Flesh for Frankenstein
Shot in 3D with Udo Kier and a spleen. Warhol's name on it, Paul Morrissey's film.
486 entries, from the 1931 Universal cycle to last year. Curated, not exhaustive: a short shelf of things worth knowing about beats a long one nobody can navigate.
486 films · page 6 of 14
Shot in 3D with Udo Kier and a spleen. Warhol's name on it, Paul Morrissey's film.
New French Extremity meets Texas Chain Saw, against the backdrop of a real French election.
Shot over lockdown on Zoom in twelve weeks, runs 56 minutes, and is better than it has any right to be.
A haunted red dress moves from customer to customer through a nightmarish department store.
Abel Ferrara's second film. A mute seamstress, a .45, and a nun's habit at the end.
Dementia as a house that grows corridors. The last ten minutes are unexpectedly tender.
A man convinced aliens are infiltrating Earth kidnaps a CEO to torture the truth out of him. Nothing prepares you for where it goes.
A photographer starts finding a figure in his negatives. The reveal about the neck pain is the best in Asian horror.
Told out of order in six chapters, shot on 35mm by Giovanni Ribisi. The structure is the whole trick.
Two brothers return to the UFO death cult they escaped, and time is looping in the hills.
Fulci's dream logic at its least coherent and most atmospheric. The dubbing of the child is a war crime.
A French couple terrorised in a house at night, 77 minutes, and it claims to be true.
Fulci's most repellent film, and it is truly designed to make you feel bad for watching it.
The giallo at its most slasher-like, and the last act is a genuine masterclass in silent suspense.
A Madrid teenager holds a séance during a solar eclipse and brings something home. Loosely based on a real police file.
An American in Bucharest who cannot speak the language and is not being believed. Quietly excellent.
A detective investigating identical murders committed by unconnected people who cannot say why.
The best J-horror film and the least seen. About loneliness and the internet, and genuinely despairing.
Joe Spinell wrote himself the lead and Tom Savini blew his own head off on camera.
A lonely young woman decides that if she cannot find a whole person to love, she will assemble one.
The runic parchment, the smoke on the railway line, and a monster the producer added against the director's wishes.
Brandon Cronenberg working the family seam without embarrassment. The practical effects are appalling in the right way.
Jodorowsky's most coherent film, which is a comparative statement. A circus, an armless mother and a son who lends her his hands.
Vincent Price murders the surgeons who let his wife die, each death based on the plagues of Egypt. A gorgeous, deranged art deco comedy.
Hammer's only werewolf film, Oliver Reed's first lead, and the transformation is largely his face.
Bava's proto-giallo, the film that invented the template, shot in gorgeous black and white in Rome.
Tehran during the War of the Cities, a djinn, and a mother the state has already stripped of options.
A Czech surrealist film about a thirteen-year-old girl, vampires and menstruation, and it is not what that sounds like.
Anna Kendrick's directorial debut, about the serial killer who appeared on The Dating Game mid-spree.
An Iranian vampire western shot in California, in Farsi, in black and white. Nothing else looks like it.
A remote Brazilian village disappears from the map and finds itself hunted for sport. Weird, angry and unclassifiable.
A young man carries his surgically-separated deformed twin in a wicker basket, and they are taking revenge.
Two actors, a cabin and a camera. Mark Duplass is the most unsettling thing in modern horror.
The British portmanteau that every anthology since has copied, and the ventriloquist episode has never been bettered.
Fulci's best film, and it is about a village killing the wrong person.
Two shamans and two geomancers exhume a cursed grave in Korea, and what is under it is worse than the curse.