddy were bored, and Warner Bros. panicked. They demanded blood, ordering reshoots that added grisly death scenes and horror dream imagery. Editor Michael Eliot must have had a lot on his plate. The most infamous of these is, of course, the basketball-to-the-face moment, where poor Elvira Parker (Anne Ramsey of The Goonies fame) gets her head blown apart in a single absurd, unforgettable shot. Kristy Swanson has recalled throwing that prop ball over a hundred times to get the right take, and the fake head was packed with real cow brains from the butcher to give it an extra meaty splatter. It’s grotesque, ridiculous, and unforgettable—exactly the kind of over-the-top practical gag that cements a film’s cult legacy.
Swanson herself is terrific here, years before Buffy the Vampire Slayer or her Playboy spread, when nobody cared what your political position was. Even at this early stage she commands the screen, switching between vulnerability and robotic menace with surprising skill. Laborteaux brings a sympathetic awkwardness to Paul, while Michael Sharrett as his buddy Tom even earned a Young Artist Award nomination. And then there’s BB, a beefier yellow Short Circuit’s Johnny-5—the $20,000 robot prop, built with Corvette antennae, camera lenses, and heavy hydraulics, capable of lifting 750 pounds. It’s a real character in its own right: clunky, mechanical, and strangely endearing—pure 80s tech nostalgia.
One element that deserves mention is Charles Bernstein’s score. Bernstein, who had already created the iconic music for A Nightmare on Elm Street, delivers something more playful and synth-driven here. At times it has the warm, almost whimsical tone of a family film, underscoring the PG story Craven wanted to tell, and then it jars against the gorier sequences when the studio-mandated horror kicks in. It’s another reminder of the film’s split identity, but it’s also what makes it such an evocative time capsule of mid-80s genre cinema.
The film’s flaws, though, are hard to ignore. It failed to land with critics and grossed under $9 million against an $11 million budget. More than that, Craven and Rubin publicly distanced themselves from the hacked-up release. Like Craven’s later Cursed, Deadly Friend was reshaped behind the scenes into something its creators barely recognised. It was never the heartfelt sci-fi story they wanted to tell, nor the straight horror the studio insisted on, but a compromised halfway house that satisfied nobody at the time.
And yet, watching it now, it’s oddly compelling. The tonal shifts, instead of ruining it, make it a curiosity. It’s a perfect 80s time capsule: neon-lit labs, synth score, practical robotics, outlandish gore, and suburban dream imagery that feels like VHS twilight. Impossible to finance today, it exists as a singular misfire with its own cult heartbeat. Not Last House, not The Hills Have Eyes, not Elm Street, not Scream, not even Swamp Thing—but its own stitched-up, half-dead, half-alive thing.
The ‘80s were saturated with sci-fi horror and robo-chillers—Chopping Mall, RoboCop, The Vindicator, The Wraith, even the hilariously amped-up back from dead Frankenhooker, and Re-Animator—a perfect storm for a Frankenstein-meets-technology narrative like Deadly Friend. Craven’s film fits snugly into that era, a Frankensteinian romance mashed with robotic kitsch. The kind of film that still gets talked about decades later because of its weirdness, because of that basketball kill, because it simply shouldn’t exist the way it does. A fascinating monster of a movie, flawed and messy but never forgettable.
For fans of 80s horror and sci-fi curios, Deadly Friend is a time capsule worth cracking open. The robot may be clunky, the kills absurd, but the mix of heart and horror makes it an irresistible VHS relic.
(Not to be confused with The Killer from 1989, 2022, 2024, or the countless other films that have gone under the same title.)
David Fincher returns with The Killer (2023), a cold, meticulous character study that mirrors its lead in tone and execution. Michael Fassbender embodies the nameless hitman with unnerving restraint, narrating his own detached philosophy while drifting from Paris rooftops to Caribbean hideouts and U.S. suburbs.
Fincher’s direction is as sharp as a scalpel — precise framing, sterile compositions, and deliberate pacing turn every moment into a calculated move. The production design and on-location shoots in Paris, the Dominican Republic, New Orleans, and Chicago ground the story with gritty authenticity, giving the film a lived-in, yet strangely vacant atmosphere.
Fassbender is mesmerising throughout. He effortlessly carries the film, achieving what few actors could do — making silence and stillness captivating. His performance is magnetic in its restraint, his every movement loaded with intent. Around him, every supporting role including Arliss Howard, Charles Parnell, Kerry O'Malley, Sala Baker, Sophie Charlotte, and Tilda Swinton is finely tuned, but it’s Fincher’s meticulous attention to detail that dominates — from sound design to wardrobe — reflecting the assassin’s obsessive methodology.
That attention extends behind the camera. Cinematographer Erik Messerschmidt cloaks the world in cool precision, each shot echoing the killer’s methodical nature. Andrew Kevin Walker’s screenplay, adapted from the French graphic novel by Alexis Nolent, balances deadpan humour with an icy procedural tone. The score by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross is subtle, weaving unease rather than bombast, while the surprising use of indie rock — especially Morrissey tracks — underlines the character’s bleak inner rhythm. It’s a sonic palette that is both ironic and unsettling, reinforcing the detached mood.
As events unfold — a botched hit, brutal reprisals, and relentless pursuit — the narrative balances dark humor with icy tension. This is not a film of sentiment but of precision, where craft mirrors character. Execution, in every sense, is everything. Recommended.
Written for The Breathing Dead blog by A. M. Esmonde
Discover A. M. Esmonde’s chilling novel Shadows of Dismemberment here: Buy on Amazon UK
Directed by Ugla Hauksdóttir, written by Noah Hawley & Bobak Esfarjani, episode four, “Observation,” pushes Alien: Earth further into questions of faith, biology, and human identity rather than focusing directly on the Xenomorph threat.
The idea of synthetic adult bodies inhabited by the minds of children is unsettling, and the drama around reproduction and religion is well played—particularly by Lily Newmark as Nibs and Essie Davis as Dame Sylvia—though at times it feels more like a stage for ideas than an organic story. Nibs’ “level three event” mirrors Blade Runner, echoing the maker–master issue with the Replicants, adding simmering tensions. Sydney Chandler’s Wendy continues to intrigue with her alien connection, though her thread here drifts into functional, plodding setup with meandering interactions with Alex Lawther’s Hermit. Toodles gets more to do with Kirsh and name changes; however, Smee and Curly are underused throughout.
The highlight comes from Babou Ceesay’s Morrow manipulating Adarsh Gourav’s Slightly/Arrush, coercing him into betrayal and, in their second exchange, threats of loss. It’s a raw, gripping exchange. Later, Slightly’s tension with Timothy Olyphant’s Kirsh deepens the unease. Olyphant is outstanding as ever, his composed presence laced with menace. Adrian Edmondson also impresses as Atom Eins, hinting at corporate control that recalls RoboCop’s OCP—a subtle but powerful thread about ownership of bodies and lives. Eins’ manipulation of Hermit mirrors Morrow’s with Slightly, and in turn Samuel Blenkin’s Boy Kavalair (his name an obvious Android (1982) twist yet to come, perhaps?) influences Wendy.
Technically, the episode impresses with its set design, effects, and creature work. The sheep experiment and the chestburster birth are chilling and well realised, keeping the horror tangible. However, the fades and overlapping transitions are overused, becoming a heavy-handed stylistic bugbear that hampers the show. The Lost Boys/Peter Pan framing, meanwhile, wears thin, and the pop-rock track over the end credits is jarringly on the nose.
“Observation” is filled with ideas, strong performances, and unsettling imagery. But despite its strengths, it often feels stretched away from the Alien core, as though the show wants to be about everything except the creatures themselves. The result is ambitious and intelligent, yet uneven—a thoughtful hour that leaves you wondering if a more focused Alien story might have been the stronger path.
Enslaved and shackled within a brutal empire, Red Sonja is thrust into savage arenas where survival is earned with steel and blood. From the pits of tyranny, she gathers an unlikely band of exiles, forging them into an army to overthrow the warlord Dragan and his merciless consort, Dark Annisia.
After languishing in development hell for almost twenty years, bouncing between Robert Rodriguez’s Troublemaker Studios (and Rose McGowan once slated for the lead), Red Sonja finally makes her long-awaited return to live action. Directed by M. J. Bassett and fronted by Matilda Lutz as the flame-haired warrior, the result is both surprising and uneven, but ultimately a welcome resurrection of sword-and-sorcery on the big screen. Story-wise (written by Tasha Huo), it equals, if not surpasses, its 1985 predecessor.
Where the film truly shines is in its performances and aesthetic details. Matilda Lutz makes for a striking Red Sonja—blue-eyed, fierce, and magnetic. She grows into the role as the story unfolds, evolving from ragged survivor to warrior, her bikini armour and presence upgraded along the way. She strikes a strong balance of vulnerability, humour, and unshakable confidence. On some sets, the practical makeup and costumes are impressive, often carrying more weight than the CGI, while Sonya Belousova and Giona Ostinelli’s score enriches the atmosphere with suitably grand, sweeping energy.
The supporting cast delivers mixed but notable turns: Wallis Day works hard with some clunky dialogue as Annisia; Robert Sheehan channels a flamboyant, almost Joaquin Phoenix-in-Gladiator energy; Rhona Mitra lends gravitas as Petra but is sadly underused; and Martyn Ford stands out as General Karlak, a hulking man-beast hybrid with a brutish physicality. Eliza Matengu as Amarak and Katrina Durden as Saevus add presence but are fleeting in screen time.
The main hurdle facing this incarnation of Red Sonja is expectation. Unlike the Deathstalker (2025) remake, which has pure B-movie DNA and therefore less to live up to, Sonja comes from Robert E. Howard’s legacy. Audiences anticipate something grand in scale—a blockbuster fantasy to rival modern franchise behemoths. The sad reality is Red Sonja has a smaller-budget production that often looks closer to a high-end TV series than a sweeping epic. Yet while it doesn’t quite transcend its limitations, it does succeed where it counts most: evoking a lived-in fantasy world filled with magic, beasts, battles, and the fierce spirit of its heroine.
Early on, the film stumbles with some questionable CGI—digital landscapes and creatures that don’t quite convince, paired with a title card that bizarrely doesn’t match the marketing. But these are soon offset by the real-world natural scenery, an evocative opening narration, and glimpses of ancient ruins that help ground the adventure. Lorenzo Senatore’s cinematography gives the film a crisp, bright look—sometimes veering into Xena: Warrior Princess or Hercules territory, with that Saturday-night-TV fantasy feel. Yet, to Bassett’s credit, on occasion it achieves the right cinematic mood that recalls some fantasy cult classics, particularly in its forested sequences and atmospheric nighttime moments.
The film is also marred by questionable editing choices. Cuts can be abrupt and pacing uneven: some scenes rush past their emotional beats while others linger awkwardly. Slow motion, flashbacks, and transitions occasionally produce jarring tonal shifts. These lapses blunt the impact of several action set pieces and undercut a few of the film’s more meditative moments, including the prologue that establishes Sonja’s tragic origins. Conversely, when editing does lock with Senatore’s lensing and the score, the results are effective—the gladiatorial set pieces and selected nighttime sequences retain a real sense of urgency and atmosphere. In short: editing and cinematography are clearly a mixed bag, and they are among the elements that keep Red Sonja from fully coalescing.
Some of Bassett’s standout set pieces include the gladiatorial arena battles and forest warfare that recalls both Rambo and The Lord of the Rings. Awkward Elven-like song scenes aside, it also borrows from the more surreal resurrection imagery, echoing Rivendell mysticism and wraith-world stylings. These moments effectively balance brutality with mysticism, helping to set tone and stakes in a way the film doesn’t always sustain.
Yes, the film is hampered by its low-budget production values and could, at times, pass for a TV pilot. But that’s not necessarily damning—if anything, it reminds us of the pulpy roots of sword-and-sorcery, closer in spirit to cult fantasy B-movies than glossy Marvel fare. While it doesn’t reach the heights of Conan the Barbarian, its sequel, or even the 2011 remake, it’s refreshing to see a straight-faced attempt at old-fashioned sorcery, complete with blood, steel, and mythic creatures.
In the end, what makes Red Sonja worthwhile is Matilda Lutz herself. She embodies the character with emotional resonance, commanding screen presence, and skillful swordplay, ensuring the She-Devil with a Sword finally gets her moment—imperfect though it may be. Red Sonja may not conquer its budgetary chains, but it restores a much-needed spark to the genre and hints at greater adventures to come.
Written by Noah Hawley with Bob DeLaurentis and directed by Dana Gonzales, “Metamorphosis” dazzles visually but falters in execution. Blade Runner vibes are ingrained throughout. The production values and FX are consistently first-rate, offering grotesque body horror and striking new creature work that deepen the mythology.
Sydney Chandler continues to bring layered intensity, while Babou Ceesay grounds the synth subplots with conviction. But it’s Timothy Olyphant who stands out as the series’ saving grace, his steady, humanizing presence anchoring an episode that often feels uneven.
New arrivals Slightly (Adarsh Gourav) and Smee (Jonathan Ajayi) add levity, but their jovial banter sometimes jars against the darker atmosphere, tipping tension into tonal whiplash. And once again, the editing proves a major stumbling block — jarring cuts and awkward transitions fracture immersion, while misplaced musical cues undercut moments that should build suspense.
Still, beneath the flaws lies a compelling chapter: Chandler’s hybrid transformation escalates, corporate intrigue deepens, and the alien threat continues to mutate in unexpected, terrifying ways. High-caliber visuals and creature design keep the world alive, even when the mechanics stumble.
“Metamorphosis” is messy, unsettling, and ambitious — a flawed but fascinating piece of the unfolding Alien tapestry.
By the late 1980s, the slasher genre was burning out. Jason had stalked his way through too many campgrounds; Freddy had become a wisecracking comedian, and audiences were starting to tire of formula. Yet out of that fatigue came something oddly fresh… tucked in the VHS racks was Cheerleader Camp—a bizarrely bright, camp-inflected slasher that has since gleefully persisted in cult circles. In my Breathing Dead review, I said it “embraces its B-movie roots while delivering an entertaining experience,” and I’d add that its staying power comes from its keen use of genre tropes—some quite cheeky in retrospect.
Directed by John Quinn, it unfolds at Camp Hurrah, where Alison (Betsy Russell) battles nightmares and jealousy as her cheer squad is picked off one-by-one. Her own subconscious images of herself as the killer become the framing device that leads us—and the authorities—politely astray. When Cory, in mascot gear, finally reveals her true face, Alison’s world collapses.
While not a perfect film, Cheerleader Camp benefits enormously from the countless slashers that came before it. Having absorbed years of formula, clichés, and audience expectations, it refines the familiar into something sharper, funnier, and stranger—standing confidently on its own rather than collapsing under imitation.
Placed alongside its peers, Friday the 13th; A Nightmare on Elm Street; Sleep Away Camp; Sorority House Massacre; April Fool’s Day and Slumber Party Massacre to name a few, Cheerleader Camp feels less like a knock-off and more like a sly cousin. Sleepaway Camp went for the jugular with its infamous ending; Friday the 13th worked on shadows, archetypes and a twist; Elm Street made nightmares literal. With cinematography by Bryan England Cheerleader Camp instead basks in daylight and dances in the night. Written by David Lee Fein and R.L. O'Keefe it dabbles in comedy, and still delivers a bitter sting in the tail.
Of course, it’s the cast that truly anchors the chaos—bringing personality and charm to the carnage. The ensemble doesn’t just fill out the body count; they make the madness memorable.
Betsy Russell (Alison Wentworth) carries the film with her nervous intensity—long before the Saw franchise elevated her to genre legend. Russell brings vulnerability and tension to Alison—our emotional barometer in pastel decals.
Lucinda Dickey (Cory Foster)—from Breakin’ and Ninja III fame—lends unsettling energy to a performance that climaxes in the film’s most spiteful moment. Lucinda Dickey’s mascot reveal tops the chart for ‘unexpected genre villains.’
Leif Garrett (Brent Hoover), teen-idol turned slasher paramour, delivers one of the film’s most painfully memorable rap sequences—and brings meta level nostalgia for VHS kids.
Travis McKenna shines as Timmy Moser, the meddling “cuddy camcorder” perv whose nosy filming adds comic relief and keeps the suspense bubbling.
George “Buck” Flower (Pop): Hollywood’s ultimate grizzled character actor (They Live, Back to the Future), instantly elevating the supporting cast.
Theresa, Bonnie and Pam
Lorie Griffin (Bonnie): Riding in from Teen Wolf, she delivers the archetypal gossip-prone cheerleader.
Teri Weigel (Pam): Later known Playboy career, she provides the requisite glamour role.
Rebecca Ferratti portrays Theresa Salazar, one of the camp’s sun-soaked beauties. Known for her appearance as Playboy’s Playmate of the Month in June 1986, Ferratti’s role adds a touch of 80s glamour to the film’s ensemble cast.
Krista Pflanzer (Suzy): her brief scene sunbathing is tertiary screen time, but feels endlessly meme-able and perfect in cult retrospect. That sunbathing cameo from Krista Pflanzer as Suzy still turns heads like it did in Penthouse magazine.
The 1980s slasher boom was as much about titillation as terror. Gratuitous nudity and “T&A” were often at their peak, a hallmark of the genre, with cheerleaders, sunbathers, and party scenes providing ample opportunity for eye-catching moments. Top-shelf magazines and adult-oriented imagery were widely circulated and culturally normalized, long before the internet became a mainstream hub for adult entertainment, giving films like Cheerleader Camp a cheeky, borderline risqué texture that today reads as both nostalgic and emblematic of the era’s B-movie bravado.
Vickie Benson brings spirited authority as Miss Tipton, Jeff Prettyman is Sheriff Poucher, and Tommy Habeeb pops in as a detective to name a few.
The tropes are reframed with style and this isn’t just another slash-fest. Cheerleader Camp leans into daylight-set killings, turning cheer routines into suspenseful gambits. Dream sequences function less as Elm Street homage and more as structural red herrings, keeping both Alison and the viewer off balance. Timmy’s camcorder earns a narrative awakening—until it snaps shut on his own woes. Jealous gossip and quiet smiles do more work than scream fx, culminating in Cory’s sly grin as the final sting.
The film’s release history also reflects the patchwork way slashers were received across the globe in the late ’80s. In the United States, Cheerleader Camp was rated R (certificate #29389), while Australia also classified it R. New Zealand placed it at R16, and Norway, interestingly, recommended it for 15 but assigned an 18 certificate on home video after heavy cuts. Germany proved the most restrictive—initially released uncut, the film was later hit with SPIO/JK “18” status and placed on the BPjM index of restricted media from 1991 until 2016.
Oddly, in the United Kingdom it seems unlikely that Cheerleader Camp ever received an official release. By the height of the video rental boom, the BBFC was firmly policing content in the wake of the video nasties era, and if the film had gone through official channels, there would almost certainly be a record of it. Bringing Cheerleader Camp over from the States wouldn’t have been much use to the average UK viewer anyway, since American NTSC tapes didn’t play on standard PAL VHS machines, certainly without specialist equipment or a costly conversion.
These variations highlight how the film’s blend of gore, nudity, and tongue-in-cheek humour sat uneasily with national boards, though that controversy only added to its cult mystique.
Like many 80s slashers, Cheerleader Camp went through a few identities before settling on the version most horror fans know. In some territories it was released under the title Bloody Pom Poms, a name that leaned harder into grindhouse sensationalism and promised blood-soaked cheer routines more than the actual film delivered.
While Cheerleader Camp is acknowledged in official circles such as the BFI, there’s still no solid proof it ever received a proper commercial release in the UK—no cinema run, no BBFC-certified VHS—leaving its availability here frustratingly hazy. Even today, the cover feels oddly familiar, as if it has always lurked on the edge of memory, that I had certainly seen in a dusty UK video shop. The ‘Mandela Effect’ perhaps? That very ambiguity only adds to the film’s underground mystique, giving it a forbidden allure among collectors and horror fans hunting for rare tapes. Over time, both titles have become part of the film’s quirky identity, with Bloody Pom Poms in particular enjoying cult notoriety across a variety of formats.
It was filmed in Camp Nelson and the Sequoia National Forest, with editing by future TV mainstay Jeffrey Reiner. Apparently, it premiered in the U.S. on June 21, 1988 theatrically with the European title Bloody Pom Poms, it then was released by Prism Entertainment on video cassette on November 16, the same year.
Prism Entertainment, a company well known for distributing genre films at the time. The cover art was classic slasher fare— a cheerleader skeleton, pom-poms, and a hint of summer camp menace—perfectly signalling the film’s blend of bright daylight sequences and lurking horror.
It lived a long afterlife on VHS, until Anchor Bay Entertainment released the film on DVD on August 3, 2004. The soundtrack has since become celebrated, although its release is as murky as the films home video history.
Though the USA theatrical exposure was limited, the film has since remained accessible. UK viewers can now stream it via services like Amazon Prime Video, keeping its legacy alive for retro horror fans and those discovering this sun-soaked slasher for the first time.
Why Cheerleader Camp Still Counts? It is this balance—goofy rap numbers and mascot pratfalls on one side, sharp misdirection and a downer ending on the other—that gives the film its staying power. It wasn’t built for prestige, but for the shelves of a video rental store where discovery was half the fun. That’s why decades later, with its soundtrack reissued and its cult status secured, Cheerleader Camp deserves more recognition than its initial reception afforded.
A sunlit slasher with pom-poms, a sinister mascot, and one of the meanest closing shots of the decade—what more could VHS kids of the ’80s have asked for? The film isn’t flawless, but that’s good—it lets the legacy of earlier slashers serve it. It refines clichés into something sharper, funnier, and unexpectedly forward. Unlike Sleepaway Camp’s brutal twist, or Friday the 13th’s shadow stomp, this movie plays in daylight, makes jokes, and delivers a final punch that lingers. A slasher made for discovery, not acclaim—one that VHS kids traded among friends. Today, it's rightly earning its place as a sunny slasher oddball that dared to be different… a crisp 4K of the scanned original negative—bring it on!
To continue to celebrate Shadows of Dismemberment’s anniversary I created one of the novel’s most charged moments: John Satori and Judy find themselves face to face in a scene heavy with tension and truth.
Some cases change the course of a city. Others change the course of history.
In the 1930s, Eliot Ness was already a legend — the man who helped bring down Al Capone. But in Shadows of Dismemberment, we step into a chapter of his life that history books barely whisper about: a chilling murder investigation that dragged him out from behind his desk and into the darkest corners of Cleveland.
The answer lies not only in dusty police files but in the memories of those who lived it. Judy Getty’s account, handed down by her mother Rue, brings this forgotten horror into stark, unforgettable focus. Their story threads through decades — from the grim reality of Depression-era America to the present day — revealing that the shadows of the past still reach for us.
This is not just a meeting of two characters — it’s a collision of timelines, of hard evidence and intriguing memory.
What unfolds between them reshapes the investigation and sends the story hurtling toward revelations no one — not even Ness — could have predicted.
Crime is often about facts, but Shadows of Dismemberment is about impact. It’s about how murder doesn’t end with the victim — it ripples through families, across decades, and into the present.
By weaving historical fact with Rue’s firsthand experiences, the novel offers more than a whodunnit — it delivers a chilling reminder that some shadows never lift.
Written by Noah Hawley and directed by Dana Gonzales, “Mr. October” keeps the series’ momentum burning with high production values, inventive set pieces, and a deft balance of spectacle and suspense. Tensions rise between rival corporations, a reunion unfolds, and a long-kept secret comes to light — all against the backdrop of a world tipping deeper into chaos.
The sumptuous Georgian-style party is a visual feast: powdered wigs, heavy makeup, candlelit halls, and refined etiquette brought vividly to life. When the alien threat intrudes, the elegance shatters, and we’re left with an arresting collision of high society and visceral horror. The body count climbs swiftly, and while some of the violence is graphically on the nose, other moments are wisely left to the imagination, letting dread breathe in the shadows.
Sydney Chandler, Timothy Olyphant, and Babou Ceesay once again anchor the drama with grounded, magnetic performances, selling both the quiet human beats and the moments of sheer terror. Ceesay’s Morrow, gets some more interesting moments, and Lily Newmark’s shocked Nibs is memorable. The episode also treats us to an array of new creatures — each distinct, unnerving, and rendered with impressive FX work that expands the franchise’s bestiary without feeling too gimmicky. The Alien design seems to successfully borrow from the first four films.
Yet, as with the premiere, the editing lets the episode down. There are moments where the flow stutters, and gaps of darkness linger — possibly placeholders for ad breaks — evoking the old days of watching syndicated TV. While it may be an intentional broadcast-style choice, it occasionally pulls the viewer out of the immersive atmosphere, as do some of the more heavy-handed (perhaps intentionally different) editing choices.
As the sister scours the chaos for her brother, and he navigates a perilous path toward safety, the story tightens its grip. Gonzales’ direction makes the most of both the intimate character moments and the sprawling set pieces, delivering a world that feels at once lived-in and on the brink of collapse.
“Mr. October” doesn’t just move the plot forward — it enriches the series’ texture, marrying lavish period-style opulence with the cold bite of Alien horror. The result is unsettling, thrilling, and visually captivating, even if the editorial rhythm needs sharpening.
Director writer Mike P. Nelson’ offers just over fifteen minutes, The Jason Universe: Sweet Revenge wastes no time delivering carnage with stunning efficiency. The practical gore and effects are executed with impressive flair, making the most of a tight budget to deliver visceral, blood-drenched thrills that fans of the slasher genre will appreciate.
Lead actress Ally Ioannides (as Eve) brings compelling strength and presence to the screen, guiding the chaos with control and charisma. She anchors the short with a proactive, emotional core that elevates the body count with real stakes.
Stepping into the hockey mask is Schuyler White, who delivers the kind of physicality and menace worthy of the franchise’s legacy. His movements have the weight and deliberation of classic Jason, making him a fitting heir to the role’s long tradition. Incidentally, Chris Carlson’s Harold oddly gives Robert Englund vibes.
While the short doesn’t have the gritty VHS feel, or film grain, it harnesses that original Jason ambiance with purposeful pacing, shadowy menace, and well-timed scares. There’s a modern polish—akin to the 2009 Friday reimagining—but the spirit of the early films pulses just beneath the surface.
Nods to the franchise are peppered throughout—from familiar kill setups to sly narrative references—enough to feel like a loving wink to long-time fans. Add in a couple of clever twists, and you get a sharp little narrative that still manages to build momentum.
The finale hits you with a cliffhanger of sorts, leaving plenty of room for speculation and appetite for more. And then—the end credits roll to Sugar and Spice’s ‘I’ve Changed’ an ironic and fittingly twisted choice that underlines the film’s playful tone.
For fans of Friday the 13th Crystal Lake carnage, Sweet Revenge is a brisk, blood-soaked treat — a short that understands the rules of its universe and plays with them just enough to keep you hooked. Well worth checking out.
Noah Hawley—the creative mind behind Fargo and Legion—wears multiple hats here as creator, writer, executive producer, and director of Episode 1, “Neverland.” The episode was shot by cinematographer Dana Gonzales.
From the opening frame, Alien: Earth nails the tone—oppressive corridors, corporate dread, and that lurking sense of unease that harks back to the claustrophobic tension of the original Alien. At the same time, there are echoes of Prometheus in the sleek biotech undertones, and for fans paying attention, a visual reference to Hicks’ demise in Alien 3 is even thrown in, a subtle nod that underscores the series’ respect for its lineage.
Visually, the episode is first rate: direction is assured, cinematography striking, FX seamless, and the sets feel tactile and lived-in. Sydney Chandler brings emotional depth as Wendy, Timothy Olyphant exudes steady authority, and Babou Ceesay is magnetically composed even in quieter scenes.
There are plenty of nods and homages to the Alien canon—haunting shadows, industrial design cues, and tone—but these serve the story rather than override it. It’s a thoughtful homage, honoring the spirit of the franchise while forging its own path.
Where the episode falters is in the editing: jarring cuts and mis-timed transitions undercut some suspense. In a franchise built on meticulous pacing, these missteps stand out, even if they don’t fully derail the immersion.
Still, as a standalone entry—and as a faithful extension of the Alien legacy—this episode delivers. It’s atmospheric, well-crafted, and brimming with thematic promise. Now it just needs a sharper editorial edge to truly match the rest of its high-caliber execution.
My Alternative Death Stalker Poster ‘80s StyleMy Alternative 2025 Deathstalker Modern Poster
Roger Corman’s Deathstalker saga began in 1983 with Rick Hill swinging steel in a sleazy, violent Conan the Barbarian cash-in—think Sorceress (1982). It wasn’t as fun as The Barbarians (1987) or as well-received as The Sword and the Sorcerer (1982), but it hit big enough to spawn three sequels. My personal favourite? The charmingly fun, dumb Deathstalker II (1987), where the series went full tongue-in-cheek.
The original was part of an avalanche of ’80s barbarian flicks—Conquest, Beastmaster, Gor, Ator the Fighting Eagle, Barbarian Queen, and even serious outings like Hundra and the original Red Sonja.
Now, Deathstalker is getting a 2025 reboot from Steven Kostanski (Psycho Goreman) starring Daniel Bernhardt. With Corman’s scrappy DNA in its veins, this could actually surprise.
Original 2025 Deathstalker Poster
Meanwhile, Red Sonja—based on the comic—is also returning. It’s probably not a remake of the enjoyable Brigitte Nielsen film with Arnold Schwarzenegger (who was basically tricked into starring). This new low-budget take has Matilda Lutz in the lead, and I’m hoping it lands some solid blows, but there more pressure than Deathstalker given the budget of its predecessor.
As for Deathstalker, the official teaser poster felt a bit lacklustre. So, I made my own fan poster—leaning into that pulpy, barbarian grit that hooked me in the first place. It’s the kind of cover that would’ve made you grab the VHS off the rental shelf without even reading the back. Sometimes, you’ve got to put the sword where your heart is.
Time has a way of folding back on itself. One moment you’re writing through the early hours, chasing voices in the dark — the next, the story has made its way into the world, carrying more than you intended.
This month marks the anniversary of Shadows of Dismemberment, a novel that became something unintended: my final work. A sequel had begun and now rests in partial notes, draft chapters and scattered dialogue, its voice silenced before it could fully speak. But illness has a way of closing doors before you realise they’ve shut. What remains is this finished piece, both a culmination and, reluctantly, a farewell.
Three Places. One Thread of Violence.
The novel moves between three distinct settings, each chosen for what it reveals:
New York City, all vertical edges and sleepless glass, masks its violence beneath noise and ambition. Wales, remote and fog-drenched, is a landscape shaped by silence — where truths are buried under stone, blood, and memory. 1938, threaded carefully through the modern-day narrative, places trauma in context, not as a relic but as origin. Some horrors are inherited. Some simply adapt. This features a carefully studied Eliot Ness.
Exciting action setups are littered throughout, but the plot doesn’t chase twists or shock reveals. It spirals, slow and exacting — a psychological reckoning that leaves its trace long after the final page.
What About the Victims?
One exchange from the novel continues to haunt:
“Victims are seldom remembered,” a voice says.
“I remember all their names. All their faces,” John Satori replies.
That moment — recently reimagined in a new visual to mark the anniversary — sits at the core of the story. Not a confrontation between good and evil, but a reckoning between memory and silence. (Image below.)
Fiction Meets Reality
Shortly after Shadows of Dismemberment was released, the Idaho student murders surfaced in real life. At sentencing, Judge Steven Hippler said the killer should be “forgotten and studied in silence,” allowing the victims to live on in public memory — a sentiment that quietly echoed the novel’s own heartbeat.
Because Shadows was never about the killer’s mind. It was always about what was left behind.
Editions Out Now:
A Hardback Edition with an exclusive cover Paperback and Kindle editions
Released in the U.K. in 1988, I was too young to see Frantic at the cinema, I don’t recall renting it on VHS first, but sometime in the early ’90s — probably 1992 — I caught it late one night on television. One of those accidental viewings where you intend to watch five minutes and end up staying until the credits roll, fully submerged. I’d grown up with Harrison Ford as a dependable leading man — action hero, reluctant rogue, square-jawed everyman — but here, he was something else entirely. Stripped down. Lost. Unmoored. The difference was stark. And I couldn’t quite shake it.
Then there was Emmanuelle Seigner. She didn’t so much light up the screen as alluringly haunt it. She wasn’t written like the usual femme fatale — and she didn’t play it that way either. There was a detached energy about her, a mixture of worn-out cool and vulnerability, and I fell for it completely. It wasn’t just infatuation with the actress — it was fascination with her character, with her presence, with the way she moved through Polanski’s rain-slicked, indifferent Paris like a ghost who knew the way.
That initial intrigue became something else. I started tracking down anything connected to the film — original lobby cards, international posters, an old worn Warner puff box, the Warner Home Video Ltd VHS release, and eventually, the cardboard snapcase DVD that promised more than it delivered. I bought the soundtrack too — Ennio Morricone’s score, full of melancholy suspense, soon became regular listening.
I bought the soundtrack too — Ennio Morricone’s score, full of melancholy suspense, soon became regular listening. Simply Red’s “I’m Gonna Lose You,” used so hauntingly in the sobering riverboat scene, echoed the film’s themes of disconnection and quiet despair. I also picked up Grace Jones’ Island Life just to revisit “I’ve Seen That Face Before (Libertango)” — a track that, once paired with Seigner’s disaffected sway through the nightclub, took on an entirely new life.
Before long, it wasn’t enough to watch Frantic — I wanted to walk it. So in the late ’90s, I visited Paris, armed with nothing more than a few addresses: pausing on steps, scouring narrow streets, standing in front of the Le Grand Hotel; Île aux Cygnes — the island where the Lady Liberty scenes were filmed; Rue Scribe — the street with the flower shop; Passage Brady — where a bum points out the spot where Dr. Walker’s wife was kidnapped. The restaurant where Richard Walker (Harrison Ford) meets with the U.S. Embassy officials is Bistrot Marguerite, located at 1 Place de l’Hôtel de Ville.
Back then, that kind of location hunting was reserved for specialists — the kind of material you’d only find buried in film tourism books or occasional magazines, not fed through algorithms.
Today, of course, things are different. You can type “filming locations” into YouTube and walk the entire movie without leaving your sofa. Blu-rays now routinely come loaded with extras and visual comparisons. Ironically, when Frantic finally made its way to Blu-ray, it was demoted — belittled, even — lumped into a double bill with Presumed Innocent. A box-ticking exercise, not a celebration.
But for those of us who discovered it in the quiet margins — in fuzzy late-night broadcasts, in paused frames and physical media, in foreign streets half-familiar through cinema — Frantic is more than just a mid-tier thriller. It’s a mood, a place, a dislocation. Something that seeps in quietly and refuses to leave.
Notable Cast, Crew & Trivia
Frantic was directed by Roman Polanski and co-written with his long-time collaborator Gérard Brach. The film was produced by Timothy Burrill and Robert Benmussa, and features an evocative score by Ennio Morricone that is simultaneously restrained and ominous. Cinematographer Witold Sobociński (renowned for his work on The Hourglass Sanatorium) gives the film its dense, humid texture — the shadows are deep, the rain persistent. Editor Sam O’Steen (Chinatown, The Graduate) stitches the film together with quiet patience, pacing it like a nightmare in slow motion.
Among the supporting cast are several familiar faces. John Mahoney (of Frasier fame) plays U.S. Embassy official, offering a wearied but bureaucratically polite dead-end to Walker’s increasingly desperate inquiries. Jimmy Ray Weeks plays the suspiciously evasive Shaap, and Dominique Piñon (Alien Resurrection ) gives a poignant performance as the drunken wino — the only witness to Sondra’s disappearance. That brief scene, in Passage Brady, becomes one of the most memorable encounters in the film.
The choice to shoot entirely on location in Paris, with minimal studio interference, lends the film a grounded realism. The streets feel real because they are real. The disorientation that Ford’s character experiences is mirrored by the viewer — twisting alleys, unhelpful officials, red-lit clubs, cigarette smoke, and sudden rainstorms that make the foreign city feel even more impenetrable.
Polanski reportedly cast Ford because he wanted someone the audience would implicitly trust — a man’s man, but vulnerable, not invincible. Ford, coming off Witness and The Mosquito Coast, was game to play against type. His American arrogance is gradually broken down by the city, the system, and the situation. He stumbles more than he swaggers.
And then there’s Seigner — only in her early twenties at the time — who plays Michelle with a blend of aloof toughness and quiet curiosity. Dressed in iconic red, she visually mirrors Sondra Walker (played by Betty Buckley), who is also seen in red at the film’s outset. The costuming — subtle but deliberate — draws a visual connection between the two women, both drifting in and out of reach, both emotionally unavailable in their own ways. Despite the simmering chemistry, Walker never takes the bait. Whether or not Michelle would have genuinely reciprocated remains open. Their bond is born of circumstance, not romance — another subversion of genre expectations.
The stakes of Frantic are small and intimate — one missing woman, one distressed husband, no global crisis, no ticking time bomb. And yet it plays like a Hitchcockian thriller with world-ending weight. The claustrophobia is emotional, not physical. The absence is what fills the screen.
It’s worth noting how the plot hinges on the inability to communicate — no smartphones, no text messages, no way to trace someone once they’ve walked away. The MacGuffin — a nuclear detonator hidden in a miniature replica of the Statue of Liberty — feels far-fetched on paper but entirely fitting in the film’s dreamlike logic. If Frantic were made today, it would need to fight against instant connectivity, surveillance, and data trails. That analog sense of helplessness — calling from a payphone, writing down addresses, asking strangers for help — is part of what gives the film its distinct identity.
Controversially, Polanski’s personal history has also shadowed the film’s reception in later years. Some viewers find it impossible to separate the art from the artist, and Frantic is often caught in that debate — especially when paired with Seigner, who would later become Polanski’s wife. The power dynamics behind the camera, in retrospect, may feel uneasy. But on screen, the performances remain strong and the mood intact.
Ultimately, Frantic is a film of atmospheres and undercurrents — not explosions and resolutions. It’s a story of displacement, both geographic and emotional, and it lingers precisely because it doesn’t conform. For those who found it in the margins, its impact has been permanent.
