I thought back to this as I was watching the superb Stephen King/George A. Romero’s horror anthology Creepshow. Not because I was sitting next to an idiot piercing the cinema silence as they wolfed down their cheese and chilli tortilla, but because I can’t remember the last time I saw a horror film dabble with a different format to the standard 90-120 minute linear progression.

And in Creepshow it really works. I’ve said elsewhere on Black Lagoon that I think Stephen King adaptations can be pretty hit and miss, but in teaming up with Romero, King was taking no chances in bringing his five short stories (two of which were taken directly from his books) to the big screen. Though intended as a film version of the horror comics of the 1950s, this element of Romero’s direction lapses into almost total non-use beyond the occasional flash of animation here and there. This isn’t fatal though, and what you’re essentially left with is five straight horror tales from two of the genre’s masters.

The variety of the stories, in terms of content, approach and duration, is a critical strength of Creepshow, and one that readily grabs the viewer’s attention. They range from the tragicomedy of The Lonesome Death of Jordy Verrill (in which King himself does a very creditable turn as the lead character) through to a stylish examination of intolerance in They’re Creeping Up On You!. My personal favourite was Something To Tide You Over, which is almost entirely down to Leslie Nielsen’s superb portrayal of a psychotic husband on the rampage. There’s nothing particularly sophisticated about his performance, but his default method of playing it straight, coupled as ever with the affectionate inability to displace Frank Drebin from the memory when watching him, makes it supremely entertaining.

It’s this fondness which accounts for the enduring popularity of the film, and you can’t help but watch Creepshow and be struck by the love of the genre that King and Romero have. In this affectionate homage to their comic book ancestors, they obviously weren’t aiming to turn out anything approaching the high-brow, genre-defining output that they achieved elsewhere. And what’s wrong with that? All genres, perhaps horror more than most, need the occasional dollop of fun to keep their recipes fresh and alluring. For us, there are few people better placed to do this than King and Romero, as they amply prove in the slick, engaging and thoroughly enjoyable Creepshow.

The Evil Dead has quite rightly become the most celebrated film of those that became entangled in the video nasty farrago, partly because it’s one of the best, and partly because it had the most obvious and visible effects on other ‘mainstream’ genre films at the time. Copious splatter wasn’t new in horror movies, but Raimi’s injection of comedy was, and led to a whole array of ‘splat-stick’ (yuck) films in its wake, most notably the Return of the Living Dead saga. Instead of relying on comedy characters or amusing situations, Evil Dead is actually fairly serious-minded in its story and overall tone, but there is much humour in both the ludicrous exaggerations of horror conventions and the lunatic energy that Raimi’s direction imbues the proceedings. At this stage, Bruce Campbell plays Ash, the central character in all three films, dead straight and there are genuine shocks and chills to be found, most notably in the transformation of the other students into giggling demons.

Perhaps most remarkable is how inventively Raimi deploys his pitifully small budget. Evil Dead is small scale, but never looks cheap; the POV shots of the mysterious force in the woods – apparently achieved simply by taping a camera to a plank and running around with it – are startling, and have an overwhelming effect when combined with the effective sound effects and furious editing. Throughout all three films, Raimi’s bludgeoning of the viewer with exhausting visuals remains the most rewarding and fruitful trick in his arsenal, and it’s this aspect of the first film that is really developed in the sequel.

Dead By Dawn is less Evil Dead 2 than Evil Dead Squared. Raimi overlooks such trivialities as, say, plot and character – both sketchy at best in the first film – in favour of all-out visual excess and a frantic, almost Looney Tunes-esque aura of cartoony slapstick. It’s a testament to his level of invention that Raimi’s indulgences rarely seem puerile or predictable, and on a first viewing the film’s unpredictability is utterly compelling – in that the viewer never quite knows what’s coming next, whether it’s a hysterical laughing deer, the hilarious farting noise made by the decapitated witch or Ash’s logic-defying decision to graft a chainsaw to his arm in place of his severed hand. Raimi has commented that his intention with the film was to see what he could get away with putting Bruce Campbell through, and Campbell steps up to the challenge; across the film, his portrayal of Ash shifts from the more earnest portrayal in The Evil Dead to a tounge-in-cheek, gun-totin’, chainsawin’ action hero – complete with slick catchphrases like “groovy” and “let’s carve ourselves a witch”.

The third film, Army of Darkness, falls between two stools. On the one hand, it continues the same self-parodic portrayal of Ash from Evil Dead 2, but this time Raimi tempers the excess, seemingly preferring to make a slick, medieval romp that sits rather awkwardly with Bruce Campbell’s ultra-stylised performance. The film is a very clear homage to the Ray Harryhausen stop-motion epics of the 50s and 60s, and the creature segments are by far the most successful, particularly the brilliant skeleton army. However, about two-thirds of the way through, Raimi pulls out one of the memorable running-pan shots that he used so heavily in the first two films, and at that moment we realise what we’re missing; Army of Darkness may be the most technically accomplished of the three Evil Dead films, but it has the least energy and even drags in places. It’s too silly to take seriously, but lacks the necessary invention needed for the audience to just roll with it.

As I discovered in my Evil Dead marathon, it’s a pretty lousy trilogy that doesn’t really reward back-to-back viewing. But leave enough space between instalments, and it’s pretty clear why at the first two films are genre classics. Raimi’s career arc from video nasty director to one of Hollywood’s hottest talents is only marginally less ridiculous than that of Peter Jackson, and while fans continue to clamour for an Evil Dead 4, Army of Darkness would suggest that maybe it’s a good thing that the franchise remains dormant. The appeal of the films lies in the hyperactive energy that only young, independent film-makers seem to be able to muster; somehow, a big-budget, major studio-back return to the log cabin wouldn’t feel right.

What strikes you most about Shaun is the seamless integration of several genres into such a slick little movie. You could describe it as a zombie film, a romance and a comedy and you’d be right on all fronts. This is a very ambitious undertaking, especially when you consider that it was Simon Pegg’s first effort at movie screenwriting. Those who’ve seen him on British TV will appreciate that the man is a comedian/comedy writer of the first order but here he shows that he’s overly capable of dealing with any challenge a story might through at him. Though the comedy and romance are integral buttresses of Pegg’s story he’s much truer to the Romero approach to horror than most other imitators. Here, as in the Dead series, the zombies provide the startling catalysts to the human story. We’re back to the slow-moving, ponderous creatures of old which is a refreshing contrast to the hyper-efforts of the Resident Evil-type that seem to have established themselves as the typecast, with the former being infinitely more effective in fostering a menacing atmosphere.

Pegg pulls off the difficult task of retaining this horror while at the same time delivering a hilarious comedy. His mum calling the unbeknownst to her zombies ‘a bit bitey’ or Bill Nighy reassuring the family that he’ll be okay having just been bitten because he’s run the wound under a cold tap. Quintessentially English, but they gel together beautifully with the top-notch cast that delivers them. Pegg and Bill Nighy I’ve already mentioned, but it’d be unjust if I didn’t also single out Nick Frost, who’s fantastic as Shaun’s flatmate. On top of all of this (as if that wasn’t enough) the movie also has a serious and at times uncomfortable undercurrent which is impossible to disregard. The scene where Shaun has to shoot his mother is really wrenching and seems to jump out of nowhere and knock the viewer off balance. It’s a measure of both the writer and the superb cast that they never skip a beat in navigating their way through the confusion, and the sincerity with which they exhibit fear, sarcasm and genuine emotional hurt is a rare thing to see in film, especially a relatively low-budget British offering. A first rate zombie film, comedy and human drama, Shaun of the Dead is one of those rare offerings that gratifies on every level and restores faith in how good the cinema can be. It deserves to be in every DVD collection.

The name Edward D Wood Jr is usually accompanied by the words “world’s worst director”, which makes for a good headline but doesn’t adequately describe why his films are so interesting. His all-time greats, such as Bride of the Monster and Plan 9 from Outer Space (which we’ll inevitably cover on this site in the future), show a passion and raw enthusiasm for movie-making that is inversely proportional to his technical or artistic abilities. These are, of course, atrocious films, but not through lack of ambition or vision; unlike Roger Corman, another icon of junk cinema, Wood never felt constrained by what was feasible in terms of the resources or talent he had available to him at the time. Wood had an immense belief in and love of his work and had an eye for the big concept, but lacked the technical discipline or sound judgement to do his ideas justice. His films have a naive charm. The triumph of Tim Burton’s 1994 biopic is that it lets Wood escape with his dignity intact; by having a dream, he stands head and shoulders above the cynical sharks and moneygrabbers who populate Burton’s Hollywood. Johnny Depp’s performance as Wood borders on the child-like in his lack of awareness and blind enthusiasm, and Burton only alludes to the awfulness of Wood’s films obliquely, instead playing the mishaps that plague his career for laughs and presenting the eventual completion of Plan 9 as a triumph against the odds.

The strongest aspect of Wood’s rehabilitation as a sympathetic character is his relationship of Bela Lugosi. Whereas the rest of Hollywood writes him off as a has-been, Ed gives this washed-up, frail old man a second chance at the lasting success that eluded him; he fails in this aim, but Lugosi dies a little happier for having met him. Martin Landau brilliantly conveys the sadness that is self-evident in even a cursory glance at the events of Lugosi’s life; briefly one of the biggest names in cinema, his rather indiscriminate approach to projects – and his catastrophic refusal of the role of Frankenstein – more or less sank him completely and left him a morphine-addicted recluse. It’s the scenes with Depp and Landau together that make this film, and when Wood films his last scene with Lugosi knowing that the end is near, it’s almost unbearably poignant (although predictably, the actual incorporation of this scene into Plan 9 is woeful).

Also worth mentioning is the almost uncanny way Burton captures the look of Wood’s films, both in his spot on recreations of actual scenes and throughout the rest of the movie. The black and white biography helps, but the careful framing and lighting – on a budget Wood could only dream of – is perhaps the ultimate tribute. Ed Wood is moving, funny and above all it makes you want to watch – or re-watch – some of Wood’s films in the light of what you now know. Whilst it’s probably more of back-door entry into the horror canon, it’s also one of the best ‘films about a film’ I’ve ever seen.

I love the film’s lurid premise; Dick Miller plays Walter Paisley, a clumsy busboy who worships the beatnik poets that populate the club where he works. When he accidentally kills a cat, he covers it in clay to hide the evidence; when the result is hailed by the beatniks as a masterpiece, he is forced to kill again to keep up with demand for more work. As the plot would suggest, there’s a certain amount of satire aimed at beatnik culture, but I wasn’t prepared for just how savage that satire would be; Corman doesn’t just send up the art enthusiasts, he spits venom at them, and as the film goes on they degenerate into increasingly grotesque and ridiculous caricatures. Paisley doesn’t look any better; his adulation of the horrendous Maxwell Brock (who eats “soy and wheat-germ pancakes, organic guava nectar, calcium lactate and tomato juice and garbanzo omelettes sprinkled with smoked yeast” for breakfast) makes him look foolish – an accomplice to the inane pretension that surrounds him, as well as, more obviously, a murderer.

What would otherwise be a lightweight comedy of errors is made quite gripping by Corman’s obvious, barely disguised hatred of beatniks. Had it lasted longer than its 64 minutes A Bucket of Blood would probably have outstayed its welcome, but as it stands, it’s short, angry and pretty funny. Definitely worth a look.