When “British”, “Horror” and “1960's” pop into most people’s heads, the next word is usually “Hammer”, but there were a few others plying their trade at that time. Companies such as London-based Tigon Films churned out a wide range of cheap and cheerful material from horror to soft-core porn to art house drama. Although most of Tigon's output has now sunk into obscurity, they did come up with one bona-fide classic – Witchfinder General.

That was weird. Those were the first words that spilled out of my mouth as the end credits rolled on Dark Waters, a British/Italian/Russian co-production filmed in post-Soviet Ukraine. Directed and co-written by Mariano Baino, Dark Waters is a singular experience. Steeped in Lovecraftian influence, the film can be dizzying, even maddening, to watch. However, with the captivating direction and surprisingly engaging story, Dark Waters may actually be worth your time. It is not, however, a film for the feeble-minded.

The films of Freddie Francis have always shown the work of a skilled visual craftsman -- one of the very best, in fact -- but also one who performs better when others provide him a creative vision and context from within which he can do his work. I find it rather telling that many of the best films that Francis worked on -- Glory, The Straight Story, The Elephant Man -- were those in which he acted as cinematographer to a visionary director, years after he gave up regularly directing himself.

In 1979, Roger Ebert called George A. Romero’s Dawn of the Dead “an ultimate horror film”¹ and, in a separate review a few days later, cited its horrifying, satiric, and well-crafted elements as combining to make it such

Anyone wondering why Hammer Films felt the need to transplant Count Dracula to Swingin’ London in Dracula AD 1972 need look no further than Scars of Dracula (1970). This tepid continuation of the studio’s Dracula series proves, with little room for argument, that Hammer’s ability to deal with the vampire in his native Gothic setting had long ago dwindled to nothing. All devoted fans get for their troubles is a rehash of old ideas, a terribly insufficient plot, and a bad mishandling of Dracula as a character.

If there is one thing you will really remember about Blood from the Mummy's Tomb, it is Valerie Leon's bosom. It's rather hard not to notice, since they really make sure you see her breasts from just about every angle, and by the end you've seen just about every inch of them barring her nipples. Beyond Valerie's voluptuousness, however, Blood from the Mummy's Tomb is an enjoyable little Hammer Horror film, providing a bit of fresh variety to a story that was, even in the 70s, a bit cliche.

When you get right down to it, most mummy movies are more or less the same. Guy becomes mummy, mummy is awakened, mummy discovers reincarnated princess that he loved back in good 'ol Egypt and mummy deals with unrequited love and undead emo. So, when it comes to mummy movies, it generally not the story that makes it a good one. Instead, they have to rely on actors, themes, sets and cinematography. Luckily, The Mummy (1959) has all of this in spades, making Hammer's renowned contribution to the genre not only a good mummy movie, but a damned good film overall.

Good versus evil has been a standard cinematic theme, particularly within the horror genre, since the invention of the Cinematographe by Louis Lumiere in 1895. However, as film audiences have become more jaded over the years, the definitions of good and evil have become less clear. Enter To the Devil a Daughter, an ambitious but technically flawed attempt to muddy the line between hero and villain.

"Nine killed her; nine shall die! Eight have died, soon to be nine. Nine eternities in doom!" If that sort of beautifully over-the-top line doesn't bring warmth to your heart, you might as well turn back now. You will not enjoy The Abominable Dr. Phibes, a brilliant piece of moody, camp horror from 1971. You will not bask in the glory of Phibes's twisted wonderland of murder and revenge. However, if you can feel the cockles of your heart stirring with anticipation, you are in for a beautiful treat.

Pete Walker's Frightmare appears to have been made primarily to shock the common British public of 1974; in many ways, it's nothing more than series of grotesqueries strung along a thin thread of plot. Thirty-four years later, however, its power to achieve its primary goal has diminished significantly. The ever-increasing desensitization of movie audience puts a movie like Frightmare at significant risk of obsolescence. Thankfully, Frightmare is buoyed by a delightful morbid streak, as well as a command performance by actress Sheila Keith.