Eisner (no offence) has no such reputational straightjacket to escape, and undoubtedly uses this freedom to greater effect than Romero. In place of the rambling nature of the original, he delivers a taut and effective case-study on the utter disintegration of a society brought down from within. Though sticking faithfully to the premise – a small town endangered by the crash-landing of military plane transporting a top-secret nerve agent – he pares back most of the loose ends and inconsistencies left by Romero and in so doing gives the film an efficient focus and engaging narrative. It’s a narrative effectively framed by his small-town setting, with Ogden County being sufficiently claustrophobic whilst avoiding veering too far into the twee. As events unfold, the genuine feeling of neighbourliness and community adds to the premise a heightened sense of terror. The eerily horrific encounter during the school baseball game sets the tone and pace nicely. In this context the overhead satellite image sequences are rather clunky and counter-productive, but not fatal to the atmospheric unravelling of the town.

Shorn of most of its social and political commentary baggage, the remake is palpably less ambitious than the original. That is not derogatory of the end product though, as the narrower focus is interesting, inventive and delivered with panache. There is no suitably or doubt about the government’s motives or actions in containing TRIXIE; indeed, the most successful element of Eisner’s remake is his discarding of the duel-narrative of the civilian and military perspective. It means we’re left to confront a force exhibiting none of the self-doubt or humanity of, for example, Colonel Peckem, which gives Eisner’s treatment a welcome relentlessness and enough momentum to overcome what quickly settles into a series of interconnected set-piece action sequences.

That said, the slim-line narrative does have less to sustain it as the inevitability of the town’s fate becomes obvious. Then bleakness approaches perilously close to boredom, and the scenario reveals seem less like steps integral to the plot and more like padding. Though probably 15 minutes or so too long, Timothy Olyphant’s superb performance as Sherriff Dutten is just about sufficient to the task of carrying the plot on his shoulders, and hues closer to the successful leading men of the NOTLD series than we’ve seen in many of Romero’s own recent efforts. All in all, the overall product is that rare thing – a remake that is at least equal to (and perhaps better than) the original.

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.

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.

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.

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…

Perhaps the most striking aspect of the film is how dated it looks and feels. In plot and atmosphere, it is virtually indistinguishable from an early-80s Bruno Mattei splatter epic, to the extent that we had to keep reminding ourselves it was made in the last decade. The plot, such as it is, is almost identical to the lamentable Zombie Flesheaters 2 – as well as about a million other spaghetti horrors – concerning a virus outbreak from a military lab that turns people into flesh-hungry monsters. There’s an attempt made to address modern gender roles by making both the lead zombie and the central protagonist ass-kicking women, but like many of the film’s lame ‘character moments’ it feels contrived (at best) and patronising (at worst).

But then this is a zombie flick, a genre hardly noted for being cerebral. Generally, the worst crime a film like this can commit is to be boring, and unfortunately Junk fails on this count too; the limitations of the budget (encapsulated by the duller-than-dull warehouse setting) mean that the set-piece showdowns are considerably less exciting than they should be. Like every second-rate action film of the era, Junk aims for Matrix-style kinetic thrills, and fails dismally; no amount of clever editing and propulsive drum machines on the soundtrack can disguise the fact that Muroga shoots everything in a medium-close, 3/4 frame shot in order to disguise the pitiful location and lack of extras. Even the zombies – probably the cheapest screen monsters to realise – are rubbish, with the decay of living death represented by a handful of mud slapped on the face.

In fact, probably the most entertaining thing about the film is Yuki Kashimoto’s rather unfortunate performance as the doctor at the centre of the story. Forced to deliver half his lines in English by a ham-fisted script that uses token American characters to make the film seem more international, his slurred mangling of the language is unintentionally hilarious and suggests that Muroga wasn’t too bothered bm the international market. I can return the favour and suggest that the international market shouldn’t be too bothered by Junk. There are better zombie films out there, and there are definitely better Japanese films out there. Unless you have a yearning nostalgia for Italian zombie films, you’re best to give this one a miss. Junk by name, and unfortunately, Junk by nature.

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.

On paper, it doesn’t look good – a Spanish-Italian co-production, set in rural England, and dubbed within an inch of its life. Certainly, the dubbing is the film’s weakest aspect, with the incredibly bizarre array of accents rendering key scenes more comical than dramatic. Most characters speak with rather plummy upper class diction, which is acceptable enough, as is George’s Eric Idle-ish cockney yelp. Things unravel somewhat with the Scottish petrol pump attendant, get downright silly with the Indian doctor in the hospital and culimate with Sergeant McCormick’s frankly astonishing Irish brogue. Aside from the unlikely suggestion that this remote country village should be such a hive of multiculturalism, the lame approximation of various accents and dialects does little to disguise the functional nature of the film’s dialogue. It’s all made even weirder by the swarthy, Mediterranean-looking cast, who couldn’t look more foreign if you tried.

It’s a shame that so many of the film’s problems lie in its dodgy post-production, as otherwise director Jorge Grau rarely puts a foot wrong. In a bid to break away from the rather linear plots of his peers, he sets up a rather nice double jeopardy for George and Edna, as they have to not only avoid being munched by zombies but also prove their innocence – or at least escape from – the local police. Grau’s characterisation is not up to much, but he gives the police some interesting socio-political motivation; McCormick is instantly suspicious of George with his “faggot clothes, long hair, sex, drugs and every other kind of filth” and is contemptuous of Londoners are their “permissive rot”. Essentially, the authorities play the same role here as they always do – blind scepticism, which gives way to realisation only when it’s too late – but it’s a worthwhile twist to suggested that they’re blinkered by prejuce rather than simply being a bit thick.

Grau’s direction is superb, making full use of both the gorgeous countryside and the rather more gothic trappings of the church crypt and the country hospital. There’s also some morbidly thrilling, if economical, gore from the team who would later go on to provide make up effects for Fulci’s Zombie Flesh Eaters. And if the plot contains one too many coincidences to really ring true (it’s not enough for George to keep being found with a pile of dismembered corpses, he had to be a dealer in Satanic paraphernalia as well! No wonder the police take notice…) there’s at least a satisfyingly ironic conclusion that feels genuinely climactic.

If you can resist the urge to snigger at the accents and moronic pseudo-science, then there’s a lot to like here. Let Sleeping Corpses Lie is a punchy little film that more than deserves its place near the top of the non-Romero zombie pack.