Let’s be honest here – this is not a cerebral movie. It’s not even a particularly “good” movie, by most critical measures. The plot is entirely perfunctory: eight medical students go on a skiing holiday in the hills, where they are picked off one at a time by undead Nazis, who have been reanimated by some unspecified local curse. That’s more or less it. Wirkola’s approach to characterisation is textbook exploitation: he doesn’t bother, but his cast are very attractive and we get to see some breasts early on. Sadly, he also opts for the irritatingly meta cliche of making one of the characters, Erlend, a horror fan – cue references to Evil Dead and so on. This is such a one-note movie that clumsy irony is unlikely to win over any sceptics, whilst genre devotees are likely to be irritated as to how hackneyed Erlend’s reference points are.

Clocking in at a lean 88 minutes, Dead Snow is really only about one thing – dismemberment, and wisely Wirkola sets the ball rolling early and keeps the blood flowing right until the very end. His handling of the massacre itself is a slightly mixed bag; there are some superb set piece moments and inventive deaths as well as some great gags. The sequence where Martin amputates his own arm is a highlight, and there are also several successful disembowelments. At times however the limitations of the budget show, with several goreshots obscured by camera positions and editing, presumably to hide some less than effective effects work. The zombies themselves are particularly effective – purists may balk at the running and snarling, but their tattered uniforms and (by the end) sheer numbers give them an oppressive presence that helps keep up the excitement levels.

But whilst the Nazi zombies are the headline attraction (compounded by the unsubtle tagline “Ein zwei die”), Dead Snow’s secret weapon is its setting. The rolling, snow covered hills form a beautiful yet haunting backdrop for the massacre, and Wirkola seeks out every possible way to use his location in a manner that’s surprisingly inventive. The shots of blood falling on the pure white snow are terrific, but the shots of zombies bursting through the snow, the sequences set in the outdoor toilet and the isolated tent and in particular the surprisingly claustrophobic avalanche scene suggests that Wirkola has really thought about how to get the most out of the mountains. This isn’t a film that could be set anywhere else, which is more than can be said for many other zombie flicks.

Ultimately, how much you get out of Dead Snow depends on how prepared you are to leave your brain at the door. This is not a sophisticated horror film; by most measures of critical success (character, dialogue, plot, pace) it’s an abject failure. It is however a hugely enjoyable, indulgent homage to one of horror’s most gloriously tacky subgenres, and a fun – if dumb – way to pass an hour and a half of your life.

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.

Stuart Gordon’s Re-Animator ticks all of those boxes. I confess here that I haven’t yet read H.P. Lovecraft’s “Herbert West: Reanimator”, but I don’t think it’s too essential. One of the beauties of good splatter horror is that the means are as important as the ends, and on every level Re-Animator is a joy to experience.

That is not to say that Gordon ever takes the attention of the viewer for granted, nor is he content in offering the film equivalent of junk food. The premise of the deliberate re-animation of the recently deceased is a worthy a subject for discussion as any you will find. Where I think Gordon is especially canny is in framing his story such without ever letting such deep and sombre themes act as a drag on viewer enjoyment.

This is especially obvious in the development of the central character, Dr. Herbert West, who is beautifully brought to life by Jeffrey Combs. When we first encounter Herbert he is styled as your typical creepy mad scientist, just returning to the USA from Europe where some level of mystery surrounded his activities. We are first expected to view him as the outcast, whose gory machinations are being pursued with an utter disregard for the moral and physical consequence. About mid-way through there is something of a gear change though, and in his disregard for the moral questions surrounding his work are hints that he wants to conquer death either because he fears it or to help those who do fear it. This was deftly handled by having the utterly likeable, all-American Dan Cain befriend Herbert. By providing the viewer with the reassuring moral compass of Dan we don’t get too bogged down.

That is as well, because when Gordon opens the throttle Re-Animator descends into some of the most manic, memorable and thoroughly enjoyable gore I think you’ll see. At times, his imagery practically jumps off the screen at you. You realise what a complete package Gordon offers when this violence is tied into a fantastically dark comedy script. He keeps the cast on something of a tight leash in terms of direction, and to excellent effect. By having them play it straight, it retains its artistic integrity and retains the freedom to really push the boat out in it terms of its visuals. The headless Dr. Carl Hill is one example of many.

There is no shame in a film choosing to deliver its message by going down the splatter horror route. When it is done badly, it should rightly be dismissed as pointless exhibitionism. When it is done properly, it offers up an utterly refreshing experience on every level of viewer engagement. Re-Animator could serve as a master class in getting it right, and I only hope that the upcoming House of Re-Animator brings it to the attention of a new generation of viewers.

Unashamedly aspiring to cult status by being as silly as possible, there is nothing sophisticated about Killer Klowns. From entombing their victims in candy floss through to their circus tent shaped spaceship (they’re aliens by the way, in case you missed it in the title), we’re never given any indication as to precisely why the Klowns are doing what they do. This is a shame as I’m quite intrigued by the idea of an alien race of killer clowns who draw sustenance from human blood (it’d spice up Royal Variety Performances no end). The scenes where hapless humans realise that these aren’t real clowns but are instead quite bitey are a treasure to behold, with most of the cast trying to play it straight but the few lucky enough to be wearing the red noses realising they have more to gain by playing it for everything it’s worth.

What the Chiodo brothers offer up is a film fitting the mould of the numerous ‘made for midnight’ movies that the big American TV networks pumped out to provide waddage to their late night schedules in the late 1970s. You shouldn’t base your evening around watching Killer Klowns but I can’t, as much as I try, say you should omit to viewing it all together. It’s one of the silliest films you’re likely to watch but there’s something inherently enjoyable about watching clowns kill people, especially so when they’re aliens and wrap them in candy floss. Surely it sells itself?

It’s hard to imagine who this movie is aimed at, or indeed why it exists in the first place. I can’t imagine any porn fans being massively excited by scenes of genital mutilation and disembowellment, and nor are gore-hounds going to be satisfied by the acres of bare – intact – flesh on display. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it feels like two different films shunted together. The first half is where all the porn is, and seems to be set in a parallel world where people are constantly having sex, or thinking about sex (although crucially, never talking about sex – possibly because they’re too busy with the first two). Maybe I haven’t watched enough 70s porn, but I was amazed at how much sex the film crammed in whilst setting up the expedition plot. When Emanuelle meets the straitjacketed cannibal girl, she calms her down by – naturally enough – masturbating her. She then meets Professor Mark Lester, consults him on cannibals, has sex with him, meets up with her boyfriend, has sex with him, then travels to the Amazon with Mark, having flashbacks about their earlier sex en route before having some more when they arrive (whilst another girl watches and masturbates). Emanuelle doesn’t limit herself to men either, leading to perhaps the film’s oddest sequence, where she rather listlessly cavorts in a stream with a girl called Isobel whilst a monkey sits on the bank smoking a cigarette. There’s a nun too, and although she doesn’t have sex, we do get to see her without her knickers on, so that’s okay. And every time Emanuelle has sex – usually unannounced and never commented on afterwards – the soundtrack kicks into a bizarre song where a female singer wails about how she is the queen, he is the king, and how “when we make love my arms are tired”. Extraordinary stuff. Luckily, Laura Gemser is very easy on the eye, and her lovely statuesque figure and bronzed skin manage to save the day at the end of the movie, so you can’t complain.

Horror fans will find themselves on more familiar ground in the second half, where we’re treated to the usual parade of rubbery flesh and gloopy red blood, whilst men in loincloths dance around to some tribal drumming. The gore effects are pretty much as good as any you’ll find on a Fulci movie, but even by Italian standards, this is an ineptly made film. It has some of the strangest edits and worst continuity I think I’ve ever seen, whilst some of the jungle scenes hark back to Ed Wood with their apparent mismatching of night and day shots. The dubbing is nothing short of atrocious, with the voiceover artists continually interrupting each other and making a hash of their lines. In particular, the scene where Emanuelle and Mark first have lunch has to be seen to be believed, as the voice artist attempts to fit the dialogue around mouthfuls of food. And whoever dubbed Emanuelle’s newspaper boss deserves a medal for one of the weirdest accents ever. It doesn’t help the the dialogue is clunky at best and risible at worst. “Tomorrow I’m leaving for the Amazon, for work. Something very, very interesting. It’s about cannibalsm,” she informs her boyfriend. “Emanuelle you’re crazy, you’re really crazy,” says her boyfriend, to which she replies “Maybe I am, but right now I want to make love”. Cue the sex.

Basically, this film is total tosh, but then you could probably guess that from the title. If you’re watching this movie, chances are it’s not because you’re looking for a great movie, it’s not because you have a gore fetish and it’s not because you’re looking for a wank – Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals fails on all three counts. As allmovie.com observes, it’s basically a film with no target audience whatsoever, but it achieves a certain greatness through its sheer oddness. I struggle to think what D’Amato thought he was bringing to the table while making this film, but I can’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it, even if it drags towards the end. Citizen Kane it ain’t, but anyone with a passing interest in the seedy underbelly of cinema history will have a field day here.

Like all of Wood’s movies the production on Bride of the Monster is dire. There is a mismatch between his interior and exterior shots, continuity between night and day is completely overlooked and his sets wobble worryingly during any action scenes. Having said that, it isn’t half as bad as his later Plan 9 From Outer Space and it rarely becomes distracting or too disruptive to the plot. Wood actually comes close to turning out something quite atmospheric if one can look beyond the barely disguised photograph enlarger machine as the ‘Atomic ray’ or the tellingly listless giant squid that lurks in the swamp, and there is a genuine hint of menace surrounding Lugosi’s secluded lair.

Likewise, though the script is as shoddy and clichéd as they come it is far more accessible and less convoluted than some of his offerings, so it is easy to overlook the hackneyed journalists and policemen. Wood also manages to marshal his players effectively, especially in light of the fact that one of the leads (Tony McCoy) wasn’t even an actor but the son of his financial backer. In so far as comparisons with his other works go, Bride of the Monster is a polished piece with none of the unnecessary plot twists or padded characters he allowed to creep into his other offerings. As I said above, the flaws we see here are those that you could pick out in many other B-movies of the era, movies which (unlike Bride) fail to overcome their physical defects with worthy plots or memorable acting performances.

It is Bela Lugosi who really shines, and if ever an example was needed of an actor rising above his material then this is it. The psychotic Dr. Eric Vornoff was Lugosi’s last speaking part, poignantly playing the mad scientist stereotype that became the staple of his later films. He dominates the screen with this role and fills it with his old commanding personality and sincerity. The lovely scene where he unburdens himself (“hooome? I haff no hooome”) is as touching as Tim Burton rendered in Ed Wood to those familiar with Lugosi’s career, and is a fitting swansong to the cinematic giant. For this reason alone it is difficult for me to dislike Bride of the Monster, for despite his limited resources Wood treats Lugosi and the material with the heartfelt respect they deserves and manages to churn out a respectable little movie which proves (though none is needed) that he’s far from the worst director in film history.

But this summary doesn’t even begin to cover the bizarre and disconnected oddess that fills this film’s 77 minutes. Somehow, there’s also a man who does animal impressions who falls in love with a much older islander who impersonates animals as well. There’s an opening chase and a secret rendezvous in a cafe that bears no relation to anything that follows. And the film screeches to a halt to let a woman sing on the boat for what seems like an eternity. Frankly, it’s utter madness, and right in the middle of it all is the monster itself, a hilariously ramshackle concoction that resembles a fat version of the Pepperami monster.

I suppose my problems with this film stem from how unclear Corman’s aims are. He simultaneously asks us to laugh with and at the film, both poking fun at its own shortcomings but also carrying some rather laboured gags. It’s not consistently funny enough to be good comedy, but it’s got a knowing, self-conscious edge which makes it difficult to love in an Ed Wood fashion. Moran’s proto-Frank Drebin voiceover raises the odd laugh, but most of the time it mocks the film instead of being funny, making the whole thing rather hard to swallow. Asking for greatness from a Corman movie is never a good idea, but a bad movie can’t be redeemed simply by admitting it and trying to laugh its failings off.

The monster is of course fab and pretty much saves the entire picture. Whether it’s deliberately hopeless or not, this low-rent Creature from the Black Lagoon really livens things up, partly because of the sheer audacity of putting something SO rubbish on screen and partly because it’s a genuinely funny design. It’s just a shame that the rest of the movie drags so much; if he’d used the monster a lot more and kept the comic momentum going it’d be a great film to watch over a bottle of wine. As it is, it’s a hard movie to love, but quite good fun if you’re really drunk.