Lorna
Meyer stops joking. The one where the sun goes behind a cloud.
479 entries. Curated, not exhaustive. A short shelf of things worth knowing about beats a long one nobody can navigate.
Meyer stops joking. The one where the sun goes behind a cloud.
Di Leo's masterpiece. Cold, fast, well written.
Ferrara's best. Zoë Lund is extraordinary and the ending is a genuine image.
Toho's first colour kaiju. A supersonic pterosaur levels a city with its wingblasts.
Financed independently, structured like nothing else, and it changed the industry.
Genuinely nasty and hard to defend. The killer quacks. It doesn't help.
Sleazy for an hour, then a brilliant silent final act.
Black Emanuelle wanders into a cannibal picture, and D'Amato lets both halves misbehave.
Bava shoots Hades in gel colours. Looks like nothing else in the cycle.
Savini's effects, Spinell's performance, and a very bleak little film.
The most charming of Toho's roster, and openly anti-colonial about it.
A church-funded warning that became a comedy 40 years later.
Jodorowsky's late masterpiece. A circus, a cult, an armless mother, and her son's hands.
Two Lone Wolf and Cub films chopped into one English dub. A grindhouse legend regardless.
A costume party on a moving train, a killer swapping disguises, and Jamie Lee Curtis again.
A flamethrower and a meat grinder. Death Wish with the restraint removed.
The one usually called the first giallo. Still half a krimi.
Corman starts the cycle. Peter Fonda, real Hells Angels, and a funeral.
A masterpiece and an ordeal. The kangaroo hunt is real footage and it is unbearable.
One sheriff, one hickory club, and the blueprint for every Southern vigilante picture after it.
$35,000, shot on 42nd Street, and completely charming. The best kind of cheap.
Meyer and Roger Ebert, at a major studio, on drugs. Somehow released.
Fulci's best film and his angriest. A giallo about mob justice in a village.
Coffy again, louder and worse written. Grier is still magnetic.
The cannibal cycle in a dinner jacket, ex-Bond girl and real animal deaths included.
German, banned widely, and much sadder than its reputation suggests.
Cronenberg gives Marilyn Chambers a blood-feeding stinger. Montreal falls apart around her.
Ninety minutes of nothing, then an ending nobody who has seen it forgets.
Sixty-seven minutes of industrial nightmare. Nothing else looks like it.
A military bioweapon drives a town homicidally insane. Romero on institutional failure, again.
Corbucci in the snow. The ending would never have cleared an American studio.
A killer in WWII combat gear stalks a graduation dance. Savini's best gore work.
Unusually sad for a giallo, and much better for it.
The most openly political of the Zapata cycle, and the sharpest.
Three stories, one Karloff. The Wurdulak segment is the best thing Bava shot.
Herbert West builds a woman from parts. The sequel goes bigger, wetter and more demented.