Unlike many of those other beatnik teen films of the 1950’s, Blood doesn’t feel like a mimeographed movie made about kids by adults; it feels like a reasonable facsimile of the culture made without contempt.
y the time Jason actually makes it to Manhattan, there’s no saving this movie. We’re only treated to this one image that hints at the promise of a movie called Jason Takes Manhattan. There’s no tension, no thrills, and no surprises.
Eaten Alive provides a grotesque and singular hallucinatory grindhouse experience. To watch Eaten Alive is to bathe in a mosquito-infested pool of the trashy macabre. It’s leering and sticky and bathing should be required post-viewing.
As Kenny Rogers once said, “You’ve got to know when to fold ’em / know when to walk away / know when to run the &#*$ away from the Pet Sematary.”
Some genres and some narratives can feel so routine that they’re more akin to slapping an abrasive alarm clock and falling out of bed to blearily brush one’s teeth. I’m not equating watching Dracula: Prince of Darkness to the drudgery of routine hygiene, but there’s a certain amount of standard exposition required to propel a Dracula story forward.