Perhaps the film’s strongest asset is its story. A pre-Dempsey & Makepeace Michael Brandon plays Roberto Tobias, a drummer in a rock band who’s spent the last week being stalked by a mysterious stranger. Confronting the man in an abandoned theatre, Roberto accidentally ends up killing him, and is photographed doing so by a figure wearing a bizarre puppet mask. Roberto flees the scene, but in the coming weeks receives regular reminders of his actions from the photographer, in the form of pictures and other unsettling communications. This is a terrific premise, and Argento milks it for all its paranoid possibilities; in one scene, Roberto is rifling through a pile of records at a party only to discover a photo of himself holding a bloody knife between two LPs. Aside from Roberto’s curiously unsympathetic wife Nina, most of the other characters are ineffectual oddballs, which serves to emphasise his increased isolation and introspection. The world Argento presents is a cold one which yields little in the way of clues; the stark cinematography, which frequently establishes environments by languidly cutting between static shots of locations, drives home how far Roberto’s situation has removed him from home comforts.

There are some brilliant set piece moments as well. The opening sequence, where Roberto is bothered by a fly during band rehearsal, is dazzling. Equally successful is the scene where hapless private investigator Arrioso is pursuing a suspect on the metro; Argento’s economical, unflashy but perfectly framed direction makes this one of the tense high points of the whole movie. Other scenes are less successful; the killer’s pursuit of Roberto’s maid Amelia in the park, for example, is let down by some rather gimmicky jump-cuts that seem out of keeping with the restraint Argento shows elsewhere.

The film’s real problem lies in the rather leaden pacing. At 100 minutes, Four Flies could hardly be considered overlong, but there’s a fair amount of filler material that serves to slow the whole film down without adding much to the overall experience. Godfrey and The Professor are two fairly irritating characters who contribute little, and some of the chat at Roberto’s parties is pretty excruciating. Elsewhere, there’s some rather early-70s attitudes and conventions on display that haven’t exactly aged well; Argento’s portrayal of Arrioso’s homosexuality is fairly embarrassing by modern standards, and the occasional lapses into beatnik dialogue (“Hey man, what’s your trip?”) occasionally add some unintentional hilarity.

In classic Argento style, the story is brought to its endgame by a whacking great plot contrivance that seems at once ludicrous but also fairly in keeping with the bizarre, illogical world he portrays. I won’t blow the twist here, but suffice it to say it involves a hugely unlikely forensic discovery and some of the most revolting jewellery I’ve ever seen in a film. The murder scenes themselves, as well as the climactic final shot, are fairly exciting but feel a little flat compared to the baroque extremes some of Argento’s later films would go to. In many ways, this is Four Flies in a nutshell; like its predecessor, Cat o’ Nine Tails, it’s a solid and entertaining thriller that shows plenty of directorial flair, yet you’re waiting for Argento to slip his leash and show you something extraordinary. Declaring the giallo dead, Argento’s next film was historical comedy The Five Days; but when that bombed in Italy, he returned with Deep Red, which kicked off an astonishing fifteen-year fun of genre defining masterpieces. Four Flies on Grey Velvet isn’t a bad film, but as history proved, Dario Argento was capable of a lot more.

Not that you can escape the maths. Our protagonists are Spain’s finest mathematicians, whose paths ultimately cross when they receive an invitation to attend an exclusive gathering organised by the elusive ‘Fermat’. The introduction of this unusual premise is handled well, and though the characters are fairly formulaic they’re framed sufficiently irreverently in opening to forgive them that and enjoy the fun. Of particular note is the rock star like adulation heaped on “Galois”, which appears to be particularly well deserved given that he has solved Goldbach’s conjecture. “Hilbert” also stands out, if only because he must surely spend his summers working as a professional Sir Laurence Olivier lookalike on cruise ships.

If it isn’t apparent by these early stages that you’ll need a large pinch of salt to get through the rest of the film, it will be when the boffins converge on Fermat’s Room. What then ensues is a series of mathematical ‘enigmas’ sent into the locked room via a mobile phone by the mysterious “Fermat”, with delayed or incorrect answers leading to the room contracting in on itself. This very quickly beds down into an utterly conventional murder (or, rather, maths) mystery rather than the kind of RAND Corporation training exercise you’d think such a scheme might entail. It also means that it will feel familiar to anyone who has watched an episode of Columbo. In fact, if you’ve seen the Mind Over Mayhem episode you’ll practically feel at home. It’s a shame really, as this fails to utilise what could have been a fairly unconventional and engaging plot device.

It also means that the characters suddenly seem utterly out of place, as though they’re the only ones who turned up to the party in fancy dress. You get a sense that even Piedrahita and Sopeña got bored of the maths, as the ‘enigmas’ recede into the background to make way for a run-of-the-mill whodunit. However, the failure to properly anchor the characters to plot removes any real sense of revelation and each new discovery tends to lessen rather heighten the suspense. Be sure to watch out for “Pascal” brake pedal story for a prime, and superbly hilarious, example.

Having said that, Fermat’s Room never outstays its welcome. Aside from the disconnect that emerges between the characters and the plot, the cast is sufficiently enjoyable and skilled, and present what they’re given with a earnestness that cannot fail but endear. In particular, the emergence of “Pascal” in the second half of the film provides a likeable cynic of a companion. As a self-declared “practical” mathematician he is as baffled as the viewer by overall scenario, and through him perhaps Piedrahita and Sopeña were signalling that we shouldn’t take it too seriously. Go into it expecting a well-executed mathematical pantomime, and you’ll not be too disappointed.

At the heart of this nosedive is 1996′s The Stendhal Syndrome, which remains probably his most divisive film. It’s certainly his most frustrating, a rag-tag mess of a film that contains that at times feels like it’s up there with his best work and at others feels plodding, inept and workmanlike.

Let’s start with the good stuff. The setup is an absolute killer. Argento’s daughter Asia stars as Italian cop Anna Manni, who suffers a rare (real-life) affliction called Stendhal Syndrome which causes her to become overwhelmed by works of art. Her pursuit of Alfredo Grossi, a serial rapist and murderer (played The Pianist’s Thomas Kretschmann), leads her to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence where she falls into a trance and collapses, leaving her in Grossi’s clutches. The opening twenty minutes is absolutely first rate; Argento’s oppressive direction of the Uffizi sequence effectively and economically conveys the impact of Anna’s unusual condition, and the dreamlike shots of her falling in and out of the various paintings are up there with his best visual gimmicks. Anna’s subsequent, traumatised attempts to both overcome her ordeal and rid herself of her affliction through painting are also well handled and visually striking.

Unfortunately Argento seems to lose interest in the Stendhal Syndrome itself less than an hour into the film – which is baffling, seeing as it is by far and away the most fascinating element. By the halfway point Anna is cured, Grossi is killed and the film seems to turn into a possession film, with Anna’s tormentor continuing to haunt her seemingly from beyond the grave. The ‘twist’ conclusion is blindingly obvious – I won’t spoil it here, but Anna’s sudden decision to wear a blonde wig and the unsubtle HIV test scene signpost it so far in advance that if you don’t work it out yourself you’re probably watching the wrong movie. The second half of the film is not only thunderingly inept, it’s thoroughly boring as well – the whole film clocks in at 118 minutes, which is really half an hour too long, especially given that Argento’s can’t sustain the initial premise for the full length of the film.

The lost potential of the setup is also reflected in Argento’s handling of Grossi himself. The director’s trademark is his suspenseful use of concealed, motif-based killers, yet Grossi’s identity is never in doubt and we see him raping and maiming his victims from the start. Not only is this uncharacteristically unsubtle and route-one for Argento (particularly unpleasant when his own daughter is playing the victim!) but it’s also a hugely missed opportunity; there’s surely much mileage in the idea of an art-obsessed psychopath exploiting a Stendhal Syndrome sufferer, but aside from a passing attempt to mirror Grossi’s smearing of his victims’ blood with Anna’s painting of herself to rid herself of her condition, he ignores this potentially profitable angle, to the film’s detriment.

Asia Argento herself has come in for some criticism over the years, but her performance is fairly serviceable, and she’s particularly effective in both the Syndrome scenes and as the terrified victim. She’s far less engaging in the second half, but given how the script unsubtly calls for her to become an enigmatic mad woman for no real reason until the end, there’s probably not much more she could have done with the material. She is, however, miscast; aged 20 at the time of filming, she looks even younger, which makes the police department’s decision to send her – solo – to another city in pursuit of a serial rapist and murderer even less believable. An older actress with greater presence might have been able to paper over some of the inconsistencies in the script, but instead she leaves the film’s flaws open for all to see.

Technically, the film ranges from good to unremarkable. The much-criticised use of CGI (it was apparently the first Italian film to do so) is indeed wretched, but is thankfully only restricted to a couple of brief shots. Argento continues his move into more naturalistic (i.e. boring) colours and composition, but some of his angles are interesting, particularly in the aforementioned Uffizi sequence, Marie’s murder in the gallery and the bizarre evocation of Alice in Wonderland as a blonde Anna runs around her apartment in a blue dress at the end (this may have been unintentional). Ennio Morricone’s score is pretty good too, wrapped around a looping motif that sounds by turns sinister and comforting depending on the context.

Argento has since claimed that The Stendhal Syndrome has an anti-censorship message, and that it was designed as a riposte to his critics: just as many of his films were cut because of the corrupting influence of their images, so Anna is overwhelmed by pictures on a wall. By a weird coincidence, in the same year Wes Craven, a director who early films were frequently cut to bits by censors, released Scream, a metatextual horror in which the killer has been depraved by horror films. But whereas this self-reflection is evident throughout Scream, it’s nowhere to be found here, and one suspects Argento made this up post-facto. The most maddening aspect of The Stendhal Syndrome is not that it’s simply bad, but that in patches it’s really good. But for the first time, Argento, once the king of leitmotif horror, can’t retain a handle on the fascinating ideas and images he sets up at the start of the film, and once he steps away from the art theme he never once offers anything interesting or developed to replace it, instead offering half-baked twists and tedious procedural drama. Sadly, The Stendhal Syndrome marks a turning point for Argento; after the halfway point he’d never make another good film again. A partially interesting failure, the film stands as both as his last gasp of greatness and the start of the terminal mediocrity that was to follow.

In many ways, the film shares traits with David Fincher’s Zodiac, released four later. Both follow serial murders that remain unresolved to this day, and this immediately creates a challenge: how do you present a rounded narrative when the story you are telling remains fundamentally unfinished? Both Bong and Fincher tackle this by making the details of the killings secondary to the effects of the investigations on those involved. Memories of Murder tells the story of rural detective Park Doo-man, who is forced to work with Seoul detective Seo Tae-yoon in solving the murders of local woman who are found raped and murdered near a field on rainy nights.

What impressed me most about The Host was its humanity, and this is even more true of Memories of Murder. Culture-clash detective stories are nothing new, but Bong’s dazzling characterisation really brings to life the awkward partnership of Park and Seo. Most impressive is the way he uses humour in unlikely circumstances to bring an extra layer of empathy to the characters; there’s nothing particularly funny about either the killings themselves or the brutal ways in which Park and his colleagues try to pin them on a string of “best fit” local weirdos (which will feel particularly resonant for UK viewers following recent acquittal of Barry George), but the exasperated desperation of the police is bravely played partly for laughs, as they scrabble around without leads, resources or procedure. In particular, the opening sequence at the scene of the crime is hilarious, as Park attempts to co-ordinate the investigation amidst chaos that borders on slapstick. Bong’s use of comedy strikes just the right tone; it’s irreverent without ever feeling tasteless or gratuitous, and humanises a cast of characters that might otherwise be simply inept or even thuggish.

Amidst the laughs, though, is a very trenchant look at the effect an unresolved crime can have on those tasked with delivering justice. Park and Seo are both changed across the course of the film by their involvement with the case and with each other. Park’s development is the more positive of the two, learning to respect the thorough practices and deductive techniques of his more urbane partner; an epilogue, set more than a decade later, shows him to be older and wiser in a nice modulation of Song Kang-Ho’s outstanding performance. Seo, on the other hand, reverts to brutality when his urban instincts fail to solve the crime; the sequence where he beats a promising but inconclusive suspect by a railway tunnel is particularly chilling. But what pervades the film most is a sense of isolation, that these are two men who have nowhere else to turn in order to stop the murderer from killing again. As with The Host, there’s an implicit criticism of the South Korean government here, made clear in the scene where Park and Seo appeal for backup only to be told that everyone’s busy suppressing a demonstration. And although the magnitude of the murders is clear, Bong remains tight in his focus, giving little indication of how the rest of the country is responding (Seoul feels like it might as well be on another continent) and thereby increasing the burden placed on the two detectives.

Unlike Fincher, Bong presents suspects but never points the finger or presents his own theories as to who the real killer is; as a result, the movie offers less closure to the viewer than Zodiac. The ending is understated but completely devastating, bringing Park full circle (literally) and leaving him a changed man, in some ways bettered but in other ways scarred by his involvement. By dint of its subject matter the film offers more questions than it answers, but such is Bong’s skill that it feels both complete and infuriatingly open in equal measure. Memories of Murder is an incredible film that lingers in the mind long after the credits have finished, a confident and assured statement from a directing talent on the rise.

You can’t help but be left wondering if this is what he was attempting to do with Opera. The question has little to do with the setting (nor indeed title) but arise more because of Argento’s use of raw emotion as the central plot driver, often at the expense of coherent storytelling. Such an elevation might have been disastrous in a lesser director, but as ever with Argento you’re willing to moderate your critical faculties somewhat as you get drawn into his confused, uneasy but always beautifully rendered world.

The tale of a young operetta mysteriously targeted by a deranged killer might seem perfectly conceived to provide Argento with a fodder conveyor belt, but the opera backdrop actually serves as a nice distraction and allows him to indulge in some uncharacteristically self-indulgent fun. You can’t help but see something of Argento in Marco, the horror film director turned rather harried opera director, and you wonder whether the constant criticism of the latter (due, we learn, to his liberal re-interpretation of Verdi’s Macbeth) accounts for the former’s reluctance to give opera a go. Ian Charleson’s snarling performance suggests that it might well be. We (sadly) never get to enjoy Marco’s crow-laden Macbeth for anything longer than a few brief snippets, but it does provide Argento with just the right backdrop to set in place the best revelation of a murderer since Quincy, M.E. On a more serious level, the opera background initially gives Argento a relatively staid and comforting bolt-hole to retreat too in between the flashes of anarchistic slaughter. On every sensual level, the opulently rendered theatre provides welcome relief from the usual Dario butchery in the way that his music school did in Suspiria.

While seeing opera in film always adds a nice layer of bombast to proceedings, Argento deftly allows the edifice of what is happening on stage to sink into the background and allows the underlying terror and tragedy to bubble the surface. That is the undoubted strength of Opera, transforming what might otherwise have been a rather lumpy, incoherent and self-indulgent project into a film of stunning vision and genuine merit. Undoubtedly, there are some splutters, stops and starts along the way. It perhaps takes a little longer than it should for Betty’s predicament to be elevated from the bog standard hunter’s prey to tragic heroine (something the distractingly beautiful Christina Marsillach handles with real aplomb, despite Argento’s purported difficulties with her). Those are minor quibbles though, and they quickly fade into obscurity when we’re forced to step back and behold the patchwork of deliciously macabre situations visited upon Betty in their tragic totality. At that point you realise that opera’s loss is horror’s gain.

That said, it’s hard to gauge whether or not mentioning the musical aspect would help or hinder the audience’s expectations, given that the actual music is a world away from the West End fare touted by Graham Norton on Saturday night television. Composer and writer Stephen Sondheim’s CV includes an eye-opening number of top-bracket shows (including lyrical duties on the superb West Side Story) but the richness and complexity of the music here, first performed in 1979, is still startling. The score’s angular melodies and leitmotif structures are clearly more influenced by opera than by its Broadway peers, yet despite the lack of conventional showstoppers Sweeney Todd is characterised by a lightness of touch both lyrically and musically that infuses the grizzly story with a wickedly black sense of humour. In particular, his take on Todd himself is a triumph, maintaining a strong core characterisation whilst continually readjusting the audience’s position towards him; almost simultaneously he appears as a sympathetic victim, an irresistible maverick and an irredeemable villain, yet Sondheim never resorts to broad stroke when making these shifts. Such is the deftness of the writing that it seems entirely consistent that Todd spits invective about London’s depravity in one scene before cracking jokes in the next (such as his hilarious debunking of Pirelli’s miracle hair-growth formula).

Such strong source material gives director Tim Burton an enviable canvas with with to work, but despite the wider (and wilder) visual opportunities that film affords over the the stage, he bravely decides to focus more closely on the characters than their environment – even to the extent of trimming the chorus numbers so that the songs are performed solely by the main players. His take on 19th century London is beautifully atmospheric, but for the most part is only glimpsed at as the majority of the action takes place within the claustrophobic surroundings of Mrs Lovett’s pie shop. Inevitably this puts even more pressure on the cast; Johnny Depp and Helen Bonham-Carter are hardly surprising choices for a Tim Burton film, but their close relationship with the director means that they are completely integrated with his vision, and here they absolutely soar, tackling Sondheim’s challenging music with ease and never once letting the singing get in the way of their performances. Depp is absolutely mesmerising, and wholly convinces as the man whose soul has been almost completely destroyed by both the wrongs done to him and the urge for revenge. He is well matched by an excellent supporting cast, which includes Alan Rickman on fine form as Todd’s nemesis Judge Turpin, and both Timothy Spall and Sascha Baron-Cohen chew the scenery in a highly enjoyable fashion.

If the film falters at all, it’s in Burton’s slightly clumsy handling of twists in the plot that were never that surprising in the first place and require a more delicate touch. The identity of the mad homeless woman who watches over events is already a dramatic inevitability, but here it’s blindingly obvious who she is from the outset before we even know what role she is to play. Elsewhere, another promising setup which has Todd’s estranged daughter Joanna hiding in his shop dressed in boys’ clothing peters out without a really satisfying resolution.

These, however, are minor nitpicks in an outstanding film. The leisurely pace might give one cause to wonder whether the movie will live up to the story’s lurid reputation, but once Todd embarks on his killing spree in the final third it descends into an unflinchingly-framed bloodbath that could give most other modern gore movies a run for their money. Given the sorry state of mainstream musical theatre at present, it’s understandable that one might be inclined to give the film a wide berth, but to do so would be a mistake as Sweeney Todd admirably reaffirms the form’s potential. And although there is the niggling doubt that Burton is simply becoming a go-to guy for big-screen adaptations of quirky classics (this film is bookended by Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and his upcoming take on Alice In Wonderland) it’s hard to dispute that the source material and director are well-matched here, and that Burton is once again at the top of his game. Highly recommended.

As is probably clear from the plot summary, Tenebrae finds Argento in a self-reflexive mood. Apparently, he was inspired to make the film by a disturbing series of telephone death threats he received from a deranged fan, and it’s not hard to see fairly obvious parallels between Peter Neal, the crime novelist celebrated for the lurid brutality of his prose, and Argento himself, who if nothing else really pushed the envelope in terms of the elegant, poetic presentation of gut-wrenching brutality. There are some fun scenes which play on the director’s reputation including a sequences in which Neal is quizzed on whether or not his novels are sexist by a feminist journalist (who, it transpires, is a lesbian – which is endemic of Argento’s somewhat passé approach to gender politics; in any case, she’s one of the first to get butchered), and the policeman Inspector Giermani is in many ways the archetypal dumb fan – enraptured by Neal’s work but incapable of really understanding it.

That said, Tenebrae isn’t really a commentary or defence by Argento of his work, but the parallels between the director and his character do add a certain mischievous frisson to the proceedings. It also serves to make the grisly twist at the end of the film even more ghoulish if you think too long about its implications. On a first viewing, I’ll admit to finding the movie’s resolution somewhat gimmicky compared to, say, Deep Red, but on re-watching it does work on a meta-level and adds to the blood-soaked aura of fun that pervades the film. Like Deep Red, Argento has all the pieces in place so that the final unveiling of the killer makes narrative sense; the red herrings he throws you throughout are all accounted for and the final set-piece is a hugely satisfying bloodbath.

One area in which Tenebrae continues to receive criticism is in the look of the film. True, compared to the likes of Suspiria the modernist architectural structures in which the film takes place feel overly stark and washed out, but in some ways this more muted backdrop boils down Argento’s trademark presentation of murder to its very essence, focussing his camera on just the victim and the murderer. There are some incredibly arresting scenes in this film – most notably the celebrated panning shot over the top of a building tracking the killer’s pursuit of the people inside, but also incidental shots such as the close-up of the gloved hand of the killer smashing a lightbulb with a razor blade. Combined with Goblin’s thumping incidental score – probably the most overtly synthpop they’d contributed to an Argento film at this point, and which at times even starts to foreshadow Faithless – Tenebrae sometimes takes on the feel of a music video, but whilst it’s somewhat removed from the sonic and visual palette of his previous works it’s still every bit as stylised as his great works and, in its own way, just as beautiful.

The acting’s pretty passable for a dubbed Italian movie as well; Anthony Franciosa is clearly having a whale of a time in the lead role, and he makes a nice double act with Daria Nicolodi, aka Mrs Dario Argento and frequent collaborator. Ultimately, Tenebrae is probably not as significant a movie milestone as Deep Red or Suspiria, but as a rip-roaring murder mystery it’s probably one of his slickest, most taut and most enjoyable films. The prevailing impression is that of a director at the top of his game having a ball with his material, and sense of fun that runs through this gory shocker is utterly infectious. Highly recommended.

Connelly is probably the film’s best asset, giving an appealing and spirited performance as Jennifer Corvino, the sleepwalking daughter of a film star who discovers she has an affinity with insects. She forms quite a compelling double-act with Donald Pleasance as the wheelchair-bound Dr McGregor, who helps her investigate a string of murders in the posh Swiss finishing school where she is a pupil. Phenomena was the first film where Argento recorded sync sound rather than adding all dialogue during post-production, which really helps the performances breathe in a more naturalistic way than one normally expects from an Argento movie – even if Pleasance’s Scottish accent is decidedly odd. Sadly, this treatment was only lavished on the two leads; for all the other actors it was business as usual, which makes the traditional dubbing seem even more stilted than normal. Argento regular (and one-time partner) Daria Nicolodi fares particularly badly in this respect; her opening scene in the car with Connelly is hellish, although matters improve further into the film.

Stylistically, Argento basically throws in everything but the kitchen sink. There are nods to the giallo – particularly in the opening beheading of a lost tourist – but generally the murder sequences are less audaciously stylised than before, relying more on shocks and scares and thus pushing the film more into the territory of a supernatural thriller. Even the climax (involving a monkey and a razor blade, no less) feels muted compared to the lingering nightmares of previous films. Equally uncharacteristic is how the look of the film is defined by its exterior shots. Argento is a master of colour, but usually allows each film’s palette to emerge through carefully controlled interiors. Phenomena, on the other hand, is flavoured by the cool blues and greens of the lush Swiss countryside, which infused some of the films most successful sequences, such as Jennifer’s first sleepwalk, her pursuit of the firefly or her escape on the water from the killer’s lair. Conversely, this means some of the interior sequences (such as the killer’s pit of decaying bodies) feel more drab than they should do. But despite these deviations, Phenomena is still a very attractive film, with more than its fair share of blissful moments – most notably the dazzling scene in which Jennifer, taunted by her classmates, summons a swarm of flies which crowd the windows of the school.

The music – another key weapon in Argento’s arsenal – also suffers from some bizarre creative decisions. His house band, Italian prog rockers Goblin, were by this point down to one member, Claudio Simonetti, whose cues make up the bulk of the score. By the mid 80s, Simonetti was operating in full-blown electro-pop territory rather than the more organic textures that make up the classic Goblin sound, but there’s some great stuff here including the memorable main title theme, an epic soprano and drum machine blow-out (although oddly, I don’t remember hearing my favourite cue from the soundtrack album, “Jennifer’s Friends”, on the actual film). Unfortunately, many of the important action scenes are accompanied by heavy metal tracks from the likes of Motorhead and Iron Maiden rather than original material. Argento’s use of contemporary-sounding music has always been bombastic to say the least; part of the appeal of his best films is how key sequences are framed almost like music videos (such as the razor blade through the light bulb in Tenebrae) but the use of fully-blown songs here feels like self-parody rather than a step forward, with the lyrics detracting from the action rather than complementing it.

But the prevailing problem with the film is that it’s simply too long. Tellingly, when it was released in the USA (under the ridiculous title of Creepers) around 20 minutes was cut from it to improve the pacing. Much of the first hour is given over to scene-setting, with the story only really kicking into overdrive around the 45 minute mark. Thankfully, things speed up a little in the second half, and the final chase through the killer’s hideout is brilliantly tense, if more than a little reminiscent of Don’t Look Now.

Ultimately, Phenomena isn’t exactly top-tier Argento but it certainly doesn’t deserve the pasting it has received over the years from some quarters. Its flaws generally arise from a surfeit of ambition rather than a lack of it, and he throws enough ideas and techniques against the wall to ensure that every misfire is matched by several successes. Yes it’s long, yes the music’s occasionally a bit rubbish, but it’s still an enjoyable and at times very exciting film – plus it’s hard not to look fondly on a film which ends with Jennifer Connelly hugging a monkey holding a blood-stained blade. Definitely worth a look.

But while Scream may sit at the top of a very long downward spiral that we’re still sliding down ten years later, it’s also a rather good film. Craven’s tale of a group of horror-obsessed teens who notice eerie parallels with the movies they love when their schoolmates start being killed off one by one is both a love letter to the genre movies he references and a solidly-crafted slasher in its own right. The most common criticism of the film is that it substitutes irony for scares, and that the self-referencing undoes any real potential for terror, but the aspects for which the film is most remembered – the ‘rules’, the silly discussions of Halloween – are really only window dressing. For all Craven mocks the formula, he sticks to it rigidly and deploys it artfully, and the films most intense moments – especially the opening sequence and the climax – are as nerve-shredding as any of their predecessors.

This is essentially the film’s triumph. Craven’s paid his dues as a horror auteur, meaning he’s skilful enough to walk the walk as well as talk the talk; he can deconstruct what he’s doing without detracting from it. The final scene, which lays bare the killer’s motivation – essentially, he was warped by watching too many horror movies – casts the jovial name-dropping of films into a more sinister light. The ‘rules’ aren’t just the babblings of a know-it-all teen, they’re a murderer’s modus operandi, which is shown to have real consequences for the other characters. Far from patronising or belittling the works on John Carpenter and his peers, this raises them to a far greater level of importance – and rules or no rules, Scream at least managed to keep me guessing until the very end.

Perhaps the biggest irony of all is that a man who’s had a film banned in several countries on the grounds that it might deprave and corrupt should score his biggest commercial success with a movie in which an impressionable teen is corrupted by horror movies. Fans of Last House on the Left and the like may consider this to be Craven’s sell out moment, but it’s too sophisticated for that. Sure, there’s a surface level of meta-detail that can complicate the issue, but essentially Scream is an honest-to-god slasher that follows the rules and is all the better for it.

In much the same way that The Blair Witch Project capitalised on its unexpected success by immediately rushing out a sequel, fans of the diabolical ‘Jigsaw’ had to wait for less than a year for the follow-up to Saw. In light of this it shouldn’t be too surprising that Saw II offers up very little in the way of fresh ideas, but should we really have expected anything else? After all, the strength of the original was in watching helpless victims being psychologically and physically dissected in fiendishly cruel ways. Is this enough to carry a sequel though?

I think it is, just about. Saw II is a little more polished than the first, with the same frantic death scenes but this time layered between more a deliberate approach to telling the story. It helps that we actually get to meet Jigsaw this time (Tobin Bell stealing the show), and though the joust between him and Eric Matthews eventually becomes a little tiresome it does add an interesting dimension to the scenario and is the only really interesting point of reference. The attempts to inject Jigsaw’s motivation with a sense of morality are a little heavy-handed at times, but his rationale of human beings living in a cruel world where violence can (and should) be used for redemption as well as to inflict suffering is something to think about whilst people are having bits hacked out of them. As with the original, we have to wait until the dying seconds to find out the full import of his quasi-philosophy but it does flourish into a cruelly ironic finale which makes up for the boredom that occasionally creeps in during the rest of the film.

This time the scares are played out on a bigger stage, with several human lab-rats provided for our titillation in a sufficiently moody house whose resemblance to the Resident Evil games is, I suspect, more contrived than coincidental. Because of the duel-layered plot the goings on in the house often seem to slip away from the attention of the audience for a bit too long, which means that when the nasty bits do kick off it sometimes feels gratuitous. Unlike the original it is difficult to feel any sympathy with any of Jigsaw’s victims which again makes the elaborate trials that are inflicted on them feel a little hollow. The refreshing originality of Saw meant that subsequent films would always be hard pressed to stretch out what is a pretty finite premise. Saw II just about manages to tread water and will undoubtedly keep fans of the original happy for an hour or so.