Revenge of the Ninja (1983) Review

 

There's a strong case that Revenge of the Ninja isn't just one of the greatest ninja films ever made-it may well be the greatest. While 1987's Sakura Killers delivers pure pulp excitement and the follow-up Ninja III: The Domination brings supernatural spectacle, Revenge of the Ninja strikes the perfect balance: a relentless, expertly choreographed, and beautifully brutal showcase of ninjutsu on American soil.

Produced by Cannon Films and directed by Sam Firstenberg, the film stars the incomparable Shô Kosugi in one of his most iconic roles as Cho Osaki, a man forced to embrace the ninja way after tragedy strikes his family. What sets it apart is its commitment to authenticity. Filmed mostly on location in Salt Lake City, it leverages real-world settings-urban rooftops, alleyways, galleries, parks, and construction sites-to ground the elaborate combat in tangible, gritty reality, avoiding cheap backlot mimicry and infusing the film with environmental energy.

The action sequences stun with their scale and variety. Kosugi wields an arsenal of traditional and modern ninja weaponry including; Shuriken (throwing stars) glide with razor precision. Nunchaku and tonfa crack skulls in close-quarters combat. Katanas flash in ferocious sword duels. Kunai knives, blow darts, and smoke bombs enable beautifully staged misdirection. The grappling hook serves as a strategic tool for both movement and lethality, never a mere gimmick.

The climactic rooftop showdown is one of the genre's most memorable finales-a choreographed ballet of steel, blood, and shadow. Visually iconic, it has inspired many action films since, even including a cheeky nod to Superman II's "multiple Supermen" trick, kept understated with just a few "fake" ninjas.

Young Kane Kosugi, Shô's real-life son, plays his on-screen son. Arthur Roberts' Braden is memorableX Besides Kosugi, Ashley Ferrare stands out as Cathy, her blonde presence unforgettable.

Unlike many American martial arts films of the era, Revenge of the Ninja avoids drawn-out exposition or unnecessary subplots. It's lean, ferocious, and masterfully staged, with tight choreography, electric pacing, and Kosugi's unmatched physicality.

As the crown jewel of Cannon's ninja cycle-superior to Enter the Ninja-few films capture the myth, mystique, and lethality of the ninja like this one. If there's one ninja film to rule them all, this is it.

Overall, a high-kicking, unforgettable classic that slices its way into action cinema history.

Wheels of Fire (1985) Review

 

In a post-apocalyptic future, a ruthless vehicular gang called the Highway Warriors is conquering the wasteland through murder and plunder. After an unfair fight, a road warrior named Trace and company brings hell down upon them when they kidnap his sister.

Directed by Cirio H. Santiago, the film delivers cars, bikes, flamethrowers, guns, metal bar combat, swords, nudity, and stunts. The score by Chris Young is excellent, unexpectedly lifting many scenes and giving the wasteland a pulse.

Wheels of Fire leans welcomingly hard into its Mad Max DNA-but with all the rough-around-the-edges, cheap thrills and stunt-scrap fun of those Italian Max-copies. There's a few odd gangs, nomads and underground dwellers thrown in for good measure. Gary Watkins leads as Trace, the wandering hero he's a textbook rugged protagonist, isn't much of a thinker but he makes the punches and car chases count. The late Lynda Wiesmeier (a former Playmate) Arlie involves a lot of nudity, she gives the energy the plot needs and one of the more memorable beats. Laura Banks' killer for hire Stinger (who also has to get topless) is notable, and adds some grit, and Linda Grovenor's psychic Spike adds a little spark.

It's not high cinema-it's raw, sometimes absurd and explosive. But for fans of '80s post-apocalyptic trash with ambition and flair, Wheels of Fire is solid. It's dusty, it's loud, it knows what it is-and the lead actors bring enough presence to make the ride worthwhile.

Mutant (1984) Review

 

Not to be confused with Forbidden World (1982) also know as Mutant in some countries. Mutant also known as Night Showdow (which probably reflects the film better) isn't always a smooth ride-it's uneven in pacing, logic, and performances-but for fans of low-budget '80s horror, it delivers enough chilling moments, weirdness, and mutations to earn a midnight-movie watch. Sadly the original poster artwork with fangs, or the one with alternate wisps of obscurity didn’t really help market the film either, going for Alien vibe when it possibly should have leaned more to a Dead and Buried or Dawn of the Dead appeal. It boasts '80s B-movie charm-reckless abandon, schlock, and earnest effort-set in a small Southern town with a chemical plant, panicked locals, and confusion that sometimes works, other times feels like stretched cheap thrills.

Directed by John "Bud" Cardos and Mark Rosman, the film builds tension slowly, creating a creeping dread. The mutant/zombie effects hit harder thanks to the buildup, with makeup and transformations offering unpleasant, visceral qualities-especially the afflicted victims turning grey-skinned and black-eyed. These stand out more than the rest.

Wings Hauser anchors the film as the everyman in chaos, Bo Hopkins brings rugged gravitas as the sheriff, and Jody Medford's Holly provides a sympathetic figure. These performances help keep frustration at bay. Incidentally Both Hauser and Hopkins would also star in Nightmare at Noon (1988), which as a similar has plot.

Amongst the stunts, including flipping cars, there's a memorable but brief setup where a woman and child are attacked by hordes of the infected in a restroom, using the stalls for safety. The film works best especially in the last act when borrowing from the likes of Night of the Living Dead and Messiah of Evil,

Richard Band's music adds atmosphere, though it lacks a memorable hook like his other works.

Mutant isn't high art-it's flawed, messy, and exasperating at times. But for horror buffs who dig '80s creature or zombie-style flicks without needing airtight logic, it offers disturbing imagery, creeping transformations, and some solid set pieces. It shines in flesh, fear, and decay, but falters when aiming higher.

Cathy’s Curse (1977) Review

 

Cathy’s Curse (1977) Review

From French director Eddy Matalon Cathy’s Curse is a late-’70s paranormal horror that walks a fine line between creepy charm and TV-style pacing. Alan Scarfe is the father, George Gimble, delivering steady work as the male lead trying to save his family from inexplicable evil. Randi Allen, as Cathy, is the menacing young girl at the heart of the film; she’s quietly unsettling and gives the role far more menacing weight than the script strictly merits.

There is a Lieutenant Inspector played by Sonny Forbes but sadly role is brief and under-developed, he appears, asks questions about the dog Sneaker’s odd behaviour, but never really drives the story forward.  

What works best is the atmosphere. Creepy ‘Lalalala’ vocals and Didier Vasseur’s music. Reflection in the mirrors, The doll, the ragged toy in the attic, the creeping telekinetic moments, paranormal shenanigans.  It isn’t heavy on scares, but the uncanny visuals and the simply odd mother’s accent linger long after the credits. Beverly Murray (as the mother, Vivian) is memorable, not for scream moments, but for how off-kilter and persistent her presence is.

The film channels elements of Full Circle (1977), a grounded story, supernatural edge rather than outright monsters, a slow accrual of dread rather than sudden shocks. It borrows a little of The Exorcist (1973), The Omen (1976), Carrie (1976) to name a few. It has typical ’70s doll horror tropes, the haunted house, bugs, snakes, rats, telekinesis, and children behaving malevolently. The nanny’s (Dorothy Davis) fall from a window and the gruesome death of the elderly neighbor Paul (Roy Witham) are some of its more vivid violent beats.

It’s not flawless—pacing lags; some roles like the detective feel like placeholders; special effects sometimes underlit or under-polished. But as an off beat TV piece, it delivers more in unsettling tone than in polished terror.

The Unnamable II: The Statement of Randolph Carter (1992) Review

Jean-Paul Ouellette's sequel picks up where The Unnamable left off, folding in elements of Lovecraft's "The Statement of Randolph Carter." On paper, the addition of David Warner and John Rhys-Davies should give it weight, but even their presence can't lift the thin script. Maria Ford adds the expected 90s exploitation edge, but not even her nude scenes save the film from feeling soapy, soppy, and sloppy.

The sinister grace of Katrin Alexandre's she-demon from the first outing is sorely missed. Julie Strain's version is bigger and more athletic, but less Lovecraftian-more like a stock fairy-tale monster than an otherworldly horror. The special effects are competently made but poorly lit, stripping away atmosphere, and at times the film has a TV feel that undercuts any gothic dread.

While the first film managed flickers of atmosphere, this follow-up squanders its potential. The result is a flat, uneven sequel that drifts further from Lovecraft and closer to forgettable late-night filler.

Full Circle (1977) Review

Also known as The Haunting of Julia, this British-Canadian chiller is a slow-burn ghost story that places atmosphere and performance above spectacle. Directed by Richard Loncraine and adapted from Peter Straub's novel Julia, the film is grounded in its approach, favouring psychological unease over conventional shocks.

It's grounded, atmospheric, and subtle - whereas Alice, Sweet Alice (1976), Messiah of Evil (1974) The Sentinel (1977) of the time leaned into stronger stylistic flourishes, shocking imagery, or surrealism. This is 70s’ loose ends and ambiguity at its best.

Mia Farrow gives an excellent, layered performance as a grieving mother whose life begins to unravel in the wake of tragedy. Farrow's vulnerability and restraint anchor the story, while the supporting cast of British actors-including Keir Dullea and Tom Conti-add weight and subtlety. Their naturalistic performances help sustain the film's grounded tone. EastEnders' Anna Wing appears a Mrs Flood.

What stands out most is the atmosphere. Geoffrey Burgon's score and Peter Hannan's cinematography build a sense of quiet dread, using London's settings to haunting effect. There are moments of unsettling imagery, but this isn't a film of jump scares or gore; it's one of mood, suggestion, and the uncanny.

Full Circle may be understated, but that's its strength. It's a thoughtful, melancholic ghost story where the unease lingers long after the credits. Farrow's work here deserves to be remembered alongside her performance in Rosemary's Baby, cementing her as one of the era's most compelling horror leads.

Thanksgiving (2023) Review

 

Eli Roth finally delivers on his infamous Grindhouse trailer tease with Thanksgiving - a blood-soaked holiday slasher that's a little less gritty than his earlier work but still heaps of fun. Mainstream in its polish yet gross-out in spirit, it blends outrageous set pieces, modern tech, and satirical swipes at consumerism into a slick seasonal carnage-fest.

Set in Plymouth, Massachusetts after a Black Friday tragedy, a masked Pilgrim carves his way through locals with inventive, holiday-themed kills. Roth directs from a script co-written with Jeff Rendell, with stylish cinematography from Milan Chadima and a tense score by Brandon Roberts.

Patrick Dempsey anchors as Sheriff Newlon, joined by Nell Verlaque as the film's central survivor, Milo Manheim, Addison Rae, Gina Gershon, and Rick Hoffman. The ensemble delivers plenty of surprising deaths and twists, keeping the audience guessing right up to the carving knife. It's not as raw as Hostel, but this is still Roth in playful, nasty form, grisly, satirical, and entertainingly over the top.

Spookies (1986) Review​

 

Spookies is a 1980s oddity that promises cult-classic gold but delivers in fits and starts. A group of partygoers stumbles into a mansion and gets picked off by creatures conjured by a sorcerer. The execution is plodding and disjointed, thanks to production woes.

What saves it—and earns its midnight-movie following—are the practical effects. Monster designs are inventive and grotesque: oozing muck men, skeletal ghouls, and more that evoke horror comics or toys. Some visuals create a creepy, uncanny VHS-era atmosphere.

Directed fragmentarily by Genie Joseph, Thomas Doran, and Brendan Faulkner, with makeup by Gabriel Bartalos and others, it’s more creature spectacle than cohesive story. The cast (Felix Ward as sorcerer Kreon, Maria Pechukas as Isabelle) does what it can, but the monsters steal the show.

Ultimately, Spookies is a patchwork, slow in spots but salvaged by scrappy charm. Not a classic, but worth a late-night watch for low-budget 80s horror fans if you’re really desperate.

Alien Earth – Episode 8: “The Real Monsters” (2025) Review

In this final instalment, the survivors' fragile alliances fracture as escalating horrors close in on the colonised frontier world. The episode blurs the line between human threats and xenomorph terror, weaving a tense cat-and-mouse game that forces the characters to reckon with what truly defines a "monster." Theres also some alien shenanigans, synthetic and cyborg action straight out of Westworld, thrown in for good measure.

Episode 8 doubles down on the series' frustrating missteps, misplaced soundtrack, serving up mind-numbing editing that slices scenes into jagged fragments, robbing the suspense of any organic buildup.

Nevertheless, the xenomorph designs are up and downs-those spindly legs scream "man in a suit" rather than biomechanical nightmare, a cardinal sin the original films meticulously avoided to preserve the creatures' otherworldly menace. The show still can't decide if it wants to be sci-fi horror or a budget creature feature, and the tonal inconsistency undermines everything.

That said, like episode 5, there's more logic in play, the production values keep it just about watchable: sleek sets, immersive sound design, solid score, and visceral practical effects lend a polish the script doesn't deserve. Unfortunately, the shoehorned Peter Pan and Blade Runner nods persist, clunky thematic distractions that clash with the Alien mythos' primal dread. The saving grace remains the cast-Timothy Olyphant's wry intensity, Babou Ceesay's grounded gravitas, and Adrian Edmondson's sardonic bite inject much-needed humanity into the chaos.

Overall, my mother said there’s no ‘Real Monsters’ but there are— egoistical maker of this series, this highlights Alien: Earth's biggest failing: a squandered IP.

Instead of adapting Alien: Isolation and its claustrophobic brilliance or crafting a narrative laser-focused on the xenomorphs' unrelenting horror, it continues to dilute itself into a confused hybrid-more Blade Runner wannabe than Alien saga. Taste is subjective, of course; if you're part of the crowd where IQs have dipped and you've got shares in Weyland, maybe this passes as treasure. For the rest, it's mostly trash. Game Over Man! It's not Blade Runner, Westworld, or even Alien.

Alien Earth – Episode 7: “Emergence” (2025-) Review

Alien: Earth stumbles on with “Emergence,” a chaotic episode that strains to ramp up tension through betrayals and a jarring confrontation. Penned by Noah Hawley and Maria Melnik, and directed by Dana Gonzales, it digs into the fractured loyalties at Neverland. Wendy, fed up with Prodigy’s schemes, plots an escape with Joe, while Slightly aims to deliver Arthur’s body to Morrow. Yet internal clashes and Xenomorph threats muddle their plans.

Despite slick production values, “Emergence” falters with erratic pacing and glaring inconsistencies. Running 10-15 minutes shorter than prior episodes, it races through plots, leaving viewers dizzy, as if cuts were made to hide structural flaws. Subplots vanish abruptly, and characters—even background ones—act erratically, especially at the docks, blending overstuffed chaos with odd padding. This isn’t escalation; it’s narrative whiplash, favouring emotional beats over coherence, like a fever dream scripted on impulse.

Logical gaps now gape wide. How does Kirsch find a baby Xenomorph in a sprawling island’s underbrush, when they’re elusive even in tight spaceship corridors? Why do superhuman synths Slightly and Smee struggle with a makeshift raft for Arthur’s body during a lockdown, with no hint of where they got tools or time? Security in this high-tech facility is laughably lax, with guards appearing only when convenient and beaches inexplicably empty. And the overt exposition editing choices of exposure baffles the mind.

The Xenomorph’s handling guts the franchise’s horror. Daylight shots turn it into a rubbery letdown, with choppy editing masking poor choreography and effects. There’s Alien massacre—a rampage where the creature shrugs off bullets like a game boss, lacking the dread of Aliens. Wendy’s role as its handler, siccing it on enemies, strips away its terror, making it a plot prop. Her escape, dragging synths into chaos and unleashing disaster, feels like a forced shock, not growth.
Kirsch’s convoluted schemes—using Slightly as bait, banking on Morrow, snaring a chestburster—strain belief. The synth subplot, once fresh, now feels juvenile, with mature consciousnesses acting like sulky kids and sappy “family” vibes. The facehugger’s “amnesia” twist is a lazy retcon.

Babou Ceesay, Timothy Olyphant, and Adrian Edmondson’s performances hold it together—barely. Without them, I’d have bailed episodes ago.

I’m not going to watch the entire series again from start to finish, or even rewatch individual episodes, and I wouldn’t want to give it extra views that it probably doesn’t deserve. Even if one person’s trash is another’s treasure. 

As Ripley quipped in Aliens, “Did IQs just drop sharply while I was away?” Here, they’ve crashed into oblivion of space, leaving this prequel floundering. With the finale near, it’s shaping up as a chestburster of letdown.