Film Reviews by NP

You may be familiar with ‘Chucky’, and ‘Annabelle’ too – murderous dolls who seem to take on a life of their own. This is actually a sequel to the earlier ‘Robert (2015)’, although it works perfectly well viewed in isolation.

Pretty young Emily Barker (Tiffany Ceri) begins a nightshift as a cleaner at East Falls Museum, which takes on an eerie atmosphere in the darkness, what with its mannequins, human-like dummies, and an allegedly ‘haunted’ doll called Robert. He’s a creepy looking toy, with his mismatched eyes and permanent sneer/grin. As grumpy Security Guard Stan (Christopher Hale) soon finds, Robert is also a dab hand at murder. Luckily for Emily, handsome nice guy Kevin (Jason Homeward) is also on hand.

This is another project from the horror stable of Andrew Jones, and contains a subtle reference to his earlier ‘Poltergeist Activity’, which also featured a malevolent doll. As productivity increases, Jones’ films show signs of getting better all the time – for example, the standard of acting and sound quality is much better than some of the earlier offerings. One constant that remains, happily, is Jones’ skill at writing his characters – there are no stereotypes here (not even Stan), no petulant bored teens or posturing cardboard, one-dimensional characters. Here are likeable, relatable, real people placed in a very unreal situation. Therefore, we like them and feel emotion when events conspire against them.

The low-budget notion of a malevolent toy coming to life is as frightening or as ridiculous as you would wish it, but Robert’s appearances are brief enough to avoid unintentional hilarity. The spirit of Robert Crow, murdered by his father, inhabits the little bloke, and the owner of the museum (Nigel Barber) knows this – and with the intimidating lack of non-co-operation from the police, Emily and Kevin take events into their own hands.

This all depends on whether you find dolls frightening. If so, this works well – everything is employed to make their broken little porcelain faces, their sightless glassy eyes and their leering grins as unnerving as possible. Lee Bane, without whom no Andrew Jones film would be complete, plays the Toymaker. Sadly, his ‘old man’ make-up is less convincing than anything Robert or his friends bring to the table.

It is not often the case that a teenager is presented positively in films. They are usually deeply unpleasant in a variety of ways, so it is refreshing to see Natalie Martins playing the very convincing and appealing Katherine Prescott, teenage daughter of David (Lee Bane), who is not only grieving for the death of her mother, but also looking after dad who, by his own admission, isn’t handling being a single parent as well as she deserves.

This is another offering from the stable of writer/director/producer Andrew Jones who has produced, and continues to produce, a steady stream of micro-budget horror films. Some are put off by the lack of spectacular set-pieces and effects. What do they expect from a project with such limited financial backing? Not that the low-budget defines the ultimate production – rather the stories these films tell are smaller and more intimate (and to me, far more human and effecting) that some superficial mainstream blockbuster.

In a big spoiler, the two of them move into a secluded Welsh farmhouse and are menaced by china doll Otto, who refuses to stay in the attic/under the bed/in the dustbin. I mention this immediately because, bless him, Otto is rarely convincing. He’s a spooky doll operated off camera. Rather more effective are the life-size versions of Otto – cherubic, blank faced creatures in robes that, if you look carefully, have sparkling eyes beneath the mask hollows.

The sound quality here, which has held back scenes in previous Jones films, is much improved, and we are treated to a number of heartfelt speeches – the most impressive from David, lamenting his shortcomings as a parent to a sleeping – or is she? – Katherine. Regular Jared Morgan is terrific also, as an eccentric, disillusioned paranormal investigator called Hans Voltz.

My only issue with this is the lack of a conclusive, or even satisfying, ending. A séance brings forth the strongest manifestations of evil yet. Father and daughter flee - and that’s that. It would have been interesting to at least see something of what happened to the other cast members, and repercussions thereof. Ah well, at least in the post-credits sequence, it seems the trouble is not quite over yet.

This contains a very good central performance from Shane Johnson, playing Michael King, who gets … you guessed it … possessed! After his idyllic life is shattered with the death of his wife, he and his two young daughters try continue with their lives. Michael decides to make a documentary, using himself as guinea-pig, to prove there is life after death, while his daughters’ grieving is ignored. After various experiments involving characters of varyingly dubious quality, it would seem that a demon has gained possession of the rapidly degenerating Michael. Understandably, the daughters leave. Less understandably, despite Michael’s frighteningly upsetting behaviour, it is a very long time before anyone comes to see what all the noise is about. By this time, the house is a bloody wreck.

This is good, quite unsettling story-telling. Events happen at a brisk pace, and we lurch with Michael, from one horrific incident to the next. Johnson is excellent throughout, and it is just as well - you do get the impression the entire film hangs on his acting at times.

During one of the hallucinatory sequences that may be a dream, a very curious thing occurs. Scenes from Richard Driscoll’s notorious 2008 film ‘The Legend of Harrow Woods/Evil Calls: The Raven’ are inserted for no reason whatsoever. Featuring characters and events that have absolutely nothing to do with anything – which could arguably said about their context in their original surroundings – the effect is so jarring (probably because I am so familiar with the Driscoll film) that I suspected a possession on behalf of my DVD player! It is a very strange occurrence, and I would love to know why such scenes are included here – mind you, if it provides funds for a further Driscoll project, then all the better.

Director David Jung does a good job with the jump scenes, and the more subtle effects are highly successful (an ant crawling out of an eye at an unexpected moment, etc), but one gets the impression that the price paid for such slick pacing is that once King is possessed, there’s nowhere for the story to go other than repeatedly perverse stunts for the unfortunate titular character.

Featuring some of the cast and crew of Andrew Jones’ earlier ‘Theatre of Death/Midnight Horror Show’ from the same year, this low-budget horror doesn’t quite embrace the unnerving intimacy of his earlier film. This is a tale of Londoner Kristen Matthews (Rachel Howells) moving into an inherited house in Wales, where she meets with a small coven of white witches.

Impressive Jones regulars Lee Bane and Jared Morgan star as Detective Jim Eckhart and Father Bill Jennings respectively. All the cast deliver reasonably believable performances, and yet sound issues common with low-budget ventures often render Bane’s dialogue in particular sometimes hard to catch. Ross Owen Williams also makes a good impression as Richard.

A local spate of suicides (which turn out to be fairly superfluous to the story) in the Welsh village find themselves puncturing Matthews’ dreams in such a way she believes she may have some connection with them.

The storyline is pretty thin (and doesn’t stand up well under close scrutiny), but the pace rarely slackens. That’s not to say this is edge-of-the-seat stuff by any means, but that isn’t its mission. It is a solid, atmospheric slice of rural folk-horror. By opening up the locations, as opposed to keeping things tight as in ‘Theatre of Death’, some of the weirdness that made the earlier film so attractive is missing, and open air locations lessen the control Jones has over them compared to more claustrophobic surroundings, and whereas ‘Theatre…’ created its own world by odd, close-cut angles and sickly lighting, this is more prey to real weather conditions. I compare this to the earlier film so much because so far - along with the gently impressive ‘The Last House on Cemetery Lane (2915)’ - these two projects are all I have seen from the ever growing stable of Andrew Jones’ films. His North Bank Entertainment company produces a regular horror output and despite the results here being good rather than great, there is a definite love and feel for the kind of horror I enjoy: understated, low budget, sincerely played and quietly unnerving.

I love it when a film comes along that changes the perceptions of how a story should be told. Apart from being entertaining in its own right, it shakes up (to a limited extent) the tired, tried and tested mainstream diet of CGI, diluted scares and catwalk model actors with identi-kit personalities. ‘Cemetery of Splendor’ couldn’t be further than that style of blandness. And yet in rejecting everything stale about traditional storytelling, it sadly creates a blandness all its own.

A school in Northern Thailand has been turned into a makeshift hospital to house soldiers who have been afflicted by an unexplained sleeping sickness, which renders them comatose for vast periods of time, punctuated by periods of awakening.

Volunteer Jenjira (Jenjira Pongpas) strikes up a friendship with patient Itt (Banlob Lomnoi) during his few hours of wakefulness. There is speculation that the school was built over a cemetery and the dead are feeding off the minds of the sleeping soldiers. Jenjira also becomes friendly with Keng (Jarinpattra Rueangram), who claims to have some rapport with the sleepers.

That is about all as far as a story is concerned, and it is stretched far, far beyond interest to fill the 2 hour running time. The frustration I felt watching is that anything else dramatic was not likely to occur grew the further in I ventured. There’s no need for scenes of so little happening to last so long, one after the other. All these elongated moments are deliberate artistic decisions, and so cannot be brushed away by budgetary or lack-of-time reasons. And the film has attracted a mass of critical acclaim – so clearly, I just didn’t ‘get’ it.

The camera is primarily static. People wander in and out of shot just as they would in a fly-on-the-wall documentary. Sometimes you only see the back of a character’s head throughout the scene. In true documentary style, the acting is very naturalistic and the characters very believable. While I would commend director/writer Apichatpong Weerasethakul for refusing to utilise anything traditional about this project, and am glad his work has attracted the commendations of critics, this is so uncommercial, it is sadly deeply un-enthralling.

After Universal scored such hits with ‘Dracula’ and ‘Frankenstein’ in 1931, it was clear that horrifying audiences was big business. Amongst the steady stream of cinematic terrors that followed, a year later Paramount brought us swathes of monstrosities courtesy of HG Wells and his insane Doctor Moreau.

The make-up for the ‘lost souls’ is very impressive on the more subtle mutations, but less so on the more ‘advanced’ experiments. Which brings us to the most vocal, The Sayer of the Law, played by Bela ‘Dracula’ Lugosi (as he is billed, just above ‘The Panther Woman’). Covered in fur, this is the actor that, a year earlier, had supposedly turned down the Frankenstein Monster for fear the make-up would obscure his matinee looks (which is given as one of a number of reasons he didn’t end up playing the role despite being touted for it). The Sayer of the Law would seem to debunk that particular theory.

Lota, the Panther Woman herself, is played very appealingly by Kathleen Burke in an outfit that exposes a lot of flesh for the time. Her growing relationship with Richard Arlen as Parker – a hero not quite as overshadowed by the other characters as is usual in horror films from this era – is interesting, but causes problems when his girl Ruth (Leila Hyams) travels all the way to the remote island to look for him.

Finally, what an actor Charles Laughton was. Whilst time has rendered the performances of some of the actors around him dated and theatrical, Laughton’s Moreau is every bit as convincing and villainous in 2017 as he was 85 years ago. Superbly spoken but dripping with malice, or uncontrolled and snarling like one of his own animalistic experiments, he is compelling at all times. Moreau’s ultimate fate is one of the most unpleasant you could imagine, but horribly satisfying too.

This is a mighty slice of grim and effective cinema. We could smile at some of the quaint make-up effects of course, but Director Erle C Kenton is at his creative peak here. He would go on to direct future Universal horrors, but never does he imbue them with the sense of unease and danger as is on show here. Strange, leering faces loom of out the jungle, misshapen shapes move in the shadows, revealing deformed limbs – or in one case, a solitary hoof – although we are fairly sure that their animalistic fury is directed only at those responsible for their current predicaments.

After all, ‘are we not men?’

Shall I state the obvious? At 156 minutes, ‘The Wailing’ is very long. If it was split down the middle into two chapters, that would at least allow a breather in between acts. Alright? I’ve got that off my chest, so we can move on. Because ‘The Wailing’ is excellent. How is it that this modestly budgeted South Korean horror film, that features only occasional special effects and a cast of actors of varied ages (as opposed to predominantly young and pretty) shows up obscenely financed mainstream Hollywood output as being tired, CGI-reliant and shallow? Perhaps for precisely those reasons.

Kwak Do-won is excellent as Jong-goo, a police officer investigating a series of outbreaks of a mysterious wasting disease in and around his village. Various scenes of violently possessed and afflicted characters illustrate this. When the malady appears to affect his daughter Hyo-jinn, he sees the progression of the disease first-hand. Kim Hwan-hee is a revelation as the placid, loving daughter slowly transformed into a shrieking, snarling fiend – afraid of the shaman Il-gwang (Hwang Jung-min) brought in to exorcise her, and snarling accusatory curses at the father who is trying to save her.

“When you go fishing, you don’t know what you’ll catch. ‘He’s’ just fishing …”, to slightly misquote the reply to Jong-goo’s wearied wonderings as to why his daughter should be afflicted. As to who ‘he’ is – we have to assume the worst. And yet even her transformation isn’t the worst we see.

Jun Kunimura plays the morose hermit who may or may not be behind the witchery, and yet when Jong-goo and Il-gwang dispose of him, the shaman feels that they have done away with the wrong person …

Evocative and effective use is made of location, and especially the elements. On occasions, the atmosphere looks extremely cold, and when it rains, it comes down in torrents. Director Na Hong-jin conjures up a very convincing sense of violent evil within a small community. My only slight issue with ‘The Wailing’ is that, after all that time, there is no real ending – which is something I usually don’t mind at all, but felt this could perhaps have done with some kind of pay-off. Perhaps a sequel is a possibility …

We have time to get to know the characters, watch them grow and share with them their harrowing experiences. Productions like this, when they come along, almost re-write the structure of telling an effective story – so much so that, while over two-and-a-half hours is a long time to concentrate on a film, you certainly aren’t in any hurry for it to end.

Michael (Owen Szabo) and Julia (Elizabeth Kell) travel to the Rocky Mountains in order to spend a romantic few days alone together. A likeable duo, their never-ending foreplay is nevertheless nauseating, and yet this is how directors Brad Helmink and John Rauschelbach feel they need to convey their feelings for each other.

They meet proprietor Henry (Kevin McClatchy) amidst a carnage of general untidiness when they arrive. No hint of an apology forthcoming, Henry proves to be … a bit of a twit, really. Ignorant and arrogant yet formidable, he refers to the couples as ‘kids’, so it makes no sense when Michael subsequently tries to ‘bond’ with him by reminiscing about past sporting achievements and telling him how passionate a lover Julia is. As such, much of the couple’s time together now becomes an awkward three-way thing.

The well-being of the twosome isn’t helped by the discovery of a dishevelled young girl Desi (Mandi Kreisher), seemingly kept prisoner in a locked room of the lodge. Why she hasn’t made her presence known before now is made clear when her relationship with Henry – not his real name, by the way – is revealed.

‘The Lodge’ is ultimately a well-made, nicely directed, convincingly acted horror thriller. There’s a good slow build-up of menace aided immeasurably by the superbly hypnotic score by Yagmur Kaplan. Not the most original or ground-breaking story you’ll ever know, but it makes no claims to be – although the DVD cover’s proclamation ‘The Shining meets Cabin in the Woods’ is guilty of overselling its effectiveness.

For a project with a running time in excess of three hours, ‘Frankenstein: The True Story’ seems in a hurry to get on with it, at least initially. Five minutes in, and we’ve already witnessed the death of Frankenstein’s brother William and his subsequent frustration with the fatality; his fianceé Elizabeth (Nicola Pagett) is exasperated by his plans to thwart death by recreating life – it seems as if the telling of the story has almost started without us!

Once we’ve been hurriedly ushered in, the pace slows considerably and most of the first ‘chapter’ proves to be extremely talkie. Many ominous musings about creating ‘the second Adam’, some realistic dismembered limbs and the steady unveiling of the incredible cast notwithstanding; it is a necessary build-up to Frankenstein’s obsession getting more delirious, and with his friend Clerval’s passing, it is finally time to put the impressive laboratory set to good use.

David McCallum as Clerval – in this adaption, a medical man (and brain donor) even more driven than Frankenstein himself - is afflicted by a physical malady that fuels his intent. A plethora of famous faces also includes Ralph Richardson, John Gielgud, Tom Baker (only months before his acclaimed role in Doctor Who), Peter Sallis, Yootha Joyce, and – excellent as Prima – Jane Seymour. Considering that Leonard Whiting as Frankenstein is the least prolific in that gang, he is never upstaged by his co-stars; one wonders why he didn’t enjoy a lengthier career.

Michael Serrazin’s very human looking creature is something of a disappointment initially, purely because he is so un-terrifying. No misshapen monster, his slender, bandaged form is indeed what Clerval seemed to be striving for. And yet, like Michael Gwynn’s human monster in Hammer’s ‘Revenge of Frankenstein (1958)’, this is a prelude to genuine tragedy – that the handsome, playful, contented child-man soon witnesses his looks deteriorate cruelly. It is telling that when ‘pretty’, his childish ways amuse his creator – as ugliness begins to take hold, Victor loses patience with him. Serrazin puts in a consistently superb performance throughout, ranging from charming, to vulnerable, miserable, vengeful and downright demonic.

The second and final chapter begins after the Creature’s unsuccessful suicide attempt and it is during this episode the already tenuous titular claim of a ‘true’ story becomes even more fractured – but that can be forgiven when the results are so entertaining.

Prima proves to overshadow the original creation in every way possible – embraced by high society, loved by all she meets, in fact infuriatingly perfect – especially at manipulation and bitchiness. In possibly this story’s most famous scene, she pays the price. The only bit of the original Agatha, with whom the creature had formed an attachment, is her head; in a splendid scene, in front of all, the dishevelled, betrayed, deteriorating creature, violently removes it.

After this, the pace enters the uneven phase it did at the beginning. In no time at all, a ship bound for America is an epic battle ground. The creature, now full of understandable hate, has a demented, fiendish persona – laughing as he hoists the terrified Polidori to his death (his – or Clerval’s – mocking chants of ‘Poli Dolly’ thrown against the stormy skies), reduced to skeletal scraps by the lightning he deplores.

Despite some unconvincing day-for-night shots, and a lacklustre dummy used for a clifftop stunt, this remains a visually impressive spectacle. ‘The True Story’ is an intelligent, brilliantly played take on the original novel. It also contains nods (deliberately or otherwise) to other filmic versions and yet presents its own very memorable version of the classic tale.

This terrific slow-burner is Spanish Director Jess Franco’s old dark house mystery in the style of a giallo – a historical one, no less. It is a spectacularly underrated film – consistent, intriguing, well-played and possessed of some impressive twists.

Lina Romay, in possibly her best role, plays Rita, shamed servant girl. Without the distraction of hubby Franco’s predilection for sex and gore, her performance shows what a true talent she was. Rita is humble and subversive, a million miles away from many of the other parts she played. Antonio Mayans, who would star with Romay years later in the notorious ‘Mansion of the Living Dead (1984)’, is excellent as Alfred, who may or not be Rita’s brother. Franco himself, never a hugely impressive actor, also gives what maybe his best performance as drunken old lawyer Andy. Dependable Alberto Dalbés as Major Brooks and Vincente Roca as Inspector Bore (pronounced ‘Borey’, fortunately) also spice up the 74 minute running time.

The direction is restrained – no lingering, graphic sex scenes or manically zooming lenses here – and really conveys a classic haunted house thriller. Indeed, Edgar Allen Poe is credited as an inspiration in the opening moments, although there is nothing specifically similar that I can see.

A darkly shot project – occasionally too dark – this drips with atmosphere, with Franco making the most of his splendidly intimidating location.

It is my own fault, of course. Watching a film about cannibals, directed by Jess Franco, was always going to be a gross experience. And true to form, only a short time into the 90 minute running time, explorer Professor Taylor’s wife Elizabeth has been eaten alive in uncomfortable close-up. The effects are far from sophisticated, the camera-work deliberately blurred, but this raw direction makes the gratuitous suggestions of innards being torn out and offal eaten wince-inducing and repulsive (the close-ups appear to be repeated later on in further attacks – which are mercifully few and far between). Jerry Taylor (Al Cliver) subsequently has his arm torn off, but otherwise manages to escape the cannibals who have invaded his would-expedition. Worse for his daughter, Lana. The cannibals have kidnapped her, calling her their White Goddess.

But not to worry – the wayward acting and truly atrocious dubbing numbs any effect of elongated revulsion. I am watching the French version of this, dubbed into American. As soon as a character speaks, we are relegated to the production levels of a porn flick (although there is no sex on display here, rare for a Franco film). Equally, guaranteed to break any intended atmospherics, the jazzy Daniel White music is typically inappropriate (other credited composers are Roberto Pregadio and Franco himself.

Years later, after being nursed back to semi-health by Lina Romay as Candy Coster as Ana the nurse, Taylor vows to return to the ‘jungle’ (which looks like a palm tree park and is shown to be located on the edge of bustling civilisation) with a group of people led by a rich couple who don’t believe his story anyway and think the whole thing will be a bit of fun. As luck would have it, by this time, his daughter is now a beautiful, blow-dried blonde (17 year-old Sabrina Siani, described somewhat uncharitably by Franco as the worst actress he had ever worked with). She is still the white goddess to the cannibals, however, most of which are moustachioed Caucasians with curiously hip haircuts. “Death to the white invaders,” yells the cannibal chief at one point, presumably not noticing the majority of his tribe are white themselves.

Franco’s disinterest in the cannibal genre is something he has never been shy about and it is possible these films were foisted upon him by producers at Eurociné. As such, much like his ‘Oasis of the Zombies’ a couple of years later, this is a perfunctory work – quite enjoyable and not without merit, but containing little that is compelling. The best thing is the acting from Romay/Coster and Al Cliver, whose performance is head and shoulders above anything else here.

Lana as a child is played by ‘Anouska’, who also played the little girl Helena in the film Franco deserted, ‘Zombie Lake (1981)’, subsequently directed by Jean Rollin.

This project is also known as ‘Die Blonde Gottin (The Blonde Goddess)’, ‘White Cannibal Queen’, ‘A Woman for the Cannibals’ and ‘Barbarian Goddess’.

After the splatter-coloured opening credits, action man John Harrington (Stephen Forsyth) introduces himself in a voice-over as a paranoiac. Seemingly trapped in a loveless marriage with a wife who will not let him go, he is haunted by psychedelic dreams of some childhood trauma that seem to be tipping him towards murder. I describe him as an ‘action man’ not because he commits acts of great physical prowess, but because his perfectly manicured, coiffured, extravagantly made-up appearance makes him look like a male doll. Despite the distraction of his exquisitely chiselled features, Forsyth is good in the role, and throws himself into the character’s apparent lapses into violent insanity.

Director Mario Bava emblazons the picture with lush, packed visuals, much use of garish colour and hallucinogenic effects and the rasping musical strains of Sante Romitelli. He even at one point has the characters watching a scene from his own ‘Black Sabbath (1963). Although I feel that Bava’s style is too garish and brash to generate any real sense of horror – and I realise I am in the minority with this – Harrington’s continual confusion as to whether his wife is haunting him or not is well conveyed. With no real answers forthcoming, it is a genuine mystery as to what quite is going on.

While the regularity with which his dead wife appears and disappears threatens to get monotonous, this remains a solid entry into the giallo genre. If you are a fan of Bava’s work, there is undoubtedly much to enjoy here. As an entirely personal note, I find his style too stylised for my tastes and tends to obscure, instead of enhance, the mood.

There’s something faintly ludicrous about the opening shots of this ‘found footage’ entrance into George A Romero’s entry into his ‘Living Dead’ series. A live news broadcast is interrupted when corpses in the background come back to half-life and start attacking those around them. To me, found footage works best when you don’t see too much – the characters on screen reacting to something out of the audience’s vision works very well in that style. Fully made-up zombies fit better into a more stylised, ‘professionally filmed’ scenario.

Things don’t improve hugely when we meet a film crew, including actors playing actors playing both in front of, and behind the camera. ‘Hilarity’ ensures when two cast members ‘have to pee’, leaving the rest to view on the news reports how the dead are coming back to life. Amongst the teens, we have a uproariously well-spoken elderly ham Andrew Maxwell (Scott Wentworth) who clearly feels he’s demeaning himself by appearing in the film being made. Whispering, identical horny youngsters, someone (Jason – played by Joshua Close) who films *everything* despite being repeatedly asked not to, posturing, wall-to-wall expletives – all the staples of a teen horror, and by Romero’s standards, BAD. Apart from anything else, the advantages and unique qualities of the archive formula are simply not used here. The ‘story’ doesn’t need to be told in this way, and is just a gimmick. Could it be Romero was seeking financial success by attempting to attract the youth demographic?

It is explained at the beginning that, to make events more frightening, the young film-makers have added incidental music to events – and yet failed to edit out moments when (as is always the way in these things) the cameras start to fail and cut off.

Anyway, as events fail to progress, I am gagging for some cadaverous zombie to limp in and violently dismember people. When they eventually turn up, they are half-hearted, under-made-up and easily dispatched. The alleged good guys remain personality-free, rather a growing band of posers ‘doing what they gotta do’. How did Romero allow this to be made? To spend so much time with these people and for not one of them to effect any kind of personality for the duration is one thing, but when the undead action is as scarce as it is here, it makes for a hugely dull experience.

Happily, the next in the series ‘Survival of the Dead (2009)’ is a huge improvement on this.

In the midst of the inexplicable success of 1999’s CGI-fest ‘The Mummy’, this sequel to the previous year’s ‘Bram Stoker’s Legend of the Mummy’ slithered out onto the straight-to-video market. Like that first entry, this is cheap, hackneyed, badly acted and clichéd. However, whereas the first film barely featured a Mummy at all, this time we see more of the creature – much more. Christopher Bergschneider, billed as Anton Falk, plays a shorter, more overweight Mummy than I have ever seen, and is impossible to take seriously. By its very nature, such a creature should be skeletal, cadaverous, and that is not the case here. So it must be tongue-in-cheek. You would think. But no – it is played straight, or as straight as can be by this group of second graders. Strangely (or not), hunky braggart Morris (Michael Lutz) is the most convincingly played – you fully believe he is a lazy, arrogant, ignorant braggart. Also, he clearly fills the tight boxer-shorts he parades round in well enough for the casting director.

So then, an ancient Mummy has been found and placed in an insecure country compound and is placed on a slab, entirely open to the peccadillos of the young students staying there. Cretin Morris takes away an amulet so to impress chipper, chirpy Janine (Michelle Erickson), whilst Norman (Trent Latta), the butt of everyone’s jokes – who initially appears to be autistic – is actually an Aztec priest. Luckily for Morris, Janine is instantly in love with him when he gives her the amulet, so that’s nice. The big fat Mummy, buried with a circular blade (which makes you wonder why he didn’t use it to slice his bonds and escape his incarceration all those thousands of years ago) stalks the compound during an endless storm after the picturesque young people. For a compound, the location seems more like an average sized house, which is adequate, as only about 7 people are staying there.

Actually, I quite enjoyed this. It’s not quite so bad it’s good, but it is along those lines. The dialogue is ham-fisted and clichéd, but it’s eventful, well-paced and as cheesy as a cheese-burger in a stilton sandwich. It is an old style chiller – although not really very chilling – with a small budget and an undistinguished cast. It just isn’t particularly good on several levels, but perfectly enjoyable on another.

“Your time on this planet is over, Don!” I’m pretty sure that dialogue has as much to do with Bram Stoker as everything else on display here. And yet I still enjoyed this more than the Brendan Fraser efforts.