Heroes of the East
Chinese kung fu versus Japanese martial arts, as a marriage. Lau Kar-leung's most good-natured film.
479 entries. Curated, not exhaustive. A short shelf of things worth knowing about beats a long one nobody can navigate.
Chinese kung fu versus Japanese martial arts, as a marriage. Lau Kar-leung's most good-natured film.
Rollin's most coherent, which is not saying a great deal. Gorgeous.
Two cops who are clearly the villains. Ruggero Deodato, before the jungle.
The best of the series. A pram, a snowfield, and a small army that should have stayed home.
Mexican horror at the gore end: a gorilla-heart transplant, real surgery footage, and a masked lady wrestler.
The Blind Dead ride out one last time. A quiet, sad closer to Spain's best monster series.
A man in a coma does telekinesis. Better than that sentence implies.
The women-in-prison film as its own punchline, fronted by the lead singer of the Plasmatics.
Maurizio Merli punches Rome for 100 minutes. Politics: incoherent.
The rare sequel that adds Pam Grier and a shred of dignity.
Di Leo's dirty-cop picture, and the rot goes all the way home.
Australia's outlaw-biker scripture. Mad Max drank from this tank.
Jack Hill doing Othello with teenage gangs. Much smarter than it needs to be.
Jack Hill and Pam Grier invent the modern formula in the Philippines.
The first Billy Jack film, and much nastier than the sequels.
Jimmy Wang Yu invents the empty-hand kung fu film. No swords.
Blind killers, insurance fraud, and the best fog in the series.
The best-looking giallo nobody names, shot by Storaro between two Bertoluccis.
The Blind Dead put to sea on a model boat in a visible fish tank. The runt of the four.
The Rialto Wallace machine at full tilt: fog, a harpoon and Klaus Kinski looking guilty.
Rollin with the vampires stripped out, and his best film for it.
The Arkansas Bigfoot docudrama that invented an entire regional-monster format on a hundred grand.
Rollin's best late film. Melancholy where the Italians were loud.
Margheriti and Barbara Steele do the burned-witch gothic, and the fog does half the acting.
A secret society, a Paris chateau, and dream logic all the way down.
Barely a murder mystery. A slow psychological collapse, and superb.
The most political film the blaxploitation boom made, pulled from cinemas and buried for thirty years.
Cool to the point of refrigeration, scored by Marvin Gaye the one time he ever bothered.
Isaac Hayes in front of the camera for once, and Nichelle Nichols swearing.
Pakistan's first horror film: Hammer's Dracula, plus musical numbers, minus permission.
Tomas Milian as a repellent psychopath. Deeply unpleasant, very good.
Joe D'Amato's Conan, giant puppet spider and all. Miles O'Keeffe swings the sword.
Corman's Argentine Conan-with-women, honest bottom-shelf swords and loincloths.
A batch of ten-year-old LSD makes people go bald and homicidal. A great, paranoid premise.
A parasite gives a young man euphoric highs in exchange for feeding it brains. Addiction as horror.
Incoherent even by the standards of the cycle. The Peter subplot is unforgivable.