Understanding the latter point is perhaps crucial for getting in the right headspace to appreciate Zatoichi. The film, while hugely enjoyable and masterfully executed, is a very mainstream proposition. In the UK it is available on the none-more-arthouse label Artificial Eye, which may lead one to expect a more ‘alternative’ offering; those who expect such a film may be surprised by the relatively straightforward plotting, broad slapstick comedy interludes and the fourth-wall shattering Bollywood-style song and dance number that closes the film.

Ultimately, Kitano’s Zatoichi is an attractive, accessible, reverential repackaging of a well-loved character that may well be low on insight or subtlety but rates high on excitement and pure cinematic pleasure. The plot will be familiar to anyone who’s ever seen a Western; Zatoichi arrives in an otherwise peaceful small town that is terrorised by a violent gang, and he promptly sets about seeing them off. Along the way, he befriends a local farmer and her gambling-addict son, assists two geishas seeking to avenge the murder of their family, and duels with Gennosuke, a powerful ronin who may well match him for sword skills.

The film looks ravishing, with the various locales rendered beautifully and a unified sense of location in the town. But really the headline attractions here are Kitano as Zatoichi, and the swordplay, and both are first rate. Kitano marks out Zatoichi’s fighting skills as being devastatingly precise rather than showy, contrasted well with the more lavish displays by other characters. In particular, Zatoichi’s showdowns with the various yakuzas towards the end of the film are hugely exciting and well-realised. Only the much-anticipated duel between Zatoichi and Gennosuke disappoints, feeling thrown away and anti-climactic.

In keeping with the humble nature of his character, Kitano’s performance is admirably restrained, yet he carries enough presence to anchor the whole film. The rest of the characters are appealingly drawn, with enough detail to flesh them out without bogging the film down with backstories. In particular, Gennosuke’s fleeting distaste for what his work forces him to do is a nice touch, while the gang bosses are pleasingly repugnant. The geisha storyline perhaps engages less because the ‘twist’ is fairly well signposted, but it doesn’t outstay its welcome. Dance troupe The Stripes, whose performance closes the film, appear earlier in a number of entertaining slapstick cameos where they show off their skills whilst posing as farmers and builders.

If there’s one criticism to be had of Zatoichi, it’s that ultimately the film feels fairly inconsequential; whilst it’s a hugely enjoyable way to pass two hours, there’s not a much that lingers with the viewer afterwards other than the sense of having had a lot of fun. Really though, it feels rather mean spirited to hold this against the film. Zatoichi is a terrific piece of work that goes full-throttle in delivering a solidly entertaining mainstream experience. I loved it, and if you’re in the mood for a slice of pure cinematic pleasure, I wager you will too.

In truth, the Blind Dead films were always going to be difficult to sustain, but coming less than a year after Return of the Blind Dead, it’s amazing how quickly the quality threshold nosedives. Tombs of the Blind Dead was a slightly wonky but stylish and original take on the undead genre, and whilst Return was largely a rehash of its predecessor, its quicker pace and silly characters actually made it a good deal more fun. The Ghost Galleon demands a viewing largely for its astonishing premise alone, in which a boatload of swimwear models become stranded at sea during a failed publicity stunt and are soon menaced by the Templars (aka the Blind Dead) and their ghostly ship.

With its heady mix of babes and zombies it feels like de Ossorio is aiming this one squarely at the booming European exploitation market, but to the disappointment of masturbators everywhere it’s actually by far the tamest entry into the series. The leaden pacing means it feels like an eternity before the Templars actually turn up to have their way with the boat girls, but when they do the deaths occur offscreen, meaning the bulk of the film is taken up by the none-too-interesting antics of Howard Tucker, “the famous sporting goods magnate” (his words, not mine) who is determined to ensure that the disappearance of the models doesn’t affect his business too badly. None of the characters here are particularly sympathetic, especially Professor Gruber, who for a man of science is amazingly credulous and superstitious.

Whereas Return of the Blind Dead felt like a worthy sequel, The Ghost Galleon feels like a particularly sloppy attempt to spin the concept into a franchise. The previous films both developed – in different ways – the Templar backstory, in a bid to give the creatures a bit of depth and motivation. Here, there’s none of that; de Ossorio presumes that we already know all the important stuff and essentially uses the Templars as little more than monsters. The nautical setting, although effectively claustrophobic, robs the film of the visual sumptuousness that raised its predecessors above their peers; the slow motion shots of the Templars atop their zombie horses were high points of both films, and their absence is keenly felt here.

That said, the ending is absolutely terrific, as the unstoppable creatures rise out of the water to menace the survivors as they lie panting on the beach. It’s a moment that reminds you keenly of the visual flair that de Ossorio showed earlier, and only serves to remind you how dull the preceding 95 minutes have been. The success of the first two Blind Dead films lay in the panoramic landscapes and the intriguing backstory; both are absent here and the film is all the weaker for it.

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.

To sum it up, Diary of the Dead is an interesting film with some excellent bits, but is ultimately flawed. Freed from the shackles of the studio machine that discernibly limited his directorial freedom in Land of the Dead, Romero takes us back to the origins of his zombie holocaust in Diary. Jumping around in time somewhat, the meltdown is moved from the 1960s to contemporary America, and is centred on a group of student filmmakers caught up in the mounting chaos.

That might sound a bit Blair Witch Project, but it’s used as an effective plot vehicle (in the first half of the film at least) as it allows Romero to narrate the stories of several disparate groups of survivors as his motley crew attempt to travel to safety. There is a real richness in these bit characters, especially Samuel, the deaf Amish superman. I also think it’s a nice development of the set-up in Night of the Living Dead. There, Romero effectively replicated a cross-section of society within the pressure cooker of the besieged farmhouse. In the intensity of that atmosphere, he toyed out the complexities of the human psyche (and all of its attendant unpleasantness) with a real panache. It’s a mark of his skill as a director that he is able to transfer a similar intensity of experience to what is, at heart, a relatively simple drive through bandit (rather, zombie) country. The same depressed frustration at seeing positions of safety surrendered because of the human proclivity to petty bickering is, alas and enjoyably, a common occurrence in Diary.

It’s also great to see Romero really go to town on the cadavers that have been so instrumental to his success. Matt and I have said elsewhere that the zombies are always secondary players in the Dead series, and Romero himself is on record as saying that he had never intended to be the man who makes zombie films. Diary has some of the best set-piece scenes in the entire Dead series (keep a look out for the defibrillator, the acid and most especially, the clown). In a perverse way they demonstrate Romero’s genuine affection for his subject matter, which is a nice reward for their 40 year service in his cause. They’re also continuing evidence of his sprightly imagination, which bodes very well for future Romero-Grunwald output.

So why is opinion so divided? A beauty of the Dead series has always been the ambiguity and complexity of Romero’s message. As mentioned above, the zombies are only ever used to exaggerate his observations on contemporary society. In Diary, he forgoes some this ambiguity and fixes his colours to the mast in a contradictory, at times patronising and, ultimately, unsuccessful way.

The story is principally centred on Jason Creed, an obsessive filmmaker whose aim is to document every aspect of the growing crisis. It’s an interesting idea, and one that could have worked. In the first half of the film, there is a real sense that his motives are a pure and necessary counter-foil to the lies and distortions being perpetrated by the mainstream media’s coverage of the crisis. There’s a certain nobility of purpose in his actions, which helps to excuse the fact that he is an annoyingly unpleasant individual (indeed, the most annoying character in the history of the series).

In seeing events through his hand-held camera, and in referencing video-streaming and YouTube, Romero manages to successfully integrate contemporary social and technological developments into the story to the extent that they become a seamless thread of the plot and offer genuine comment on what makes society tick in 2008. Anyone who has suffered through Halloween: Resurrection will know that it is all too easy to clumsily and pointlessly graft the apparel of such technology onto a horror film, with disastrous results. By any measure, you have to applaud Romero, a man in his late 60s let’s not forget (sorry George).

The film decisively fails around the half-way point, when it becomes apparent that Creed’s growing narcissism is not going to be challenged by either his band of travellers or the crisis in general. At that point, his polemic against the twisted mainstream media and his quest to capture the unfolding events become confused, patronising and, worse, boring. His constant harping on about the need to ensure a record lives on is reminiscent of pot-smoking students who lounge around all day bemoaning the faults of society whilst doing nothing to address them. Fine when you’re in college perhaps, but not during the conquest of humanity by the returning undead.

Sometimes you feel as though you have missed something, as his companions, who at first vent their annoyance at his unwillingness to get involved with the business of survival, suddenly convert to his school of smugness. The fascinating topic of media manipulation built up in the first half of the film is drowned out by a feeling that at least society is pulling together and trying to do something to address the problem. There’s an interesting exchange between Professor Maxwell and Creed in the hospital, the gist of which is that in an extreme survival situation (difficult to think of a more severe on than this) it’s both understandable and desirable the media/government establishment tries to keep calm and carry on. It’s a shame this baton isn’t picked up and developed further, which results in Creed being free to brow-beat his companions and the audience into following his own flawed logic.

I understand that a sequel has already been cleared for development, and my hope is that Romero uses that film to repair the damage done in the second half of Diary. There are plenty of glimmers for hope. The supporting characters here are much more interesting than Creed, and in following their story Romero could return to the shifting perspectives of disparate bands that is one of the strengths of his output. There are some superb moments of black comedy and insider jokes, which, coupled with the generally positive character development and set-pieces mentioned above are further testament to Romero’s undiminished role as a director at the top of his game. What is beyond dispute is that he has such a great eye for zombie films that we should all be extremely grateful that he is still making them.

Well yes and no. If (like me) you sit down to watch it with high hopes then you’ll probably come away disappointed. One of several flaws is a real mismatch between the dialogue and the characters, which means that the ten-year-old lead ends up with lines that Samuel L. Jackson would be proud to deliver. At times the humour element of this masks the wider problems with character development. More often than not it doesn’t. As a result we’re left with the oddity of young and mildly annoying Michael investigating the oddities afflicting his town almost single-handedly. It’s okay though, as it turns out he’s well trained in the use of most fire-arms and is also a hell of a driver.

These might seem like glib points (and common enough features of horror films), but they really bite when combined with the turgid pacing of the first two-thirds of the film. As a result Phantasm never really gels together, and the problem is you really feel it. Thus, the usual filler scenes (here involving the adventures of an ice-cream vendor turned wannabe rock star) seem to overly dominate the plot.

It’s a real shame because Don Coscarelli obviously had some interesting ideas. Working with a minuscule budget he does manage to craft some pretty impressive set-piece scenes. The revelation of the other-worldly link is beautifully rendered and offers a nice respite from the otherwise dated feel of the film. The premise underlying Phantasm is novel enough to attract attention in itself, which is why it’s even more annoying that it’s never fully utilised or explored beyond a sneaking glance of the Tall Man’s den. The Tall Man himself is quite rightly the public face of Phantasm, providing as he does tantalising glimpses of what might have been had the character been properly deployed. Angus Scrimm dominates the screen, even if he does look like David Walliams.

There’s just about enough in Phantasm to keep genre enthusiasts going, but the general viewer will probably be left wondering what all the fuss is about.

In the second film, De Ossorio slightly revises the back story of the Templars, stating that they were defeated by some angry villagers who scalded their eyes before burning them at the stake. Fast forward 500 years, and the same village is preparing to celebrate the anniversary of their victory, but the festivities are cut short when the skeletal Templars return, hungry for blood. It falls to a small, motley group of villagers, holed up in the local church, to try and find a way to defeat them.

The characterisation in Tombs was pretty functional at best, but here it’s taken to a literal extreme. The characters are defined only by the skills or traits that will later help them overcome – or succumb to – the Templar onslaught. Thus the hero Jack is, hilariously, a navy captain turned firework salesman; this back-story seems bewildering at first until it becomes apparent that he’s good at organising people in a crisis, and inevitably he’s able to use fireworks to hold back the zombie onslaught. He also manages to convince the mayor’s wife, an old flame, to leave her husband in record quick time, and their public revelation of their affair – in front of the mayor himself – is eye-poppingly cold. The mayor is a fun caricature of a corrupt public official – an obese man in a suit, complete with sweaty brow and bushy moustache – and his devious attempts to save his own skin are great fun.

Once the survivors reach the church, we’re in familiar territory; the character conflict in a confined environment (with zombies!) is lifted wholesale from Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, and the final break for freedom at the end is heavily reminiscent of Hitchcock’s The Birds. But if you’re going to steal, why not steal from the best? De Ossorio directs proceedings with sufficient aplomb that it’s easy to forgive the familiarity of the setup. The Templars themselves remain impressive, and are imbued with sufficient menace to carry the film.

On the minus side, Return lacks the epic scope of the original, and the confined setting means there’s not much variety to keep the viewer entertained. It’s also abundantly clear that De Ossorio’s budget has been slashed, with the shots of the Templars emerging from their tombs re-used from the first film. Ultimately, Return of the Evil Dead is a very minor horror film, but is a worthy sequel to the original if somewhat throwaway by comparison. And compared to the depths that the series would plumb next, it’s a positive masterpiece…

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.

Thankfully I think my interpretation is more likely to be borne out, especially if Richard Donner has anything to do with it. His excellent portrayal of Satan’s final attempt to assert his dominion is as classy and entertaining now as it was 30 years ago. If we do have to go I can think of no finer way than having Patrick Troughton bellowing Revelation from the top of his voice as he staggers around in a morphine-induced stupor telling children to drink the blood of Christ.

I imagine it’s difficult for filmmakers to judge devil films correctly. The inherent wow-factor of their subject matter is such that it’s easy to slip into unintentional parody. This is especially the case when the old good-against-evil routine is played out in contemporary times. Donner gets The Omen just right though. There have to be moments which show the power of Satan on Earth and there are, and plenty of them. Troughton’s ultimate fate is but one fine example of this. However, by framing his tale in the context of a single and very likable family he manages to keep the viewer’s expectations on a tight leash and never lets the hocus-pocus come to dominate the plot. At times-especially towards the end-the film has the feel of a conventional psychological thriller with the inherent evil of it’s the main protagonist subsumed by Robert Thorn’s quest for the truth.

On balance I think this works very well as it both increases the tension of the underlying premise and also renders it that tad more plausible. It also means that the stylishly composed death sequences have lost none of their power even though special effects have moved on 30 years. Look out for Holly the Nanny’s abrupt departure and you’ll see what I mean. What makes Damien’s powers even more creepy is that at first he doesn’t even know that he possesses them. Since we never truly find out whether he is the actual incarnation of the Devil or merely possessed by him; Donner muddies the waters and our ethics by creating a situation where it is possible to pity both the boy and his victims.

The overall downplaying of Damien’s powers also assists in this and there is a nice emphasis on how the Thorns struggle to come to terms with ‘their’ child’s increasing detachment even before his eerie provenance is know. It is especially difficult to watch Ambassador Thorn’s heartache at being the only one who knows that there is no real biological bond between him and his son. Gregory Peck plays the part beautifully in a role that deservedly acted as his comeback performance. When he finally snaps at the end you really can’t help but pity his dilemma and his plight at knowing what he has caused. Damien’s final realisation of his power and destiny provide one last embittered taunt to the viewer in one of the finest smirks in film history. For those who haven’t seen The Omen II or III (such as me) there is a terrifying prospect that the Seals are about to be opened… A rather fantastical plot is a natural consequence of a film about Satan but if you can overlook that The Omen remains one of the best films of its kind and a highlight of 1970s output.

The Spanish version runs for 20 minutes longer than the Browning version, and in general the extra time is well used to flesh out the story and add to the latent atmospherics of the tale. An abundance of small changes demonstrates the point. For instance, when the carriage carrying Renfield arrives at the village at the foot of Borgo Pass in the Browning version the villagers quickly dissipate and leave one sole peasant to beg the doomed lawyer not to proceed. The Spanish version fleshes this out a bit by having a larger group of villagers trying to warn him of his fate. The sincerity of a flock of people begging with Renfield not to proceed as opposed to a couple of men is much more effective at creating a genuine sense of foreboding and the feeling that these people really are terrified of the occupant of Castle Dracula.

On a broader level the Spanish version is a little more skilful at drawing this out of the story than the Browning version. The relationship between Eva and the Count is a lot more complex in this than the simple hunter-prey dynamic forwarded by Browning. As in the book the latent sexuality of the Count is allowed to shine through, as is that of his victims. I think this is helped by the excellent performance of Lupita Tovar as Eva, who comes across as a fuller and more rounded woman and who lacks the fragility of Helen Chandler’s Mina Harker. It’s a little easier to understand why Dracula risks being unmasked and destroyed to track her down, and also helps compound the tragedy of his insatiable existence that he can’t help himself.

My understanding is that the Universal crew would use the sets and film during the day whilst the Spanish crew took over by night. This would certainly help to explain some of the more accomplished direction and camerawork of this version as they were able to observe the Universal team at work and observe where improvements could be made. Perhaps because of its provenance in Broadway the Universal version at times feels like a stage play, especially the very static scenes towards the end once we’ve left Transylvania. To its credit the Spanish version almost completely avoids this and manages to keep the film injected with a sense of pace and tension. It still falls into the minor trap of losing itself in the drama of the Seward house in the closing scenes. The same thing happens in the Browning version, and Dracula becomes almost a bit character at times. Because this version establishes an edgier dynamic between the Count and the other characters early on his absence is less noticeable. In fact, I think this version would have benefited from being a bit longer. Whereas the Browning version is probably just on the mark in terms of length at times it feels like a stage play that could lose ten minutes or so. In contrast this version feels as thought it was made as a film in its own right rather than as an adaptation of a stage show, and for this reason it never feels burdensome or badly paced.

I couldn’t end without a few words on how Carlos Villarias compares to the legendary Bela Lugosi. Undoubtedly Lugosi is still the finest Dracula there has ever been. Taken as a whole though, watching this version made me realise that he is perhaps too dominant in Browning’s version. Because of his brilliance he cannot help but dominate the screen, and for this reason he perhaps prevents the other characters from truly developing or the subtleties of the story from emerging. The obverse is true with this version; whereas the cast are all perfectly competent none of them is outstanding (bar Tovar, above), but this allows the story to take priority rather than individual performances. If only Bela had learnt Spanish………

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.