The Sound of Silence: Undertone (2026)

13 Monday Apr 2026

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There is a quiet audacity to Undertone — a film that dares to strip horror back to its barest components and, in doing so, exposes both the potency and the peril of minimalism. Where many genre efforts lean into excess — of imagery, of narrative, of shock — Undertone instead retreats inward, crafting an experience defined less by what is shown than by what is felt.

It is, for better and worse, a film built on absence.

Less as Language

Minimalism in cinema is often misunderstood as restraint for its own sake. In Undertone, it becomes a language — one that communicates through negative space, elongated silence, and the careful withholding of information.

The narrative itself is skeletal, almost deliberately so, allowing themes of grief, emotional suppression, and psychological entrapment to seep through the cracks rather than announce themselves outright. Characters feel less like fully articulated individuals and more like vessels for internal states — fractured, repressed, and quietly unraveling.

This approach is undeniably immersive… but also demanding.

The Power of Sound

If Undertone has a defining strength, it lies in its sonic architecture.

Sound here is not merely accompaniment — it is the film’s primary instrument of tension. Subtle shifts in tone, the intrusion of low-frequency hums, the absence of expected auditory cues — all contribute to a sense of unease that lingers beneath the surface.

In many ways, Undertone aligns itself with traditions of psychological horror that privilege atmosphere over spectacle. It understands that fear often resides not in what we see, but in what we anticipate — and what we cannot quite place.

The result is a film that listens as much as it shows.

The Slow Burn of Suppression

Thematically, Undertone is preoccupied with what happens when emotion is buried rather than expressed. Grief, in particular, becomes a suffocating presence — not explosive, but corrosive. It manifests in the stillness, in the hesitation, in the inability of its characters to confront what lies beneath.

This is horror as internalised pressure.

The pacing reflects this intent. Scenes linger. Moments stretch. Time itself feels elongated, mirroring the psychological stasis of its characters. For some, this will read as hypnotic — an invitation to sit within discomfort. For others, it may verge on inertia.

Minimalism as Double-Edged Sword

And here lies the film’s central tension.

The same minimalism that gives Undertone its identity also limits its reach. The scarcity of overt scares, the deliberate narrative opacity, and the glacial pacing risk alienating viewers who seek more immediate engagement.

There are moments where the film feels on the cusp of revelation — where its restraint might give way to something more tangible — only to retreat once again into ambiguity. This can be frustrating, particularly when the emotional payoff does not fully match the investment required.

Yet to criticise Undertone for this is also to acknowledge its commitment. It refuses to compromise its vision, even when that vision narrows its audience.

The Prognosis:

Undertone is a film that exists in the margins — of sound, of space, of emotion. It is an exercise in restraint that occasionally teeters into limitation, but never without purpose.

A haunting, slow-burning meditation on grief and suppression, where minimalism becomes both its greatest strength and its most significant constraint.

  • Saul Muerte

Undertone is currently screening in cinemas nationwide

They Bite Back: Critters (1986)

10 Friday Apr 2026

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Before horror-comedy became a carefully calibrated studio formula, Critters arrived like a feral little gremlin — scrappy, irreverent, and gleefully chaotic. Directed by Stephen Herek, this pint-sized creature feature didn’t just ride the wave of 80s monster mania — it bit into it with razor-sharp teeth and refused to let go.

Nearly four decades on, Critters remains a cult favourite, not because it tries to be polished or profound, but because it understands something fundamental about horror: sometimes, the most memorable monsters are the ones having the most fun.

Small Creatures, Big Attitude

At first glance, the film’s premise feels comfortingly familiar — small-town America, a quiet Kansas farm, and something from the stars crash-landing into unsuspecting territory. But where Critters distinguishes itself is in its creatures.

The Krites — carnivorous, fur-covered, needle-toothed balls of extraterrestrial appetite — are pure 80s invention. Brought to life through practical effects that favour personality over realism, they chatter, roll, swarm, and devour with gleeful abandon. They are less silent predators and more anarchic invaders, driven by hunger and mischief in equal measure.

It’s impossible not to draw comparisons to Gremlins, but Critters carves its own identity by leaning harder into the horror. These creatures don’t just cause chaos — they kill, and they do so with a vicious streak that gives the film real bite beneath its playful exterior.

Madcap Mayhem from the Cosmos

Then there are the bounty hunters — shape-shifting intergalactic lawmen whose presence injects an entirely different strain of absurdity into the film. Their awkward attempts at blending into human society provide some of Critters’ most memorable moments, particularly as they adopt bizarre, often ill-fitting disguises.

This collision of tones — small-town horror, sci-fi absurdity, and slapstick comedy — could easily have unravelled in less capable hands. But Herek keeps the film moving at a brisk pace, allowing the madness to escalate without ever losing its sense of momentum.

There’s an infectious energy to it all, a sense that the film is constantly teetering on the edge of chaos — and enjoying every second of it.

The Heart of 80s Creature Feature Cinema

What makes Critters endure is its commitment to the spirit of practical filmmaking. The creatures feel tangible, their presence grounded in physical effects that give them weight and texture. There’s a scrappiness to the production that works in its favour, lending the film an authenticity that glossy modern creature features often lack.

It also taps into the quintessential 80s horror formula — the invasion of the domestic space. The Brown family farm becomes a battleground, a place of supposed safety transformed into a site of escalating terror. This grounding in everyday life makes the absurdity all the more effective.

A Cult Legacy That Keeps Rolling

While it may not have reached the same mainstream heights as some of its contemporaries, Critters has carved out a lasting legacy within genre circles. Its success spawned sequels, expanded its mythology, and cemented the Krites as enduring icons of creature-feature cinema.

The film also serves as an early showcase for Herek, who would go on to helm films like Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, carrying with him that same sense of playful irreverence.

The Prognosis:

Critters is messy, mischievous, and gloriously unrefined — a film that embraces its own ridiculousness while delivering genuine thrills and memorable monsters.

It may not be the most sophisticated entry in the 80s horror canon, but it’s undoubtedly one of the most fun.

A madcap creature feature that proves sometimes the smallest monsters leave the biggest bite.

  • Saul Muerte

Ready or Not… It’s Hunting Season Again

07 Tuesday Apr 2026

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5…4…3…2…1…. Ready or not, here it comes!

A sequel to 2019’s Ready or Not.

There are many angles this review could take, but regular readers will probably think we’ll go through the Six Qualities that make a good sequel checklist. And you’d be right.

  • Does it respect the first film and not shit on it?
  • Is it just a carbon copy of the first film?
  • Is it just a carbon copy of the first film, but “bigger” and nothing more?
  • Does it add/expand on the legend/universe started by the first film?
  • Does it still stay within the SAME SPIRIT established by the first film?
  • Does it stand on its own 2 feet as a standalone film?

Before we go through these points, just a quick recap. In the first movie a young woman – Grace – marries into an uber rich family. It’s established she has no living relatives, so marrying for big love and even bigger money is pretty much jackpot for her! Cue the night of the wedding, and Grace’s new husband tells her his clan has a tradition where any newcomer must play a game with them. Over the years they have made a fortune selling boardgames, so as traditions go, it’s quirky more than weird. That is until Grace pulls a playing card to determine what kind of game they’ll be enjoying, and the card says “hide ‘n’ seek”. Said fam then all try and kill Grace in their giant mansion by sunrise – otherwise their mysterious benefactor; who has bestowed upon them all their family’s good fortune and glory – will be displeased. And will appear and kill them all if Grace is not caught. And the dude is basically the devil.

So onto movie 2, which would have been waaaay cooler if the #2 hadn’t appeared in the title. I mean from a marketing perspective I get it, people are idiots, but if the sequel to Ready or Not was just actually Ready or Not, Here I Come… that would have been awesome along the lines of Aliens to Alien. Prey to Predator. Happy Death Day 2U to Happy Death Day. As this fits into Point # 7 (which is not mandatory) Does it have a cool title that doesn’t have a number tagged on the end (like most sequels do) or a subtitle? Eg: Indiana Jones and the ever- decreasing quality of adventure.

Anyway – this new instalment literally picks up from the last scene of the last movie, and Grace – it is revealed – has a sister! And if you think that feels like a jammed in retcon, you’d be right. But more on that later. It is also revealed that the family Grace married into is actually one of 6 who have made the same pact with the devil. And as Grace has effectively wiped out one of these families (her former in- laws) the title for head family (think Lannisters versus all the other Houses) is up for grabs. So, one kidnapping later of her and her sister (who is estranged from Grace – of course; ya gotta have sibling conflict) and we have our setting for another round of deadly hide and seek. Whichever family gets to kill Grace before sunrise gets the brass ring (or in this case gold ring) to rule them all; and with it get a ton of world influencing power.

So – going through our points, does this pass the Surgeons’ Pub Test of what makes a good sequel? Does it respect the first film and not shit on it like Highlander 2 did to Highlander?

Well, considering the sister angle was from another script from directors Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett that they then re-purposed for this movie, you would be forgiven for thinking this could go off the rails ala the plethora of Die Hard movies after 3. But this film is very much in-universe in flavour, and whatever leaps it takes feels natural and earned. Even the explanation as to why Grace has a sister when the first film has her earnestly state she has no siblings, feels acceptable. Sort of. Certainly the fact this bump happens at the start of this movie makes it easier to drive over, as you are still open to seeing if this instalment will be any good.

Is it a carbon copy of the first film? Or a carbon copy, but just bigger? Ie: a re-hash with just more kills – like any number of countless slasher horror sequels, the most offensive in recent memory being I Know What You Did Last Summer Because It’s I Know What You Did last Summer. This is a delicate one for a lot of films, as the main hook for a horror called “hide & seek” is that it should contain characters playing hide and seek. So if this film deviates from that, then it violates point 1. But if it contrives a lazy way to throw Grace into another mansion to be hunted in, then it fails point 2 & 3.

But the set up as to why Grace (and her sister) gets hunted in this film feels well-earned enough to check off point 4, as it expands this movie’s in-universe mythos in a compelling way.

Point 5, does it stay in the same spirit of the last movie? Considering that spirit is an entertaining graphic horror tale with a strong streak of black humour?
Definitely. Two words, bride fight. You’ll get it when you see it.

Point 6 – does it stand up on its own 2 feet? Again, yes. There are multiple reasons why, but one (and this might be a little surprising) is Samara Weaving (who plays Grace). There is no questioning her acting pedigree, but her chops – especially at the gut-wrenching realisation that the nightmare she has just endured is about to happen again – is surprisingly grounded and real. Being in a popcorn movie doesn’t mean you can’t sell it. In fact, it’s one thing to act powerfully with Oscar award winning material. But to draw in an audience in a setting that is meant to be silly fun… some would say that’s where the real game lies.

The Prognosis:

This is a worthy sequel to a film that felt like a nice self-contained B-grade home run. It didn’t need a second instalment, but that didn’t stop the film makers from crushing it. The fun is still there, the jeopardy is still there, and the sister element – whilst at times feels a little forced – doesn’t get in the way of another well executed romp.

Ready or Not… this finds you.

  • Antony Yee 06/04/26

Claws Without Consequence: Grizzly Night (2026)

06 Monday Apr 2026

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“There’s something inherently terrifying about nature turning against us.” It’s a truth that has powered creature features for decades, from Jaws to The Edge. With Grizzly Night, director Burke Doeren attempts to tap into that primal fear, revisiting the real-life 1967 grizzly bear attacks in Glacier National Park — a chilling historical event that, on paper, should provide fertile ground for a gripping survival horror.

Yet despite its harrowing source material, Grizzly Night struggles to translate fact into fear.

A True Story, Softened

The film’s greatest asset is also its most frustrating shortcoming. The true story — two fatal bear attacks occurring on the same night, miles apart — is inherently horrifying, grounded in the unpredictability of nature and the vulnerability of those caught within it.

However, Grizzly Night dilutes that tension with a narrative that feels oddly restrained. Rather than leaning into the raw, chaotic terror of the attacks, the film opts for a more conventional, almost sanitised structure, one that prioritises character set-up over sustained suspense.

The result is a film that never quite captures the immediacy or brutality that its premise demands.

A Cast Left Adrift

The ensemble cast — including Brec Bassinger, Jack Griffo, and Oded Fehr — bring a level of professionalism to the material, but are ultimately underserved by a script that struggles to give them depth.

Characters are sketched in broad strokes: the carefree campers, the cautious authority figures, the inevitable victims. While there are attempts to build emotional stakes, these moments often feel rushed, making it difficult to fully invest in their fates when the inevitable attacks occur.

Even seasoned performers are left navigating a narrative that rarely allows them to elevate the material.

Tension That Never Quite Bites

For a film centred on two brutal animal attacks, Grizzly Night is surprisingly light on genuine suspense. Doeren shows flashes of promise in isolated moments — the stillness of the forest, the creeping sense that something unseen is watching — but these are too often undercut by uneven pacing and predictable execution.

Where the film falters most is in its depiction of the bears themselves. Whether constrained by budget or creative choices, the attacks lack the visceral impact needed to make them truly unsettling. In a genre where physical threat is paramount, this absence is keenly felt.

Comparisons to more effective natural horror films are inevitable, and unfortunately not in Grizzly Night’s favour.

A Director Finding His Footing

As a feature debut, Grizzly Night offers glimpses of Burke Doeren’s potential. There is an understanding of atmosphere in certain sequences, and a clear ambition to tell a grounded, fact-based horror story without resorting to excessive sensationalism.

However, the film ultimately feels like a director still finding his voice. The balance between realism and tension remains elusive, and the storytelling lacks the confidence needed to fully capitalise on its premise.

The Prognosis:

Grizzly Night is a frustrating near-miss — a film built on a deeply unsettling true story that never quite harnesses its full potential. While there are moments that hint at a more effective, atmospheric thriller, they are too few and far between to leave a lasting impression.

A restrained and uneven natural horror that proves the real events were far more terrifying than their cinematic retelling.

  • Saul Muerte

Before the Ice Cracked: The Thing from Another World (1951) — 75 Years On

06 Monday Apr 2026

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Seventy-five years on, The Thing from Another World remains a cornerstone of science fiction horror — a film that helped define how cinema would visualise extraterrestrial threat in the atomic age. Directed by Christian Nyby and heavily shaped by producer Howard Hawks, the film stands not merely as a relic of its era, but as a foundational text whose influence continues to echo through decades of genre filmmaking.

Adapted loosely from Who Goes There? by John W. Campbell Jr., the film trades the novella’s paranoia-driven shapeshifting horror for something more direct — a physical, tangible threat lurking within the frozen isolation of an Arctic outpost. And yet, in doing so, it taps into something equally potent: the fear of the unknown during a time when the world itself felt on the brink of irreversible change.

A Product of the Atomic Age

Emerging in the shadow of post-war anxiety and early Cold War tensions, The Thing from Another World channels the era’s unease into a narrative of invasion and containment. The alien — a towering, plant-based organism — is less a character than a symbol. It represents the foreign, the unknowable, the unstoppable force that science alone may not be able to control.

The film’s famous mantra — “Watch the skies!” — became more than just a line of dialogue. It crystallised a cultural moment in which humanity’s gaze had shifted upward, toward the possibility of extraterrestrial life, but also toward the looming threat of annihilation from above.

In this sense, the film helped establish the template for 1950s science fiction cinema, paving the way for works like Invasion of the Body Snatchers and The Day the Earth Stood Still, both of which similarly grappled with themes of paranoia, conformity, and existential dread.

Hawksian Dialogue Meets Sci-Fi Terror

One of the film’s most enduring qualities lies in its rapid-fire, overlapping dialogue — a hallmark of Hawks’ influence. The characters speak over one another, trading quips and technical jargon with a rhythm that feels remarkably modern even by today’s standards.

This approach lends the film an immediacy that many of its contemporaries lack. Rather than pausing for exposition, the narrative unfolds through conversation, immersing the audience in the chaos and confusion of the situation.

It also grounds the film in a sense of realism. These are not archetypal heroes, but working professionals — scientists and military personnel attempting to navigate a crisis that defies their understanding. The tension arises not just from the alien itself, but from the clash between scientific curiosity and military pragmatism.

The Birth of a Genre Blueprint

While later adaptations would push the concept further — most notably The Thing directed by John Carpenter — The Thing from Another World laid the groundwork for many of the genre’s most enduring tropes.

The isolated setting.
The enclosed group dynamic.
The slow realisation that something is terribly wrong.

These elements would go on to define not just science fiction horror, but the broader language of suspense cinema. The Arctic outpost becomes a microcosm of society under pressure, a space where trust erodes and survival instincts take precedence.

Even the creature design — though limited by the technology of the time — contributes to the film’s legacy. Its humanoid form, while less overtly monstrous than later interpretations, reinforces the unsettling idea that the alien is not entirely separate from us.

Legacy Frozen in Time

To view The Thing from Another World today is to witness the origins of a cinematic lineage that continues to evolve. Its DNA can be found in everything from Alien to contemporary survival horror, each iteration building upon the foundations established here.

Yet perhaps its greatest legacy lies in its restraint.

Where modern horror often leans toward excess, Nyby and Hawks understood the power of suggestion. The creature is used sparingly, its presence felt more through implication than explicit depiction. The result is a film that remains eerily effective, even in an age of advanced visual effects.

The Prognosis:

The Thing from Another World endures not because of what it shows, but because of what it started.

It is a film that captured the anxieties of its time while quietly shaping the future of genre cinema — a blueprint for the countless stories of isolation, invasion, and existential dread that would follow.

A seminal work of science fiction horror whose cultural impact remains as enduring as the frozen landscape it inhabits.

  • Saul Muerte

Filth, Flesh and Freedom: A Brief History of Trash Cinema

04 Saturday Apr 2026

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To understand Fuck My Son!, you have to understand the ecosystem it belongs to — a long, disreputable, and fiercely independent tradition of “trash cinema.”

This is not an insult. It’s a badge.

The Godfathers of Good Taste’s Death

Few companies embody this ethos more than Troma Entertainment, the studio behind cult landmarks like The Toxic Avenger. Under Lloyd Kaufman, Troma built an empire on bad taste, bodily fluids, and anti-establishment energy.

These films weren’t just crude — they were defiant. A rejection of mainstream polish in favour of anarchic expression.

From Midnight Movies to Modern Filth

The lineage stretches further:

  • Pink Flamingos by John Waters — perhaps the ultimate provocation, turning taboo into performance art.
  • Bad Taste by Peter Jackson — DIY gore with punk sensibilities.
  • The Greasy Strangler — a modern cult entry that revels in discomfort, absurdity, and bodily grotesque.

These films share a common DNA:
They reject refinement, embrace excess, and often blur the line between comedy and horror until both become indistinguishable.

Why It Exists

Trash cinema thrives because it offers something mainstream cinema cannot:

  • Total creative freedom
  • Unfiltered expression
  • A space to explore the unacceptable

It is cinema without a safety net.

And while not all of it succeeds, its existence is vital. It keeps the boundaries of film elastic — constantly tested, stretched, and occasionally snapped.

Where Fuck My Son! Fits

Rohal’s film sits comfortably within this tradition — arguably pushing even further into taboo territory than many of its predecessors.

Whether it will achieve the same cult longevity is another question.

Because in trash cinema, notoriety gets you noticed…
but voice is what keeps you remembered.

  • Saul Muerte

Bad Taste as Baptism: Fuck My Son! (2026)

Fuck My Son! will be screening in select cinemas from Apr 9 for a limited time.

Bad Taste as Baptism: Fuck My Son! (2026)

04 Saturday Apr 2026

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There are films that provoke… and then there are films that weaponise provocation as their entire identity.
Fuck My Son!, directed by Todd Rohal, firmly belongs in the latter camp — a grotesque, confrontational descent into taboo that feels less like storytelling and more like an endurance test.

Adapted from the underground comic by Johnny Ryan, the film embraces its origins with unapologetic aggression. Narrative coherence is secondary. Characterisation is almost incidental. What matters here is impact — how far it can push, how hard it can hit, and how long an audience can withstand the onslaught before recoiling.

The Aesthetics of Offence

Rohal’s approach is not without craft. In fact, what makes Fuck My Son! so confronting is how deliberately constructed it is. This is not chaos by accident — it is chaos curated.

The practical creature effects, in particular, demand attention. There is a tactile, squirm-inducing quality to the film’s physical grotesqueries that places it in lineage with boundary-pushing auteurs who understand that revulsion is most effective when it feels real. Flesh stretches. Fluids flow. The body becomes both canvas and battleground.

In an age of digital sanitisation, this commitment to the physical image is perversely admirable.

Taboo as Currency

But provocation, when used as currency, quickly devalues itself.

The film’s central conceit — deliberately offensive, aggressively transgressive — initially shocks, then unsettles, and eventually… numbs. Without thematic grounding or emotional counterpoint, the transgression begins to feel repetitive rather than revelatory.

This is where Fuck My Son! falters.

The most effective works of extreme cinema often use taboo as a gateway to deeper commentary — on society, morality, repression. Here, the suggestion of meaning is fleeting at best. The film gestures toward satire, but rarely commits to it.

Know Your Audience

And yet, to dismiss the film outright would be to misunderstand its purpose.

There is an audience for this. A dedicated, discerning subset of genre fans who seek out the extreme not for narrative satisfaction, but for experiential confrontation. For them, Fuck My Son! is not a failure — it is a badge of honour. A film to be survived, debated, and worn like a scar.

It is cinema as dare.

The Prognosis:

Fuck My Son! is not interested in pleasing you. It barely cares if you understand it. It exists to provoke, to repel, and to challenge the limits of what can be put on screen.

A technically committed but narratively hollow exercise in taboo, elevated by its practical effects and sustained only by the endurance of its audience.

  • Saul Muerte

Fuck My Son will be screening at select cinemas from Apr 9 for a limited time.

Filth, Flesh and Freedom: A Brief History of Trash Cinema

Love, Blood and the Loss of Shadow: Dracula (2025)

02 Thursday Apr 2026

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There is something perversely fitting about Luc Besson tackling the story of Dracula — a filmmaker long enamoured with heightened emotion, operatic visuals, and characters driven by obsession. With Dracula, Besson does not so much adapt the myth as he attempts to drown it in longing, reframing the Prince of Darkness as a tragic romantic caught in an eternal spiral of grief, rage, and devotion.

It’s a bold swing.

But one that doesn’t always draw blood.

A Vampire in Love with Loss

Besson’s Dracula leans heavily into the oft-explored notion that monstrosity is born not of evil, but of heartbreak. The film traces Vlad’s transformation from mortal prince to cursed immortal, driven by the brutal loss of his bride and his subsequent renunciation of faith.

It’s familiar terrain — territory previously carved out with gothic grandeur in Bram Stoker’s Dracula — yet Besson strips away much of the baroque sensuality that defined that iteration, replacing it with something colder, more abstract.

The result is a film that feels emotionally intense, yet curiously distant.

Where the gothic tradition thrives on atmosphere — on shadows, candlelight, decay — Besson opts for a cleaner, more stylised visual language. His Dracula exists in a world that is visually striking, but rarely suffocating. The rot beneath the surface is implied, not felt.

And in a story like this, that absence matters.

Performances That Bleed Through the Fog

What anchors the film — what almost saves it from its own indulgence — are its performances.

Caleb Landry Jones delivers a portrayal of Vlad that is as fragile as it is feral. There’s a volatility to his performance, a sense that beneath the stillness lies something constantly threatening to fracture. His Dracula is not a figure of dominance, but of disintegration — a man hollowed out by grief and sustained only by obsession.

Opposite him, Christoph Waltz brings his trademark precision, injecting the film with moments of clarity and control. Where Jones spirals, Waltz steadies. It’s a dynamic that gives the film its most compelling exchanges — brief flashes where character overtakes spectacle.

And yet, even these performances struggle against the film’s broader uncertainty.

Style Over Myth

Besson has always been a visual storyteller first, and Dracula is no exception. The film is filled with striking imagery — battlefields soaked in blood, vast landscapes frozen in time, bodies moving through space with an almost dreamlike detachment.

But style, here, becomes a double-edged sword.

In prioritising visual expression over narrative clarity, the film allows its mythology to drift. The rules of this world — its logic, its structure — become increasingly opaque, leaving the audience to navigate a story that feels more like a sequence of emotional impressions than a cohesive arc.

This is where the film falters most.

Because Dracula, as a figure, thrives on myth. On clearly defined boundaries between life and death, sacred and profane, desire and damnation. When those boundaries blur too far, the character risks losing his shape.

And here, he occasionally does.

The Missing Gothic Pulse

Perhaps the film’s most surprising omission is its lack of true gothic weight.

For all its talk of damnation and eternal suffering, Dracula rarely feels haunted. The atmosphere — that essential ingredient of any great vampire tale — is present in fragments, but never fully realised.

In stepping away from the heavy shadows and oppressive dread that have long defined the character, Besson creates something more ethereal… but also less impactful.

It’s a Dracula without fangs.

The Prognosis:

Dracula (2025) is a film caught between impulses — romance and horror, spectacle and substance, myth and mood. It reaches for operatic tragedy but often finds itself lost in its own aesthetic.

And yet, there is enough here — in its performances, in its ambition — to keep it from collapsing entirely.

A visually striking, emotionally charged reimagining that gets lost in the romance, leaving its mythology and gothic soul just out of reach.

A vampire story that longs for eternity… but struggles to leave a lasting bite.

  • Saul Muerte

Gooey Glory and Gallows Laughs: Slither (2006)

30 Monday Mar 2026

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Long before he was steering blockbuster juggernauts for Marvel Studios and DC Studios, James Gunn made his directorial debut with something far slimier, stranger, and far more sincere in its love for the grotesque. Slither arrived in 2006 as a love letter to classic creature features, splatter cinema, and the kind of horror-comedy that delights in pushing good taste to its absolute limits.

And nearly two decades on, it still squelches with personality.

Practical Effects That Refuse to Play Nice

If Slither has a beating heart (and it has many), it lies in its gloriously excessive practical effects. This is a film that revels in the tactile — in flesh that mutates, stretches, bursts and oozes with gleeful abandon.

Drawing clear inspiration from genre staples like The Thing and Night of the Creeps, Gunn leans into the artistry of physical transformation. The alien parasites — slug-like invaders that burrow into human hosts — are both repulsive and oddly playful, writhing across the screen in a way that feels refreshingly tangible in an era already leaning heavily into CGI.

The centrepiece, however, is the grotesque evolution of Grant Grant, played with unnerving commitment by Michael Rooker. His transformation is a slow, tragic descent into body horror — a man losing not just his humanity, but his physical form in ways that are as disturbing as they are darkly comic.

It’s disgusting. It’s excessive. It’s absolutely the point.

Macabre Humour Done Right

What elevates Slither beyond a simple creature feature is Gunn’s razor-sharp tonal control. The film walks a precarious line between horror and comedy, never allowing one to fully undermine the other.

The humour is pitch black, often absurd, and frequently rooted in the sheer extremity of what’s unfolding. Gunn understands that the best horror-comedy doesn’t deflate tension — it amplifies it by forcing audiences to laugh at things they probably shouldn’t.

This balance would later become a defining trait of his work, visible in films like Guardians of the Galaxy, but here it feels rawer, more unrestrained — like a filmmaker gleefully testing how far he can push both the audience and the material.

A Cast That Gets the Joke

A film like Slither lives or dies on its performances, and Gunn assembles a cast that fully commits to the madness.

Nathan Fillion anchors the film as Sheriff Bill Pardy, bringing a dry, understated charm that grounds the chaos. His everyman sensibility provides a necessary counterbalance to the escalating absurdity, allowing the audience to latch onto something recognisably human amidst the carnage.

Opposite him, Elizabeth Banks delivers a performance that adds emotional weight to the film’s more grotesque elements. As Starla, she becomes the emotional core of the story, her relationship with Grant adding a surprising layer of tragedy to what could have easily been pure exploitation fare.

And then there’s Rooker — unhinged, committed, and unforgettable. His performance is the film’s grotesque centrepiece, embodying both the horror and the humour in equal measure.

Small-Town Horror with Big Personality

Set in a sleepy town slowly overtaken by alien infection, Slither taps into familiar genre territory but injects it with a chaotic energy that keeps it feeling fresh. The invasion narrative unfolds with increasing intensity, each new mutation escalating the stakes and the spectacle.

Yet beneath the slime and spectacle, there’s a genuine affection for the genre. Gunn isn’t mocking horror — he’s celebrating it, embracing its excesses while understanding the craft required to make them work.

A Cult Classic That Still Sticks

Despite a modest reception upon release, Slither has rightfully earned its place as a cult favourite. It’s a film that understands exactly what it wants to be and executes that vision with unapologetic enthusiasm.

It’s messy. It’s grotesque. It’s often ridiculous.

But it’s also incredibly well-made.

The Prognosis:

A gloriously goo-soaked horror-comedy that showcases James Gunn’s early voice, blending practical effects, macabre humour and a committed cast into one of the most entertaining creature features of the 2000s.

  • Saul Muerte

Slither will celebrate its 20th Anniversary with a limited UK theatrical release from 10th April, a 4K Digital release from 1st May, and Special Edition Steelbook from 18th May which can be pre-ordered through HMV, ZAVVI & Amazon

Steel, Sorcery and Splattercraft: Deathstalker (2026)

29 Sunday Mar 2026

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In an era where digital spectacle often overwhelms texture and tactility, Deathstalker arrives like a relic unearthed from a more visceral cinematic past. Directed by Steven Kostanski, this Shudder-exclusive fantasy-horror hybrid leans unapologetically into the aesthetics of sword-and-sorcery pulp, resurrecting a subgenre that thrives on excess, grime, and the physicality of handcrafted effects.

Kostanski, whose reputation has steadily grown through cult favourites such as The Void and Psycho Goreman, has long been recognised as a modern custodian of practical effects artistry. With Deathstalker, he reasserts that position with confidence, delivering a film that feels less like a reinvention and more like a reclamation — a reminder that horror-fantasy can still breathe, bleed and rupture in tangible ways.

A Return to Practical Alchemy

The narrative itself is deliberately archetypal. When a battle-hardened warrior, played by Daniel Bernhardt, retrieves a cursed amulet from a battlefield littered with corpses, he becomes entangled in a web of dark magick, pursued by assassins and shadowed by an encroaching evil. It is a familiar framework — one that echoes the mythic simplicity of Conan-era storytelling — but Kostanski is less interested in narrative innovation than in experiential immersion.

Where Deathstalker distinguishes itself is in its commitment to the physical image. The creatures, transformations and grotesqueries that populate this world are rendered with a devotion to prosthetics, animatronics and practical ingenuity that feels increasingly rare. Flesh tears, bodies distort, and the supernatural manifests not as weightless pixels but as textured, often repulsive forms that occupy space with convincing presence.

There is a tactile pleasure in this approach — a sense that the horror exists within the frame rather than being layered atop it.

Kostanski’s Controlled Chaos

Kostanski’s direction walks a delicate line between reverence and reinvention. His work here feels informed by the splatter traditions of filmmakers like Stuart Gordon and Sam Raimi, yet it avoids slipping into mere pastiche. Instead, he channels those influences through a contemporary lens, maintaining a playful awareness of genre conventions without undermining their impact.

There is, crucially, a sense that Kostanski is enjoying himself.

That enjoyment becomes infectious. The film’s more excessive moments — of which there are many — are staged with a gleeful confidence that invites the audience to revel in the absurdity. Limbs are dispatched, creatures emerge from unlikely places, and the boundaries of taste are tested with a wink rather than a nudge.

Yet beneath the chaos lies a disciplined craftsman. Kostanski understands rhythm, allowing sequences of visceral intensity to breathe before plunging back into the grotesque. It is this balance that prevents the film from collapsing under the weight of its own indulgence.

Form Over Function

If Deathstalker falters, it does so in its narrative ambitions. The story, while serviceable, rarely transcends its archetypal foundations. Characterisation remains broad, motivations are often sketched rather than explored, and the emotional stakes never quite reach the same level of engagement as the film’s visual spectacle.

But this feels, to some extent, intentional.

Kostanski appears less concerned with crafting a deeply layered narrative than with constructing a world — one defined by its textures, its grotesqueries, and its commitment to physical effects. The result is a film that prioritises sensation over introspection, experience over exposition.

A Leader in His Field

In many ways, Deathstalker serves as a reaffirmation of Kostanski’s position within contemporary genre filmmaking. At a time when practical effects are often relegated to novelty status, he continues to push their boundaries, exploring what can be achieved through ingenuity, craftsmanship, and a willingness to embrace imperfection.

The film may not fully transcend its pulp origins, but it doesn’t need to. Its value lies in its execution — in the sheer commitment to a mode of filmmaking that refuses to disappear quietly.

The Prognosis:

Deathstalker is not a film that seeks to redefine fantasy horror. Instead, it embraces its lineage, revels in its excesses, and delivers a tactile, visceral experience that stands in stark contrast to the polished artificiality of much contemporary genre cinema.

A rough-edged but invigorating return to practical effects-driven storytelling, with Steven Kostanski once again proving himself a vital and playful force in modern horror.

  • Saul Muerte

Deathstalker will stream on Shudder from Fri 3rd April