The countdown continues with The Evil Dead (1981). It needs no introduction, I’m sure. It’s one of the most well known, and one of the most re-watchable, horror films ever made. I’ve seen every movie on this list at least ten times, but this one — I’ve probably seen it fifty. And that’s because it’s brilliant!

Evil Dead’s genius is simple: it’s the perfect blend of horror and comedy. It’s a tense, creepy sort of film, filled to the brim with both gore and psychological tension — but it’s also funny. But not too funny, like its sequel occasionally tends to be and its sequel’s sequel outright is. The laughs are there, but so are the scares, ping-ponging off of each other at every possible turn to create a wholly unique cinematic experience. It’s a formula other films have tried, but it’s not one they’ve succeeded at. Usually, there’s too much comedy. Sometimes there’s not enough. Even Raimi only nailed it once. But still, he nailed it, and he nailed it with Evil Dead. It’s necessary viewing for any horror fan.

It’s not just the genre mashup that makes Evil Dead so great. There’s also the fact that it’s the quintessential horror film. It uses every old trope you can think of: deserted cabins, zombies, demons, a group of kids who travel to an isolated location and begin to get picked off one by one, possession, the forest, basements, the full moon, haunting laughter, first person perspective, ancient artifacts, creepy old audio recordings, and, uh, more stuff I’m too lazy to list! If it’s a horror movie staple, it’s here, and it’s used to such effect that, thirty years and six million horror films later, it still feels original.

And then there’s the film’s protagonist. I can’t believe I’ve made it this far without mentioning Ashley J. Williams at least once. Is there a better good guy in the history of horror? Hell, is there even another one whose full name you can remember offhand? And if there is, does he (or she!) even come close to matching the brilliance that is Bruce Campbell’s performance as Ash? I really doubt it. I can actually only come up with two full names: Laurie Strode and Damien Karras, and neither of them quite match up to Ash. We tend to walk away from horror films remembering the bad guys — and that’s okay. It’s just nice to have one exception to that rule, where the hero is infinitely cooler than the evils confronting him. Don’t get me wrong: the Deadites are still memorable villains — some of cinema’s most memorable, for my money — but this is Ash’s movie and it’s better that way.

On top of all that, it’s just an inspiring film. Not so much the movie itself — there’s no complex message about the human condition or anything like that. It’s total popcorn fun, as it should be. I’m talking about the story behind the film. Everybody knows Evil Dead’s backstory, but I feel like nobody takes the time to fully appreciate it. One of the greatest horror films of all time was made on a shoestring budget by a bunch of ne’er-do-well 20-somethings in the middle of nowhere circa 1980. It took a year and a half to make and Raimi had to use stand-ins to cover for the people who gave up on him. And then it was released — unrated, which is like a death sentence — and still made money. Entirely by word of mouth it became a financial success, and it has a legacy that still lives on today. There are sequels and comic books and remakes and musicals. As someone who wants nothing more in life than to become a filmmaker, it’s possibly the single most inspiring movie ever made. I love it.

If you haven’t seen it, yeah. Do that. Like, now. Go.

I was recently reminded that I’m supposed to be counting down my top ten favorite horror films. I’m pleased to announce that — after five months (really?) — I’m halfway done! Or I will be, at least, once I’m done with this entry. At number five on the slowest countdown in the history of countdowns is Bride of Frankenstein (1935), James Wale’s seminal Universal monster flick. As it should be, really; it’s tremendous, and it’s the perfect hallmark of everything an old school horror film should be.

Seriously, everything I love about the old Universal horror films can be found within this movie. Well, everything except Bela Lugosi — but he’s in the next two sequels! You’ve got monsters, you’ve got brides of monsters, you’ve got sets with a vaguely expressionistic this-is-something-straight-out-of-a-nightmare feel, you’ve got tombstones that are grossly mis-sized and misshapen, you’ve got tragedy, you’ve got awful special effects, you’ve got wonderful special effects, you’ve got mad scientists, you’ve got Karloff, you’ve got — you’ve got everything, okay? I feel like I can just leave it at that.

Above all else, you’ve got phenomenal acting. Boris Karloff is fantastic. This is the first film in which The Monster gets to speak — he won’t do the Frankenwalk until Ghost of Frankenstein, though — and it adds so much dimension to the character. So much sorrow, and heart, and life. There’s sadness there in the first film, don’t get me wrong, but it’s really brought to the front in this picture. It really gets into your head. It’s a brilliant metaphor for the way we as a society do, and have always, based our opinions on others by way of their outward appearance. It’s a performance that any film fan (film, not just horror) should see at least once. And Karloff’s performance isn’t even my favorite.

Watch this film for Ernest Thesiger. He plays Doctor Pretorious, the flick’s primary antagonist. He’s certainly not cinema’s first mad scientist — he’s not even the first in this series — but he’s one of its absolute finest. He’s so… casual in his approach. So subtle. His performance stands the test of time — and it comes from an era whose performances mostly don’t. It manages to make you suspend your disbelief almost a century after the fact. It’s lovely. He’s possibly the most chill villain in cinema history. Just hanging out in tombs and building little people and whatnot. I love me some Doctor Pretorious.

If you’re looking to get into classic horror, you’ll find no film finer than Bride of Frankenstein. It’s amazing!

At number six on my seemingly never-ending top ten list is Psycho 2 (1983).

I’ve been putting this one off because I’ve actually already reviewed it. And that review was a fine review, written mere moments after the very first time I watched what has quickly become one of my favorite horror flicks ever. It summed up my feelings about the film pretty perfectly; to write more would force me to succumb to the dreaded double-dip that I have tried so hard to avoid. I can’t.

Eh. Screw it. I’d like to finish this list before the world ends.

Psycho 2 is a glorious film, that takes another peek into the life of Norman Bates—matricidal, homicidal, taxidermal maniac—some 22 years after the events of Psycho. On paper, it sounds awful. A cheap cash-in, released a mere three years after the death of legendary director Alfred Hitchcock, with no involvement from screenwriter Joseph Stefano? What an obvious money-grab, right?

It does look that way, I’ll admit. And then you notice all of the little touches that make Psycho 2 such a great love letter to Psycho. For instance, the film features Virginia Gregg, the original voice of Mrs. Bates. And Vera Miles—y’know, Lila, Psycho’s other female protagonist. Oh, and it also includes that Anthony Perkins guy. Who was he again? It’s on the tip of my tongue! And to top it all off, these three were written excellently by a screenwriter worthy of a film like Psycho: Tom Holland, who went on to script Fright Night, Child’s Play, and, um, Thinner, I guess. Holland’s script is so firmly entrenched in the Psycho mythos that it—somehow—surpasses its predecessor. It’s an homage to Psycho that is, at least on occasion, more enjoyable than Psycho.

And, believe me, that’s coming from someone who loves Psycho. Last semester I wrote a twelve page essay about it for my English final. It’s a classic that every horror fan should see (and own!), entirely deserving of its spot in the pantheon of elite horror films. I just… kind of like the sequel better. It delivers what the original film left me begging for: a more intimate look into the psyche of Norman Bates. It’s the companion piece that completes the story. I can’t watch one without the other anymore.

The other sequels, for the record, are also watchable. Particularly Psycho 4. Avoid that damn remake for the sake of your own mental heath, though. A plague on all of Vince Vaughn’s houses.

Hello! A while back I started counting down my top ten favorite horror films. Like everything I do, of course, I got lazy and abandoned the project. In the spirit of Halloween and October and all of that good stuff, I’ve decided to do two or three more and then quit again finish that list! Let’s get on with it, shall we? Today’s countdown entry is Creepshow (1982)!

Like Trick ‘r Treat, Creepshow is an anthology film. It’s the anthology film, actually. Each episode is its own love letter to anyone who has ever enjoyed a horror movie, presented in the form of a live action EC comic—complete with panels and text balloons! The whole thing is played more for laughs than scares, creating an immensely entertaining cinematic experience. It’s like an even better Tales From The Crypt that’s written by Stephen King and directed by George Romero.

It has everything.

In the first episode, Father’s Day, we get the riveting yarn of a zombie dad on the prowl for the cake he never got. It’s amazing. There’s bad dancing, a drunken old harpy, death by tombstone, and, uh, the titular image of this post. Where’s my cake, Bedelia? 

In the second, The Lonesome Death of Jordy Verell, we get to watch a bumbling bumpkin—a bumbling bumpkin played by Stephen King, no less—have an unfortunate encounter with a meteorite that turns him into a plant monster. There’s also this wonderful evil doctor who exists only inside of Jordy Verell’s subconsciousness. Oh, and this.

In the third episode, Something To Tide You Over, Leslie Nielsen buries Sam motherfucking Malone from Cheers up to his slightly over-sized chin in sand. Also, aqua zombies. It’s my favorite of the bunch. As a quasi-relevant aside, since I’ll probably never have another opportunity to voice this opinion publicly: I’ve always thought Ted Danson should play Frankenstein’s monster. They’re almost identical.

The fourth installment, The Crate, is probably my least favorite of the bunch. It’s still amazing, though, because Creepshow and anything associated with Creepshow (except Creepshow 3, though that association is dubious) is amazing. It’s about this baboon werewolf yeti monster who is trapped inside, well, a crate. It’s awesome. The best part of this one is Adrienne Barbeau. She comes across as one of the nicest people in the history of people in interviews, but she’s somehow amazing as the main protagonist’s uber-bitch wife. 

And, finally, They’re Creeping Up On You. It’s my second favorite of the lot, although that may or may not be because I don’t feel like scrolling up to erase that line about Something To Tide You Over being my favorite. E.G. Marshall plays an uppity, rich germophobe who lives in a vacuum-sealed apartment and he does so brilliantly. The best acting performance in the film, bar none. He, of course, meets an ironic, germ-related end. Here there be cockroaches. It’s so fun.

Then again, everything in Creepshow is fun. It’s my go-to “hey you stop being depressed about silly things” movie. If you’ve never seen it, you should. If you have seen it: I love you. But go watch it again! It’s almost time for Halloween!

At number eight on the countdown is Night of the Living Dead (1990)! Yes: 1990. Not 1968. Don’t get me wrong: I adore every single frame of George A. Romero’s seminal zombie flick. Its one of the most influential films in horror history. I just prefer Tom Savini’s remake.

As I’m sure you know, Night of the Living Dead—remake and otherwise—tells the tale of a mysterious zombie outbreak and a group of strangers who try to survive it by seeking shelter in an old farm house. They come from wildly different backgrounds and the story focuses as much on their struggles to coexist with one another as it does on their resistance effort. When you look beyond the flesh-eating ghouls you’re left with an excellent character picture.

Most of those characters are timeless—they resonate as much today as they did in 1968. That’s what makes the picture hold up so well. One of them doesn’t, though. In Romero’s film, Barbra—the female lead—is a character conditioned by society to be flimsy and weak. When the outbreak occurs, she falters. She literally becomes a blithering idiot. Her co-lead, Ben, is a powerful character who pushed societal boundaries by being one of cinema’s first mainstream portrayals of an African American hero. Barbra, on the other hand, maintains the status quo of the atomic housewife. The juxtaposition of a progressive character like Ben with a markedly regressive one like Barbra has always baffled me.

Savini’s remake fixes that. Romero’s script—yes, Romero scripted the remake—depicts this Barbra as a powerful, take-no-prisoners ass-kicker. When the outbreak occurs, not only does she not falter—she thrives. Ben is just as powerful as he was in the original, but this Barbra doesn’t need Ben. Or anyone else, for that matter. She’s a capable, resourceful human being that can survive without using anyone else as her crutch. 1990 Barbra is the antithesis of 1968 Barbra and that makes for a massive improvement.

The film’s greater social subtext is also modernized. The original conclusion is a sobering commentary on racial prejudice that was extremely progressive for its time. The remake’s ending pushes a statement more relevant today—a statement about how reactionary people are. How easily we turn on others. How we almost want someone to villainize. It’s powerful.

Also, there’s good gore. And lots of tension. And a Bill Moseley cameo. Huzzah.

Coming in at number nine is Trick ‘r Treat (2007). Michael Dougherty’s Halloween-themed anthology is the newest film on the list by decades. It’s that good. Seriously. Since its much-anticipated, repeatedly-delayed home video release in 2009, the film has already become a staple of my Octobers. Y’know, the two of ‘em. I watch other stuff, sure, but Trick ‘r Treat is the Halloween movie. I’ll never have another Halloween moviethon without it.

As I mentioned earlier, Trick ‘r Treat is an anthology film—a series of seemingly irrelevant stories connected by a common theme. Sometimes it’s a narrator, others it’s a recurring character; often it’s nothing but “hey these are horror stories”. It’s like watching a film with four more films inside of it. I love anthologies. I’ve never seen a bad one. I literally sang the praises of Snoop Dogg’s Hood of Horrors for over an hour one time and I take no shame in admitting that. Trick ‘r Treat is an anthology that’s all about my favorite day of the year—how could I possibly not love it?

The film tells the story of a single Halloween night and all of the hijinx that ensues therein. Each story is bound together by its location and, more significantly, the presence of Sam—a curious, pumpkin-headed trick-or-treater in orange pajamas and a burlap sack who meanders rather frequently between adorable and downright creepy. Sam’s motives are the film’s greatest mystery—and it’s a film full of mysteries. Even the order of events is a mystery. You won’t be satisfied until you’ve seen it three times in a row so you can fully appreciate the things you didn’t notice on your last watch. I know this because I’ve done this.

Watching Trick ‘r Treat three times in immediate succession isn’t hard. Trust me. It is everything you’ve ever loved about Halloween summed up in 82 minutes. Everything. It has poison candy and werewolves and ghosts and spirits and pumpkins and costumes and violent, merciless death and creepy kids and scares and laughs and—just watch it already!

A lot of people ask me about my favorite horror films. For the next ten days, assuming I don’t randomly die or something, I’m gonna tell you all about them as I list the horror movies I love most in the Horrorfixxx Top Ten! You should all make lists too! Lists are cool.

Kicking things off at number ten is The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974). For those of you who are somehow uninitiated, Chain Saw is the story of a group of 20-something Texans who have a terribly unfortunate encounter with a family of cannibalistic graverobbers. And there’s probably a chainsaw or two in there somewhere. And a… creepy manchild… who fashions the skin of his victims into masks. And stuff. Yeah.

Tobe Hooper’s masterpiece of unmitigated creepiness is a curious film—it feels less like a horror movie and more like a documentary gone awry. It was filmed for practically nothing, by complete unknowns, entirely on-location. It uses that simplicity—that primal, spontaneous realism—to create a cinematic experience that feels uncomfortably real. You forget that you’re watching a movie because it doesn’t look like a movie. It seems, instead, as if you’re watching somebody’s really, really, really twisted home videos. It’s lovely.

This disturbing verisimilitude is only half of the film’s genius. Its less-is-more approach completes the package. When the credits roll you feel like you’ve witnessed a blood bath. It’s strange, really; the film is actually rather tame in that regard. Much of the violence is only implied—but it’s implied so perfectly that you simply don’t notice. It gets inside your head; gratuitous gore would only lessen its impact. Chain Saw earns its reputation as one of the most shocking films ever made without resorting to such nonsense—and that’s why I love it.