Remember the beheading from The Omen? Imagine a horror movie that tries to recreate that epic scene for nearly every one of its kills — plus some immolation, face peeling, face melting and bisection for good measure — and you’ll have a pretty good idea of what Beyond the Door III is all about.

If you’re hoping it has anything to do with the original Beyond the Door, you’ll be sorely disappointed, as this is an in-name-only sequel, much like the second entry in the series, which is actually just the Mario/Lamberto Bava joint Shock.

The plot centers on Beverly and her friends, students of an indeterminate age (they look like grad students pushing their 30s, but act like high schoolers) on a trip to a rustic foreign land. They’re traveling to witness a pagan ritual, but little do they know they’re marked to be a part of the ritual, a fact they learn after some creepy villagers lock them inside their cabins and set fire to the structures. All but one of the group escapes and they seek refuge on a train, which becomes possessed by evil spirits hellbent on finishing the sacrificial work.

We learn that Beverly has been chosen to be the devil’s bride because she’s a virgin with a large birthmark on her stomach, as well as some kind of familial connection that is ill-explained. It hardly matters, however, because just as the train literally goes off the rails at one point, so too does the film itself. Any semblance of logic flies right out the window and gets decapitated.

In case it isn’t painfully obvious, Beyond the Door III — also known as Amok Train — is incredibly gory. Come for the special effects, but stay for the general wackiness, which includes some befuddling dialogue among the principal cast, and even more confusing exchanges with police and government officials who do not speak English and whose lines aren’t subtitled, all of which contributes to the fever-dream-like quality of the movie.

It’s the kind of picture you’ll half-remember years down the line and wonder if it was real or just something your brain cooked up after consuming some days-old Chinese takeout you found in your fridge. Fortunately, it’s just over an hour and a half runtime makes it a perfect slice of WTF-ery that won’t eat up an entire night. —Christopher Shultz

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Nothing’s tantric with this Sting, a spider movie from Down Under that delivers a load. Of fun.

During a city-crippling ice storm, a Brooklyn apartment building gains an unexpected visitor: a rock from space that houses a dandy li’l spider. It’s found by Charlotte (Alyla Browne, Furiosa), a young girl who lives there with her family. From room to room and floor to floor, Charlotte traverses the complex via its ventilation ducts, foreshadowing the eventual activity of her new eight-legged pet, whom she names Sting and keeps in a jar.

This being an arac-attack film, Sting grows to horrific size — enough to give even the most hard-nosed he-man a case of The Shivers. Like Charlotte’s stepdad (Ryan Corr, Wolf Creek 2), who serves as the building’s super. We meet him running the basement’s trash compactor, which practically screams, “See you back here for the showdown!”

So originality isn’t Sting’s strong suit. Nor did I want it to be. From a spider movie, I seek only three things:
• spider action
• and lots of it
• without shoddy CGI

Is that so much to ask? Not for writer/director Kiah Roache-Turner. One of Ozploitation’s rising stars as the creative force behind the Wyrmwood zombie franchise, he delivers on all three. In initial, tiny form, Sting is computer-generated — required for the incredible title sequence, depicting the spider crawling through a dollhouse — but done without cutting corners. When the arachnid grows (and grows!) to sizes not even Australian spiders get, Sting is presented as a practical, in-camera effect, meaning it’s all the more terrifying — doubly so being built by Wētā Workshop, known mostly for its stellar work on everything Peter Jackson.

Although no Arachnophobia, Roache-Turner’s Sting does take a cue from John Goodman’s exterminator by casting Jermaine Fowler (The Blackening) to function as similar crowd-pleasin’ comic relief: “Let’s kill this bitch!” He nearly steals the show out from under all eight legs, a pair of balls and a couple of good jumps. —Rod Lott

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As his great aunt’s sole living heir, Tony (Roberto Guinar) inherits her Mexican mansion — lush landscape, spacious back patio and creepy clown doll included. 

The doll, named Payasito (“Little Clown”), is played alternately by a limp bag of rags and dwarf Margarito Esparza Nevares, whose white-greasepaint face suggests the unholy union of Bob Hope and Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus performer Michu. Because it can, Payasito frightens Tony’s pregnant wife down a short flight of stairs to her death, but the baby is saved. 

Years later, that lucky embryo swells into Tony’s tot son, Roy (Alan Fernando), whose attachment to the doll rivals Velcro, glue traps and static cling. This skeeves out Tony’s new trophy wife, Doris (Mexico Playboy model Lorena Herrera). Every time she and her hoochie-mama pants try to hide and/or ditch Payasito, the damn thing escapes and/or returns and kills somebody. Repeat until you hit the bare minimum for feature-length qualification, which you can do if you direct the dwarf to move … verrrrry … slowwwwwly. 

Also known by its English title of Diabolical Inheritance, Herencia Diabólica is referenced in shorthand as “the Mexican Chucky.” Not to desiccate the corpse of director Alfredo Salazar, but he wishes this thing were mas like Child’s Play. In a still photograph, Payasito may strike you as creepy, but in motion, he inspires laughter; with Chucky, the opposite is true.

Salazar clearly exhibited better luck at the typewriter, where his formidable résumé includes screenplays for such Mexploitation mainstays as The Batwoman, the Wrestling Women, the Aztec Mummy and many a Santo adventure — yep, even the one with big-breasted vampire ladies.  —Rod Lott

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Late Night with the Devil tells the story of an American cultural institution — the post-prime-time talk show — turned into a circus of satanic trickery by a malevolent force. Other than Jimmy Fallon, that is.

The movie is cleverly presented as a long-suppressed live episode of the syndicated, ratings-starved Night Owls from Halloween night 1977.  Although still smarting from the death of his beloved wife (Georgina Haig, TV’s Snowpiercer), host Jack Delroy (David Dastmalchian, The Last Voyage of the Demeter) has lined up a really big show in hopes of staving off cancellation.  

The lineup includes a medium (Fayssal Bazzi, We’re Not Here to Fuck Spiders) and, for built-in friction, paranormal investigator/skeptic á la James Randi (Ian Bliss, Man-Thing). Last but the furthest from least, a parapsychologist (Laura Gordon, Saw V) brings a young patient (feature-debuting Ingrid Torelli) rescued from a fringe church rumored to sacrifice children. The girl also claims to be possessed by a demonic entity she calls — and this isn’t eerie at all — “Mr. Wriggles.” 

With millions of eyeballs watching, what better time to attempt to draw this Mr. Wriggles out, right? 

From the monologue to each guest segment — with black-and-white backstage footage during commercial breaks — Late Night with the Devil admirably replicates the ’70s-era vibe of the chat format, particularly for those who grew up ending each weekday evening with Johnny Carson. All the details are here: the corny jokes, silly skits, forced patter with the bumbling sidekick (first-timer Rhys Auteri), cheesy title cards, smoking guests — plus subliminal images, gushing fluids, fateful on-air “demo” and so on. It’s nearly as faithful to its ruse as the infamous Ghostwatch, but with its time-capsule approach, likely owes more debt to WNUF Halloween Special.

A never-better Dastmalchian, who also produced, anchors the Australian pic with a committed performance that skillfully takes his character from empathetic to pathetic at a moment’s notice. If only he were able to convince sibling directors Colin and Cameron Cairnes (100 Bloody Acres) to end their script 10 minutes earlier, the movie would resonate with the intended staying power. After the prologue, it never needed to leave the studio. But do tune in, ladies and gentleman, and don’t touch that dial. —Rod Lott

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As my youngest child explained to me years ago, “creepypasta” is more or less the internet’s version of ghost stories and urban legends. (Think Slender Man.) Because they’re shared online instead at campfires or sleepovers, they spread worldwide in a near-instant. The name itself is partly a portmanteau of “copy/paste.” 

Now, explaining Creepypasta, the horror anthology corralling work from eight directors, is scads easier: It stinks. 

In the unimaginative wraparound story, we watch a guy stumble through a mysterious house, where he’s introduced to 10 stories written by a creepypasta author gone missing. Of the 10, a mere three at least held my attention — a ratio so poor, it deserves a bell ringer standing outside Walmart around the holidays. 

Were I feeling generous, I’d up that to four in 10, just for the shadow people story’s oddball scenario of ladies noshing over a charcuterie board as they swap Jerry Maguire-style science facts, like “Your rectum can stretch up to 9 inches in diameter.” I’ll take their word for it. 

The best bits feature a rulebreaker who gets Hellraiser-hooked for watching a forbidden broadcast on TV, a boy’s nocturnal encounter with a tooth fairy, and a child’s “imaginary” friend named Jumby. None breaks new ground, but each achieves effectiveness simply by setting up only what’s required. 

Whether about mirror people, cults, closet monsters or the Grey Man, other segments get bogged down in being too vague or trying to do too much. Both approaches go against the idea of being so sharable. —Rod Lott

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