Film Reviews by NP

In a sea of disconcerting images, the most unpleasant must be the fridge full of snails, bathed in their own excrement. It is something that happens without fanfare and is treated without hysteria, either by lovely new teacher Francesca (Francesca Marciano) or hero Stefano (Lino Capolicchio). There are quite a few disconcerting images like this, some occasional gore and an overriding atmosphere of perversion and unknown horror.

The story involves Stefano’s deployment to an isolated village (always the best kind) to restore a decaying mural in the local church. He takes up residency in the house owned by the original, deceased artist’s two sisters. Whilst carrying out the restoration, his casual investigations reveal that the original artist was an insane murderer, who used his nefarious activities as ‘inspiration’ for his art.

Amidst the chilling night-time whispers of ‘purify’ and the eerie dilapidation of the titular house, Stefano’s affair with doe-eyed (yet hirsute) Francesca is a welcome touch of tenderness. You just know that something unspeakable is going to happen to her.

It’s a heady concoction of sinister characters and unnerving set-pieces. The surprise revelation at the end of the film is very satisfying and in part, pretty gruesome. Although the film may never quite live up to its glorious title, it provides an entertaining edition to the Italian ‘giallo’ cinema.

A sequel to 1958’s seminal ‘Dracula’, without Christopher Lee as the main man, could very well have been doomed to failure. Initial signs weren’t promising. When offered to return as Van Helsing, co-star Peter Cushing turned his nose up at the script. The subsequent various tweaks and three credited writers improved things sufficiently for him to agree to do it, but the re-writes resulted in a few flaws in an otherwise flawless film – just who was the Man In Black who ensured Marianne Danielle (Yvonne Monlaur) was abandoned at the inn (and where did he go)? Why did Marianne swiftly agree to marry Baron Meinster after previously being made very aware of his atrocities, and if Meinster could turn into a bat at will, then why was he shackled by the ankle unable to escape? Also, what happened to the vampire ‘brides’ at the film’s close?

I had, and have, the biggest crush on Yvonne Monlaur as Marianne. Her air of innocence, naivety and elegance (the character was playing a teacher of deportment after all) made a ridiculous impression on me when I first saw ‘Brides’ in 1980. This fact has no bearing on my opinion of the overall brilliance of this early Hammer success. Before we’ve begun proper, we’ve had stalwart Michael Ripper as a coach-master tearing through a classic, misty, desolate wilderness. We’ve had superstitious locals desperately afraid for their new guest, Marianne. We have the imperious, mighty Baroness Meinster (Martita Hunt) initially frightening everyone before revealing herself as a terrified, tragic figure – and her ward Greta (Freda Jackson) is wonderfully (and persuasively) deranged whilst showing unswerving loyalty to her mistress. The performances here drip with a genuine class and confidence that we actually don’t actually miss Van Helsing, who doesn’t appear until almost halfway through the film.

In the absence of The Count, we need a nemesis for Peter Cushing’s immaculate, masterly vampire Hunter. Whether Sir Lee was approached or not remains unknown, but David Peel, shorter and wearing a blond wig, more than makes up for his absence. Incredibly, Peel gave up acting after this, which is a shame. Here, he is noble and aristocratic, seductive and deadly, of imperious gaze and an intoxicating voice. Billed in America as a ‘teenage vampire’, Peel was actually 40 years old during filming. He is utterly brilliant in this, and his scenes are all electrifying. Only his eventual demise is slightly disappointing– no slow-motion disintegration effects here, but we do get a spectacularly over-the-top special effect when the sails of a windmill are turned (by Van Helsing in Errol Flynn mode, naturally) to form the shadow of a massive crucifix that finishes off the injured Baron.

This remains a firm favourite of mine, and something I never tire of watching. The sets, the lighting, Terrance Fisher’s uncluttered but inspiring direction, the cast (honourable mentions for Andree Melly and Miles Malleson), the story – it all offers something new every time. And let’s not forget Meinster achieved something Dracula never did – he actually ‘put the bite’ on Van Helsing. His antidote to the curse still makes me wince.

Lovely, stately horror from Hammer at their peak.

One thing worse than being a patient in an understaffed, dilapidated mental hospital in Haiti is to be visited by a group of quick-talking, squabbling young hacks determined to uncover the institution’s secrets whilst dishonouring local beliefs, moaning about the lack of a Starbucks, and shoving their cameras into patients’ faces.

Hunky main man Aiden (Ryan Caltagirone) has also come here to search for his brother, and is alarmed to find the place possessed by some demonic force. Hence the film’s title. Splendid-faced Danny Trejo, who is perhaps best known for his appearances in three ‘From Dusk Till Dawn’ films (as well as a plethora of others) appears briefly as Billy Cross. Other characters are sadly so flat that they barely register.

We have to trust that the asylum is in Haiti, as everything occurs indoors and the simple sets betray the low budget on offer. “I’m having trouble processing all this crazy shit,” fey Duane Dubois (Abe Spigner) remonstrates at one stage, which gives you some idea of the level of erudition on display here – but he has a point. The story, other than an asylum possessed, is a jumble and so flat are the scares (although the climactic effects occasionally ascend to the impressive) that the effort required to work out what exactly is going on doesn’t seem worth it. Even the music score (usually a dependable way of enhancing mood) is underwhelming, all but disappearing at moments of tension.

Ultimately, this emerges as yet another badly made unengaging horror attempt with screaming passing off as emoting (with Caltagirone the main culprit): daytime soap opera drama interspersed with wailings of demonic forces. The ‘touching’ ending featuring (‘SPOILER’) the two reunited brothers sobbing and telling each other how much they love each other is particularly nauseating. Why would a supposed powerful spirit spend so much time concerning itself with this bunch of shallow show-offs is anyone’s guess.

As plans go, Plan Z isn’t the greatest. It consists of stocking up on supplies and then staying indoors until the food runs out before heading off to ‘somewhere quiet.’ It deals, of course, with a zombie outbreak, illustrated economically by scenes of the slowly staggering Living Dead smeared with blood amidst a few overturned cars.

The decision to leave for the countryside occurs 28 days after the initial outbreak (as an onscreen caption tells us) which makes it pretty clear where this film’s influence comes from. ’28 Days Later (2002)’ was a ground-breaking UK success, which this clearly does not have the budget to emulate. And yet, by confining much of the initial outbreak to the area surrounding Craig, a very isolated man, we are treated to a very personal, even intimate vision of the apocalypse that negates cities bathed in CGI twilight and hordes of decomposing trouble-makers. Craig is played by Stuart Brennan, whom also wrote and directed this. His sole friend for the first half is Bill (Paul Mark Wake).

Much fleeing from underwhelming cadavers ensues, often to the music of a soft-rock music soundtrack. As they travel to the Isle of Skye, they meet up with a few more people including Seren (Victoria Morrison), who has the annoying habit of chuckling after every pronouncement. Sadly after this time, such a story as there is has run out of steam. Listening to the characters’ earnest strategies and travel arrangements punctuated by curiously gore-free zombie attacks soon becomes, if you will, pretty lifeless. It is as if the crew suddenly lost interest and decided to end production as soon as they could.

Good bleak landscapes evoke a feeling of desolation amidst this minimalist outbreak, but ultimately ‘Plan Z’ doesn’t have much of story to tell.

“Life sucks when you can’t sleep.” “Yeah, tell me about it.” “Sometimes it helps to talk about it.” Story of the videotape that kills you, communicated from slick jawed ‘cute’ guy to meticulous, concerned girl. And this new chapter of ‘The Ring’ cycle begins.

1998’s Japanese original ‘The Ring’ was a fine film, and despite Naomi Watts’ attempts, so was the 2002 remake. And yet the story was always pretty thin. This needn’t matter if there is enough imagination floating around the production team to create an atmosphere of unease, characters you care about and exciting situations. Guess what? ‘Rings’ has none of these things. Of course, it brings back the old routine with some good effects – oily black water, upwards rain, the child-voice whispering ‘7 days,’ and yet these brief moments exist in isolation.

Self-assembly teens with choreographed intensity and catwalk emotion, dull as can be, pretty as paint. Can you act? Hell no, but if I smother my face in make-up and raise the occasional eyebrow, no-one will care. What about the dialogue? Shall we have any jokes, any natural discourse, any emotion? Nah, just spout some perfunctory slang, and add a bit of sexless titillation. We’re so pretty, we don’t need anything else.

It’s galling to read reviews that proclaim a certain film as the worst ever made. This isn’t the worst film ever made. But it’s the worst I’ve seen for a very long time. It’s competently put together, had a few million dollars thrown at it, and a soundtrack desperately trying to tell us something of worth is happening. And yet everything that made the original so unsettling has been reduced to diva teen drama, acting strictly confined to the school of daytime soap, the anaemic kind of thing you’ve seen many times before and will probably see many times again, as long as there is popcorn and boredom.

Even the much maligned ‘Ring 2’ (both Japanese and Hollywood versions) possessed at least an extension of the sinister spirit of Samara and her tragic evil. Here, whatever she has become is just another standard lurking presence. Her appearance stirs the dullness around it, rather than lifts it.

Usually, there is something of merit in a film. Even if there is perilously little, I still recognise that someone, somewhere, has probably lavished time and thought on the project and that is always worth consideration. I can’t imagine anyone involved in this giving two hoots, other than to justify a pay-packet.

There are rumours Ring films could become the ‘new’ annual Halloween release, like ‘Saw’ and ‘Paranormal Activity’ before it. If this Scooby-Doo-without-humour bore is anything to go by, it might well be better to forget it. If only I could forget watching this. Absolutely dreadful.

‘Amer’ arrests the attention from the word go, with some imposing imagery of little girl Ana’s (Cassandra Forêt) place within a frightening house and amongst even more creepy relatives.

It is easy to see the similarities between this and Directors Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani’s later ‘The Strange Colour of Your Body’s Tears’: they are clearly in love with the visuals and there is very little dialogue. Whilst the first of the three ‘chapters’ is genuinely morbid and creepy – and my personal favourite segment – the second, in which Ana (Charlotte Eugène Guibeaud) encounters adolescence (she could be anything from 14 to 20 years old) focuses on her leap, or slither, from little girl to the object of desire. There are many suggestive shots of various body parts and awkward closeness with others. It doesn’t really mean much. In fact, it doesn’t mean anything at all, other than it is part of Ana’s ‘journey’.

So then, the third act. Ana is now played by Marie Bos. Suggestion of much light masturbation. Stunning scenery. And a slight return to the intimidating feel of the first segment, with her seemingly returning to her abandoned family home. Despite apparent chance meetings, Ana is very much alone. These moments of her retracing the steps of her childhood remind me of the less than comforting homecoming of Pip, all grown up, returning to Miss Haversham’s ruined building after his adventures. Here, the house is baked in sunlight, and any adventures Ana has had are so obscurely filmed and her character so thinly drawn, we can only appreciate the beautifully shot décor, the unmade beds, the flaking wallpaper, the stunning scenery and the ghostly, discarded porcelain dolls. But the sense of unease comes to the fore once again – whatever the shortcomings of the arthouse style this film embraces, the protracted ending is a heady mix of the sinister and sensual. There is an antagonist, but we are not even sure if he is real. Does he represent the dark memories that haunt her? One thing is for certain – nothing is certain, especially Ana’s eventual fate.

Two smartphone distracted girls and their ‘weird’ friend are kidnapped by an unknown assailant who carries out the action without any emotion whatsoever.

‘Barry’ is a model employee. He’s been ill, but is better now. Doctor Fletcher (Betty Buckley) says this. We learn of ‘Barry’s’ disorder because Fletcher is trying to widen awareness for his condition. The information about what is known as Dissociative Identity Disorder is staggered throughout, at length, and her scenes are interspersed with ‘Barry’ and his other personalities presenting themselves to his three prisoners. One of these is an upper-class woman called ‘Patricia’, another is an irritant called ‘Hedwig’, another is a nuisance called ‘Dennis’ (who likes to watch girls dance naked). In reality, his name is Kevin Wendell Crumb (James McAvoy), and he has 23 personalities.

Despite claims that, for example, if one personality is a weight-lifter he possesses the strength of a weight-lifter whilst other shared personalities do not, McAvey doesn’t have the physical presence to portray anyone that couldn’t just be over-powered by the three girls – or even just one of them (with a more sustained battering than just hitting him once and then turning their back on him, something that happens more than once). Despite the theatrical rolling eyes, the lisp, the change of clothes, he simply isn’t frightening. His endless talking about himself makes it clear that his characters are a lot more interesting to him than to the audience – or at least, this member of it. I can appreciate a committed performance, but sadly he leaves me cold.

Perhaps to balance out Kevin’s multiple characteristics, the three girls have only one personality between them. Being the allegedly ‘weird’ one of the trio, it is Casey (Anya Taylor-Joy, who had been so good in 2015's 'The Witch') to whom ‘Dennis’ is attracted, because of course weirdness is an elite exclusive club that joins every outsider together, provided you’re pretty enough (‘the broken are the more evolved,’ apparently). Luckily for flesh fans, one of Kevin’s personalities suffers from OCD, necessitating the young captives to remove much of their ‘dirty’ clothing. Another box ticked.

There have been accusations that ‘Split’ is offensive to sufferers of mental health disorders. In an age where being offended is a competitive sport, presumably any piece of fiction involving death, for instance, is offensive to anyone who has ever suffered bereavement and therefore ‘shouldn’t be allowed’. This is a point of view that stifles creativity, fiction, drama and/or many levels of art. That is not the problem with ‘Split’ in my view. It is an idea that is ripe with potential but simply stretched out very thinly over almost two hours with very little incident. In fact, the kidnapping of three girls is the only incident. Endless scenes of talking about ‘Barry’s’ condition isn’t entertaining, frightening or effecting. It very quickly becomes dull and stays that way.

Director M. Night Shyamalan had a great success with ‘The Sixth Sense’ in 1999, especially its twist ending. Subsequently, all his films have ended with a similar surprise, each one less effective than the last. If you make it to the end of this, there is a revelation that (SPOILERS) Kevin’s affliction appears to be supernatural. ‘The Beast’ is physically bulkier than his other personalities, can hop from wall to wall and is impervious to bullets. This ends with a reference to Shyamalan’s ‘Unbreakable’ via a Bruce Willis cameo which pre-supposes you are on familiar terms with that film, which is presumptuous, as this is not billed as a sequel.

Well, this is a load of impressive looking nonsense. Style over substance just about covers it. In this Western horror effort, Wesley Snipes plays Aman who leaves the girl he loves alone one day whilst selling animal skins. During that time, she is gang-raped by a motley crew who leave her with-child. When he discovers this, he is heart-broken about what happened during his absence. To make himself feel better, he leaves her again, this time for five years, only to return to find she died giving birth. This improbable story is told entirely in flashback by Aman and is incredible in its illogical and inept oddness. The reason such a revelation is condensed in such a fashion seems to be that the rest of the running time can then be left to consist of non-eventful scenes that are massively over-choreographed, and while they are visually impressive, there is no naturalness to them whatsoever. Neither to the cast of alleged characters, who aren’t introduced, aren’t explained, but to make them ‘interesting’, speak in gruff-voiced cliché throughout.

The idea of Snipes playing a loner out for revenge against a horde of zombies in the unforgiving heat of the desert is a very appealing one. The trailer, whilst very stylised, seemed to promise much. And yet ‘Gallowwalkers’ flounders, and what story there is is laborious and crippled by constant flashbacks, bad wigs, posturing and overtly dramatic line delivery. It’s a curiously lifeless exercise – there’s a handsome budget on display and some stunning cinematography, but there are no characters to relate to, no emotion and no trace of tension or scares or … anything, really. In fact, if you’ve seen the trailer, you’ve seen the best of the film. My one personal highlight was noticing, quite unexpectedly, 70’s children’s television entertainer Derek Griffiths briefly as a heavily made-up peripheral character Mosca.

Snipes had several problems throughout, due to tax problems and subsequent arrest. Perhaps the delays this caused threw the production schedule into disarray and accounts for the choppy tone of events (and for the many close-ups of Mr Snipes – many long-shots seem to feature a body double). But as to the po-faced dullness, the lack of anything for the audience to invest in, the non-existent story, incompetent lip-syncing, the absence of thrills … who can possibly say? Perhaps the fact that the film was released (straight to DVD) eight years after production commenced tells its own story, which is more than ‘Gallowwalkers’ does. A gruelling experience.

Ealing films, the warm and cosy home of lovingly crafted British comedies, branched out into slightly more unnerving territory with this early anthology. At a country house, in an age where, following communal afternoon tea, the local doctor likes to offer round the cigarettes, Walter Craig (Mervyn Johns) turns up and recognises the ensemble (none of whom he has ever met) from his recurring dreams.

In this world, where everyone speaks in the clipped tones of racing horse commentators, (“I can’t leave. This is Mr Craig and I’m a character in his dream.” “Oh how do you do? Such fun, charades!”) the anecdotal stories everyone tells merely confirm Craig’s suspicions. He can see their future: he knows what is going to happen.

I cannot knock a 72 year old production for being dated, so I won’t. But it is. The extreme politeness and styles are often difficult to get past, even harder to take seriously. To begin with, such chills as there are are very tame and wholesome. The segment featuring the malevolent mirror is where things pick up, giving the impression ‘Dead of Night’ is unveiling its frights in a measured way. Until the following dreadful golfing farce sequence lets things down. “Totally incredible and decidedly improper,” to quote Mrs Foley (Mary Merrall).

If you can sit through that segment, the best and most widely remembered is saved till last. Maxwell Frere (Michael Redgrave) is a ventriloquist, performing and popular with packed audiences every night. So when it becomes apparent that the dummy Hugo appears to be the controlling element of the partnership, initially amusing music-hall scenes become genuinely tense. This is partly due to the writing, in which Hugo’s comedy jibes to his partner become increasingly spiteful, and Redgrave’s performance, in which the showbiz charade slips and he becomes edgy whilst still continuing with the act.

The Director for this final segment is Alberto Cavalcanti, who eschews the brightly lit jollity of the other stories and coaxes an intense performance from Redgrave. To say this finale is the best of the bunch is understating things. In its way, it is a masterpiece.

In case Walter Craig’s plight has been forgotten in all this, the twist ending gives the film’s climactic moments a nice sense of closure.

This is a film that definitely deserves more than one viewing. Shideh (Narges Rashidi), husband Iraj (Bobby Naderi) and daughter Dorsa (Avin Manshadi) live amid the chaos of the Iran-Iraq war. Shideh’s studies and livelihood are in ruins, patient and tolerant Iraj has been posted away and Dorsa is behaving very oddly. My only problem with this story, as in a lot of similar situations, is that Shideh resolutely refuses to move from the family home, despite her less Westernised neighbours fleeing and advising her to do the same, and every waking hour living in fear of the latest shelling.

‘Under the Shadow’ reminds me of Japanese horror, particularly ‘Dark Water (2002)’, with an errant child, and an aberration on the ceiling that may or may not be malevolent. It has been compared to ‘The Babadook (2014)’ (which I found wholly inferior to this). That said, this is hugely original in its presentation of a mysterious, ghostly horror. First whispered about by other children in the apartments, and then corroborated by the other fleeing parents, the audience is left impatiently awaiting their own first glimpse of the ‘djinn’.

With this level of relentless man-made and demonic aggravation, it’s a big relief when Shideh decides to leave after all, but events suggest she may not be entirely free of the shadow.

A lot of this film’s success rests with young Manshadi as the little girl who is required to display increasingly erratic behaviour. Any awfulness Dorsa might exude is saved by Manshadi’s mainly cherubic performance. Hardly ever does she merely sink into petulance or ‘brattism’ as a lesser performer would. Our sympathies are mostly with her, but also with her stubborn mother, who behaves in a way that doesn’t always invite our consideration, but again is brilliantly played. Babak Anvari’s gloomy, measured writing and his solid, sometimes spectacular direction ensure the mood is sustained wonderfully throughout. A terrific co-production between Qatar, Jordan, and the United Kingdom, this is strongly recommended.

After an argument with her boyfriend, Virginia White (María Elena Arpón) flounces off on her own and in no time, deeply regrets her tantrum. Spending a foolhardy night in a crypt with nothing but cigarettes, pyjamas, a book and a transistor radio, it isn’t long before grave stones start shuddering, the earth starts shifting and spindly, twig-like fingers emerge from within their tombs. The Blind Dead, or Templar Knights, move slowly. Very slowly. As they ride through the decaying waste-grounds, even their horses move at half speed. Decaying, rotting and accompanied by Antón García Abril’s magnificently gothic, chanting soundtrack, they are hugely impressive, even now. Except for those flimsy digits, which never look capable of anything, certainly not making a grab for the heroine. And yet, Virginia has a terrible time, because for all their flaws, the Blind Dead are relentless pursuers. Arpón looks stunning at all times however, even in the most precarious situations, often bathed in some completely unconvincing day-for-night shots.

As this is the first of Director Ossario’s ‘Blind Dead’ series, perhaps we should accept this production’s version of the titular villains’ history. Although seemingly contradicted later in the series, here the Templar Knights are killed and hung for their nefarious blood-letting and sacrifices, and their eyes are pecked out by crows.

At 100 minutes this is probably too long, but the running time is filled with incident, including echoes of zombies and vampirism. The remaining heroes, poser Roger (César Burner) and Betty (Lone Fleming) don’t have the presence of Arpón. There are only a certain amount of times you can marvel at how many poses Burner can adopt without removing his hands from his hips – however, there are some gruesome set-pieces and some briefly gory effects (especially at the end). The Knights are used more sparingly than they would be for the three sequels: you really have to wait to see them, which heightens the anticipation (although much of their footage is used more than once). This film, more than any other, makes much of the blindness of the creatures, who only locate their various victims when they scream, which under the circumstances, is an entirely understandable reaction. This remains my favourite entry in the series.

Despite her best and increasingly desperate efforts to attract attention, little Nami is starved of affection, or indeed acknowledgement, from her parents. As she grows into an attractive teen (Kumi Takiuchi), she inherits great wealth, listens to appalling rock music and becomes increasingly possessive of her lonesomeness. She calls herself a Solitarian, She spends her time seeking out other Solitarians, the most extreme case being an elderly man who lived an isolated life before dying whilst watching pornography. Before reporting the incident anonymously, she takes a smiling selfie with his calcified corpse on the floor of his rubbish-strewn living room.

Mr Shiomi (Takashi Sasano) is her next solitary obsession. Glorifying in observing his isolated life, Nami is then appalled that this heart-broken, faded man finds love and acceptance from his family and vows to punish him for taking away her ‘property’.

As events drift away from one level of bizarreness to another, and then another and another, not only does it lose track of its initial premise, but becomes little more than a series of darkly comic moments of violence and incident. The whole thing appears designed purely so the audience can scratch their collective heads and wonder what they are watching – which is exactly what happens, at least in my case. As a lesson in not ignoring your children, it’s obscured by how … obscure it is. As a drama, or a comedy, or a horror, it’s too fragmented to succeed. On its own terms, however, it is a film you won’t forget in a hurry. There is an attempt in the last scene to marry up events with the perils of ignoring your children, which is pretty pointless considering that things have by this time run away with themselves to such an extent they cannot possibly be reasoned with – which seems to be the point, if there is one.

It isn’t often a villain immediately invites the vitriol of the audience than a child murderer, or even more importantly, a sex offender. Director Fritz Lang intended this film as a stark warning against child neglect (as the very last few lines underline). The very lengthy meetings and discussions as to how the murderer be apprehended are enlivened somewhat by the challenge that characters have of actually seeing one another amidst the fog of all pervading cigar and pipe smoke. The acting is solid throughout, if theatrical in a manner typical of this period of film making. Talking pictures were very much in their infancy here and so the style of acting is highly visual – this is no complaint: the extravagant gestures enhance the atmosphere much as they did in the early sound Universal pictures. It has to be said that the performances here are even slightly restrained (if that is the right word) compared to others of this era.

And yet Peter Lorre, in his first major role, creates a true presence amongst all this, which is vital to the effectiveness of the story after the weight of expectation placed upon his character Hans Beckert. His reputation is discussed at length, and the first few glimpses we get of him are silent. Wide eyed and unassuming, this little man seems far from the monster we have been lead to believe he is. His mannerisms of jumpy neurosis and excitement upon spying children – especially young girls – going about their business are bravely portrayed given the subject matter, and in no time, we believe in him thoroughly.

Fritz Lang names this as his favourite of all his films, and it is easy to see why. The direction is inventive and almost surreal in places, inviting us fleetingly in to Beckert’s world: a parade of photographs of his victims snatched away from our view to reveal the sea of scowling faces of Beckert’s unelected jury; the revelation of the balloon Beckert bought for one of his young victims taking centre stage as he backs fearfully away from the incriminating toy; unusual viewpoints and distant camera work during the chase towards the end. Finally, Beckert’s crumbling admission and cries of ‘I can’t help it!’ A broken man guilty of the most heinous crime, viewed by a band of vigilantes impassively observing his meltdown. It is strong stuff of course, and caused the expected controversy at the time and since, but we take a long time to get to this point. A lot of time – rather too much for my enjoyment – is spent with other, lesser characters and their endless plans to capture the miscreant. At nearly two hours, it is too long – hardly surprising that an edited version (running at 98 minutes) was released in 1960. Yet what we have here is nevertheless a ground-breaking film, stunningly directed with a flourish that would prove inspirational for years to come, and a barnstorming central performance so strong that Lorre had cause to resent the subsequent type-casting that resulted.

A film with this title is unlikely to be traditional in its telling. And this is as unique as you can get. For a film to be involving, there usually needs to be an even slightly linear storyline, or identifiable characters, or some kind of plot thread. ‘The Strange Colour of Your Body’s Tears’ possesses none of these things.

Deliberately obfuscating the usual elements of storytelling, this milieu of stark architecture, close-ups on various body parts, teased gore and muddled sex appears to concentrate upon Dan (Klaus Tange) and his search for his missing wife. Tange has a slight look of Klaus Kinski about him, and his journey through 102 minutes of apparently giallo-influenced imagery is incomprehensible. But it looks splendid. Rather like ‘Don’t Look Now (1973)’, the colour red is used to great effect – some scenes are visually tinged with red, others are framed by it. There is a striking woman whose crisp, violent red clothes are at contrast with the magnificently ornate architecture around her.

The highly experimental project is a Belgian, French and Luxembourgian collaboration, and is technically stunning. The running time is too long to sustain such discernible logic and the attention is firmly focussed on the visual imagery once it becomes apparent there is no storyline to engage an audience. The soundtrack (my favourite aspect of this project) has been lifted mainly from various 60s and 70s European horror films and works very well in bringing to life the confounding events.

This film is frustrating to me because there is no progression, no reason to continue watching once it is clear there is no real story. Beautiful imagery and occasional moments of sex and violence don’t sustain. Things start off strangely and remain so until … well there isn’t really an ending. Things just stop.

Baffling, ponderous but relentless.

Two couples head to a remote area of Suffolk for a brief holiday. At first they seem a tolerable ‘group of young people’, but as we get to know them, hidden tensions rise to the surface. Scott is sardonic and takes his joking too far, James has a short temper but manages to conceal the fact, Emma is studious and a little naive, while Lynne is flirty and not terribly bright (James is described as looking like Ringo Starr’s testicle, which amused me). Actors Matt Stokoe, Sam Stockman, Emily Plumtree and Jessica Ellerby are very naturalistic in their roles and almost completely convincing as ‘real people’ (as the opening caption assures us they are).

In this British rural horror, there are plenty of ghost stories spun, many of them focus around an old and gnarled hollowed out tree that stands in the middle of a field (Emma has memories of being frightened by the tree when younger). There are a lot of unanswered questions, which is presumably deliberate, inviting us to imagine that the tree has triggered all kinds of conflicting legends.

The power it wields appears to be to mess with the minds of those who show too much interest in it. Rather than scare us, we are treated instead to the dreaded ‘relationships failing’ routine which becomes stultifying and sails close to ‘Hollyoaks’ (UK teen soap) territory. What frights there are are nicely conveyed: low-key, they use night-time visions of the tree, the branches creaking in the breeze as it casts its spell over the squabbling youngsters.

(SPOILERS) There are several interpretations as to what happens toward the end. In ‘Blair Witch’ style, one character (James) disappears and is heard screaming into the night. My logical theory is that it was James behind events that lead to the final, having faked his vanishing. A suggestion of anything more supernatural is equally valid.

Interestingly, the cliffs nearby are named Dunwich Cliffs, an HP Lovecraft connection. ‘Hollow’ is unlikely to terrify, possibly not even scare although there are a few frights. For a rural horror, this is flawed, but fairly enjoyable.