Category Archives: Cult Cinema

Articles, Cult Cinema, Nickel Cinema, Reviews

Cult Film Review: American Movie (1999) – a bittersweet documentary profiling the ups and downs of a low-budget filmmaker!

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Cult Film Review: American Movie (1999)

Directed by Chris Smith

Produced by Sarah Price & Chris Smith

Main “Cast”: Mark Borchardt and Mike Schank

Cinematography by Chris Smith

Edited by Barry Poltermann & Jun Diaz

Music by Mike Schank

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

Given I am a low-budget filmmaker myself I am amazed I had never seen, American Movie (1999) before. Thankfully The Nickel Cinema in London screened it at the weekend and I really enjoyed it. Filmed between 1995 and 1997, this cult classic documentary American Movie (1999) chronicles Borchardt’s heroic, chaotic, and deeply Midwestern quest to finish his indie horror short Coven (pronounced ‘COH-ven’, and yes, he will correct you). The short is meant to raise money for his real passion project, a feature called Northwestern. But first? He has to survive reality. And reality is brutal.

Mark has not just zero money; zero organization; a rotating cast of confused friends and relatives as crew; functioning alcoholism; mounting debts, but also has the gift of the gab and a never ending passion for filmmaking. What unfolds is less “behind-the-scenes documentary” and more Shakespearean comedy AND tragedy staged in Milwaukee houses, static caravans, cars, junkyards and local woods.

Borchardt is equal parts Ed Wood and tortured auteur — passionately explaining his artistic vision one minute, begging his elderly uncle for production money and picking up his editing assistant from prison the next. His crew ranges from loyal-but-clueless to openly skeptical, yet somehow the production lurches forward. Barely.

The documentary crew shot over 90 hours of 16mm footage, capturing every awkward take, every blown line, and every moment of Mark’s delusional optimism. We watch as Coven repeatedly derails thanks to bad planning, worse luck, and the universal law that says: if something can go wrong on an indie film set, it absolutely will. But here’s the twist — it’s weirdly inspiring. Because underneath the chaos is something pure: a guy who just refuses to stop making movies. No money. No resources. No safety net. Just pure passion and obsession.

What’s most hilarious is the double act comedy exchanges between Mark and his best friend and Mike Schank. Mike, a very capable musician, has a permanent grin and the look of an acid-trip casualty, yet almost-perfect comedy timing. He clearly loves Mark’s passion and helps as best he can. I was sad to read Mike had passed away in 2022 from cancer.

If you stumbled into American Movie (1999) blind, you’d swear it was a proto-sitcom about delusional dreamers armed with a battered 16mm camera, a camcorder and misplaced confidence — a spiritual ancestor to Trailer Park Boys and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. It plays like a painfully funny hangout comedy about a self-proclaimed auteur and his band of well-meaning screw-ups trying — and repeatedly failing — to make something “serious.” The arguments are petty, the ambition is sky-high, and the incompetence is operatic. You laugh, you cringe, and somewhere along the way you realize this isn’t scripted chaos — it’s just raw, unfiltered obsession captured on camera.

Mark: 9 out of 11

Classic Film Reviews, Cult Cinema, Film Festivals

Romford Horror Film Festival 2026 & The Cannibal Man (1972) reviews!

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Romford Horror Film Festival & The Cannibal Man (1972) review

From 19th–22nd February 2026, Romford, Essex emerged not just as a venue, but as a creative crucible for genre storytelling as the Romford Horror International Film Festival — affectionately dubbed HorRHIFFic — returned to the Lumiere Cinema with its most ambitious programme yet – details can be found here: https://www.romfordhorrorfestival.com

This four-day celebration of horror cinema is rooted in the independent filmmaking spirit: championing works from emerging voices around the world, blending them alongside classic cult favourites, and generating an atmosphere of passion, community, and shared reverence for the genre. What makes this festival truly special isn’t just the size of its programme — though over 130 films certainly made for a thrilling schedule — but its wholehearted dedication to independent filmmakers who bring new ideas, daring vision, and personal passion to every frame.

Across its programme, the festival showcased a thrilling mix of guests and films that honour horror’s breadth including: Classic Retro Treats, Special Guests and Actors from Horror, New Independent Features & Shorts from countries such as South Korea, Canada, Spain, USA, and Italy, plus Creative Diversity — with screenings that embraced psychological depth, gory slashers, ghost stories, off-beat genre hybrids, and boundary-pushing work from both early-career filmmakers and seasoned indie pros.

Romford Horror Festival is also renowned for the community it builds. Horror fans come together not just to watch films, but to share experiences, meet creators, and feel at home in an environment that values innovation over commercialism. The Lumiere Cinema, itself a community-saved venue, became a home for filmmakers and fans alike — proving that in Romford, horror isn’t just screened… it’s commemorated. I for one am so grateful they screened my short horror film The Suicide Shift (2026).

As well as the short film showcases I watched a few retro classics including The Cannibal Man (1972) – (original title: La semana del asesino), directed by Eloy de la Iglesia. It is less a horror film than a slow, suffocating moral collapse. What begins as an unfortunate act of violence spirals into a weeklong descent into hell for Marcos, played with haunted fragility by Vicente Parra. Each subsequent killing feels less like cruelty and more like inevitability — the grinding machinery of fate closing in on a man already spiritually trapped.

Set against the decaying outskirts of Madrid in the final years of the Franco regime, The Cannibal Man (1972) doubles as a bleak portrait of a society rotting from repression. The slaughterhouse where Marcos works becomes an unsubtle but potent metaphor: under Francoism, bodies are processed, identities erased, dissent quietly carved up and discarded.

What makes the film especially daring is its undercurrent of homoerotic tension. Marcos’ wealthy, enigmatic neighbour Néstor hovers at the edges of the carnage, offering protection and silent understanding. Their charged glances and coded conversations suggest a longing that cannot safely speak its name under Franco’s moral authoritarianism. In this reading, Marcos’ spiral is not only about guilt but about internalized repression — desire twisted inward until it manifests as self-destruction. The horror is as much psychological as physical.

And yes, the gore is blunt and ugly. Bodies are dismembered with the same cold pragmatism as livestock. But de la Iglesia never lets the blood eclipse the tragedy. Marcos is not a monster in the conventional sense; he is a man cornered by circumstance, class stagnation, and a society that offers no mercy to the weak. By the end, his descent feels preordained — less a fall from grace than a revelation that grace was never available to him.

So, if you love horror films do check out indie film festivals such as – HorRHIFFic – whether it’s the electrifying surprises in the indie showcases or the nostalgic thrill of classic screenings, the Romford Horror Film Festival 2026 made it clear: independent horror cinema is alive, vibrant, and boldly inventive. This festival is a testament to the creativity and ingenuity of filmmakers who refuse to be confined by convention — and to the audiences who cheer them on.

Articles, Cult Cinema, horror

Cult Film Review: Thriller – A Cruel Picture (1974) – a shocking blend of X-rated exploitation and arthouse filmmaking!

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Cult Film Review: Thriller – A Cruel Picture (1974)

Directed by Alex Fridolinski

Screenplay by Alex Fridolinski

Produced by Bo Arne Vibenius

Main cast: Christina Lindberg, Heinz Hopf, Despina Tomazani, etc.

Cinematography by Andreas Bellis

Edited by Brian Wikström

**Viewer discretion is advised – this film contains scenes that many will find disturbing**

Thriller – A Cruel Picture (1973) (Swedish: Thriller – en grym film) is a 1973 Swedish exploitation film from writer-director Bo Arne Vibenius, working under the pseudonym Alex Fridolinski, starring Christina Lindberg and Heinz Hopf. Infamous for its unflinching depictions of sexual violence, drug abuse, and degradation, the film charts the ordeal of a mute young woman who is coerced into heroin addiction and forced into prostitution before embarking on a brutal campaign of revenge against her tormentors.

Released in the United States in a heavily cut version by American International Pictures—under lurid alternate titles such as They Call Her One Eye, Hooker’s Revenge, and The Swedish Vice-Girl—the film has earned a reputation as a deeply disturbing and confrontational work. Its graphic content and relentless tone make it a challenging and potentially distressing viewing experience, best avoided by those sensitive to extreme subject matter.

Unsurprisingly, due to the violent scenes, on-screen drug use, nudity and also inclusion of hardcore pornography, Thriller – A Cruel Picture (1973) was either banned outright or heavily censored on release. I had heard so much about this film on various YouTube videos expounding the shocking nature of the themes and scenes. Allied to this, Quentin Tarantino has also “championed” the movie and it’s star, Christina Lindberg. With this in mind the film I got tempted and purchased the recent Blu Ray version released in the UK. This version DOES NOT, thankfully, include the pornographic scenes which were filmed by the director with a Swedish couple who did live sex shows.

So, is Thriller – A Cruel Picture (1973) actually any good? Well, it is safe to say that it is a relentlessly harsh watch. That said, it would be unfair to dismiss the film outright as mere grindhouse provocation. Vibenius employs striking stylistic flourishes that elevate certain sequences into something oddly hypnotic. Most famously, the extended slow-motion shotgun reprisals—henchmen blasted backwards in balletic, almost operatic fashion—are staged with a visual patience that borders on the surreal. These, as well as the lengthy final act car pursuit sequence, are technically memorable, even as their brutality remains confronting.

Where the film becomes almost nightmarish is in its internal logic. Once Madeline (Christina Lindberg) is captured and brutalized by the sadistic drug dealer Tony (Heinz Hopf), the narrative takes on a dreamlike, disjointed quality. Despite being forcibly addicted to heroin, she somehow manages to train herself in hand-to-hand combat, driving, and sharpshooting—preparing an elaborate revenge while still under the grip of addiction. The plotting feels less realistic than hallucinatory, as though the film operates on the logic of trauma and fantasy rather than grounded cause and effect.

A great deal of the film’s lasting impact rests on the striking screen presence of Christina Lindberg, as well as her character’s grim journey. Already known internationally in the late 1960s and early 1970s for her work as an erotic actress and glamour model, Lindberg brings an arresting, almost statuesque quality to the role. Her icy stare—especially once framed by the now-iconic eyepatch—gives the character a mythic, comic-book intensity. At the same time, the creative decision to render her character mute inevitably shapes how that performance is perceived. Silence becomes a stylistic device, amplifying the film’s cold and detached tone. The director’s choice to sidestep the demands of more dialogue-heavy dramatic scenes actually works in the film’s favour.

Overall, Thriller – A Cruel Picture (1973) is a film that oscillates between exploitation rawness and stark, almost avant-garde stylization. For hardened genre enthusiasts, it may be a grim curiosity with undeniable visual audacity. For many others, however, its graphic content and relentless tone will make it a deeply uncomfortable, even distressing experience. Proceed carefully.

Classic Movie Scenes, Cult Cinema

Classic Movie Scenes #16- They Live (1988) – the really long fight scene!

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Classic Movie Scenes #16- They Live (1988) – the really long fight scene!

Directed by John Carpenter

Screenplay by John Carpenter

Based on: “Eight O’Clock in the Morning” by Ray Nelson

Produced by Larry Franco

Main cast: Roddy Piper, Keith David, Meg Foster, etc.

Cinematography by Gary B. Kibbe

Music by John Carpenter & Alan Howarth

** CONTAINS SPOILERS **

They Live (1988) is the kind of action sci-fi film that only John Carpenter could turn into a cult classic. On paper, it’s gloriously bizarre: a nameless drifter called Nada—Spanish for nothing—wanders into Los Angeles looking for work and instead stumbles into a hidden alien occupation. The key to the whole rotten system? A pair of hacked sunglasses that reveal the truth behind billboards, TV, and smiling authority figures. OBEY. CONSUME. CONFORM. No metaphor required.

Nada is played by professional wrestler Roddy Piper, whose performance is all flint-eyed suspicion and working-class fury. He’s not a chosen one or a scientist or a cop—he’s a guy at the bottom of the ladder who starts noticing the ladder itself is rigged. When Nada puts on the glasses, the world drains of colour and illusion, revealing a bleak black-and-white nightmare of propaganda and skull-faced elites hiding in plain sight. It’s one of Carpenter’s smartest tricks: truth isn’t glamorous, it’s ugly and exhausting.

The film’s low budget sometimes shows—rubber masks, stripped-down sets, and a finale that feels like Carpenter had to sprint to the finish line before the money ran out. But that rawness is also part of They Live’s (1988) charm. It plays like a B-movie manifesto, a midnight scream against a world quietly selling your soul back to you at retail prices. And yes, the legendary alleyway fistfight is absurdly long, but it also feels like the point: waking someone up hurts, takes effort, and nobody thanks you for it.

Carpenter has been clear that They Live (1988) is a critique of consumerism, Reagan-era greed, and the way capitalism anesthetizes resistance. But watching it today, the film has mutated—like all good cult cinema—into something more unstable and more dangerous. In the age of culture wars, algorithmic outrage, and weaponized paranoia, They Live (1988) can be read in a dozen conflicting ways. Is it anti-corporate? Anti-elite? A warning about media manipulation? A Rorschach test for conspiracy culture itself? That ambiguity is why it endures.

They Live (1988) doesn’t tell you what to think—it hands you the glasses and dares you to look. And once you do, it’s hard not to feel a little like Nada: broke, angry, awake, and deeply suspicious of anyone telling you everything is just fine. As someone who has recently been researching a lot about conspiracy theories or apparent truther activists, I have my feet dangling above the rabbit hole while simultaneously holding a red pill in my hand. Yet, I am hesitant to jump in. How do I know the so-called “truthers” are not lying or serving their own agenda or career too? Which is why the fight scene is so good. Because, it shows the struggle one can have as to what to believe and who to trust. In this case, Nada is telling the truth and he is prepared to fight to reveal it.

According to IMDb “the big fight sequence was designed, rehearsed and choreographed in the back-yard of director John Carpenter’s production office. The fight between Nada (Roddy Piper) and Frank (Keith David) was only supposed to last twenty seconds, but Piper and David decided to fight it out for real, only faking the hits to the face and groin. They rehearsed the fight for three weeks. Carpenter was so impressed he kept the scene intact, which runs five minutes, twenty seconds. David recounted the event, smiling giddily as he said, “It was good fun! I never felt safer in any fight,” as Piper, a professional wrestler, coached David on how to sell the look of the punches and savage moves in exaggerated form, making it appear more brutal than it actually was.”

Cinema, Cult Cinema, horror, Reviews

Cult Film Review: Black Christmas (1974) – a festive horror film gift worth opening!

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Cult Film Review: Black Christmas (1974)

Directed by Bob Clark

Written by Roy Moore

Produced by Bob Clark

Cast: Olivia Hussey, Keir Dullea, Margot Kidder, John Saxon, Marian Waldman, Andrea Martin, Art Hindle, etc.

Cinematography by Reginald H. Morris

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

Black Christmas (1974) remains a cornerstone of cult horror, steeped in creeping dread thanks to director Bob Clark’s unnerving ability to build eerie atmospherics. As a series of obscene phone calls begin to plague a sorority house, the film patiently tightens the noose, revealing that a psychopath is homing in on the “sisters” with sinister intent. Even as the police attempt to trace the calls, Clark toys with perception, suggesting that nothing—and no one—is quite what it seems.

Beyond its surface-level shocks, Black Christmas reveals a surprisingly progressive and unsettling thematic undercurrent. The film’s menace is deeply entangled with ideas of toxic masculinity: male entitlement, surveillance, and violence seep into almost every threat faced by the women. The killer’s obscene phone calls aren’t just frightening—they’re exercises in domination, attempts to invade private space through verbal abuse and sexualised rage. Even ostensibly “normal” male authority figures are depicted as dismissive, incompetent, or quietly threatening, reinforcing the sense that danger is systemic rather than anomalous.

Most striking for its era is the film’s pro-choice stance. Jess’s determination to have an abortion—presented as a firm, rational decision rather than a moral failing—grounds the horror in real-world anxiety. Her boyfriend’s furious reaction exposes a fragile masculinity rooted in ownership and expectation, aligning emotional coercion with the film’s broader atmosphere of male control. Horror here isn’t just the killer in the attic; it’s the social pressure bearing down on women’s autonomy.

Familial breakdown also looms large. The sorority house functions as a fractured surrogate family, one that offers warmth and camaraderie but ultimately fails to protect its members. Traditional structures—parents, police, institutions—are either absent, drunk, or found wanting, leaving the women isolated within spaces that should be safe. This erosion of trust amplifies the film’s dread, making the violence feel inescapable.

The ambiguous ending remains divisive. By denying the audience catharsis or moral resolution, director Bob Clark leaves the horror unresolved, lingering long after the credits roll. For some viewers, this refusal to “close the case” is profoundly unsettling; for others, it risks dissatisfaction, as the absence of narrative justice feels incomplete rather than subversive. Yet it’s arguably this very lack of closure that cements Black Christmas’s power. The evil isn’t vanquished—it’s merely unseen, waiting—an idea that would echo loudly through the genre and unsettle audiences for decades to come.

Standout performances from wise-cracking Margot Kidder, ethereal Olivia Hussey, and the intensely unsettling Keir Dullea elevate the material. Revisiting the film after a twenty years hiatus, I felt the fear factor is occasionally undercut by arguably silly humour and moments of heightened over-acting. Yet, its influence is undeniable—paving the way for filmmakers like John Carpenter, who would refine and surpass its template with the classic Halloween (1978).

Mark: 8 out of 11

Cult Cinema, Nickel Cinema, Reviews

Cult Film Review: Mermaid Legend (1984) – a poetic but brutal hidden Japanese film gem!

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Cult Film Review: Mermaid Legend (1984)

Directed by Toshiharu Ikeda

Screenplay by Takuya Nishioka

Main cast: Mari Shirato, Junko Miyashita, Kentarō Shimizu, Jun Etō, etc.

Cinematography by Yonezou Maeda

Music by Toshiyuki Honda

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

I took a gamble on an unknown Japanese film at the Nickel Cinema and walked out genuinely shaken. Mermaid Legend (1984) isn’t just a cult oddity—it’s a film that mutates before your eyes, seducing you with beauty before drowning you in blood. I was stunned by how something so lyrical could also be so brutally confrontational.

The story begins almost modestly, as a coastal drama about a fisherman and his wife, Migiwa. They bicker constantly, their marriage worn thin by poverty and exhaustion, yet there’s an undeniable bond beneath the arguments. That fragile domesticity is shattered when the fisherman stands in the way of an industrial development scheme. The business developers—faceless, polite, and utterly ruthless—have him murdered, disposing of his life as casually as industrial waste.

From there, Mermaid Legend (1984) transforms again. What starts as marital realism becomes a corporate espionage murder mystery, steeped in anger at nuclear energy, environmental destruction, and the cold machinery of corporate greed. Migiwa, a powerful-lunged pearl diver, initially hides, retreating into grief and the sea itself. But this is not a film about quiet mourning. When she decides to act, she does so with mythic force.

Played by the ethereal and astonishing Mari Shirato, Migiwa becomes something halfway between woman, avenging angel, and sea spirit. Shirato’s performance is magnetic—serene, sensual, and terrifying. As her vengeful pursuit begins, the film plunges headlong into extreme violence and explicit sexuality, reclassifying itself yet again as one of the most shocking exploitation epics I’ve seen from Japan in recent years. These scenes aren’t gratuitous in the lazy sense; they’re confrontational, weaponized, daring you to look away while refusing to let you feel comfortable for a second.

What makes Mermaid Legend (1984) so intoxicating is how its elements collide. Poetic underwater cinematography turns the ocean into a womb, a grave, and a cathedral. Religious, angelic, and environmental imagery blur together, as if Migiwa is both martyr and executioner. The music is heavenly—soaring, mournful, almost sacred—creating a surreal contrast with the carnage on screen. Beauty and brutality coexist in the same frame, each intensifying the other.

And then there’s the ending. The final, elongated pier stabbing rampage is completely off the chart—relentless, bloody, and hypnotic. It plays out like a ritual rather than an action sequence, stretching time until violence becomes abstraction, then meaning, then release. By the time the last body falls, Mermaid Legend (1984) has fully shed realism and entered the realm of legend, justifying its title in blood.

This is a film that shouldn’t work, yet does—furiously, defiantly. A genre-shifting fever dream that moves from domestic drama to political thriller to erotic exploitation to mythic revenge tragedy, Mermaid Legend (1984) is both beautiful and brutal, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Seeing it by chance at the Nickel Cinema felt like discovering a secret too powerful to stay hidden.

Mark: 9.5 out of 11

Cult Cinema, horror, Under-Rated Classics

Cult Film Review: Ms. 45 / Angel of Vengeance (1981) – a beautiful looking yet grisly exploitation classic!

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Cult Film Review: Ms. 45 / Angel of Vengeance (1981)

Directed by Abel Ferrara

Written by Nicholas St. John

Produced by: Richard Howorth, Mary Kane

Main cast: Zoë Tamerlis (Lund), Albert Sinkys, Steve Singer, Jack Thibeau, Peter Yellen, Darlene Stuto, Helen McGara etc.

Cinematography by James Momel

In its latest 4K restoration, Ms. 45—Abel Ferrara’s 1981 revenge thriller—has never looked more electrifying, or more disturbing. A stunning new rendering of Ferrara’s gritty vision, Ms. 45 showcases New York City in all its stark, seething chaos: a place of beautiful ugliness, where the streets pulse with danger, desperation, and decay. The film, originally shot on 16mm, feels both of its time and eerily timeless, especially now in ultra-high-definition, where every grainy detail of Ferrara’s oppressive, neon-lit streets shines in a raw, unapologetic manner.

At the heart of this urban nightmare is Thana (Zoë Lund, credited as Zoë Tamerlis), a mute seamstress whose world shatters after she is brutally assaulted by a man on her way home, then attacked again in her home. Her muteness is both a powerful thematic element and an artistic choice, amplifying her trauma, her rage, and her vengeance in a way that spoken words never could. Thana’s descent into violence is stark, visceral, and unrelenting, making her a strange kind of anti-hero in this world of moral decay. Ferrara’s direction is clinical, cold, and absolutely uncompromising—each frame holds a sharp, almost surgical precision, magnifying the madness of her mind and the city itself.

What truly elevates Ms. 45 beyond its genre limitations is the electric performance of Zoë Tamerlis/Lund. At just 17 years old when the film was made, Lund’s portrayal of Thana is nothing short of revelatory. She is the beating heart of this disturbing narrative, lighting up the screen with a fierce, magnetic presence that could have easily made her a Hollywood star—had the industry been ready for her. While many of the supporting cast either cannot act or over-act, Lund’s both vulnerable and terrifying, her expression often the only indication of her character’s state of mind. Her journey from victim to vengeful force is tragic, yet always compelling.

Had Lund chosen to pursue a more conventional career, she would likely have ascended to Hollywood’s A-list—her look was captivating, her screen presence undeniable—but the indie, underground scene was where she truly thrived. In Ms. 45, she is a tragic figure of youth lost to the violence of the world around her, and in the midst of it all, she shines, her performance capturing the raw, cathartic essence of a girl pushed too far. Further, Lund’s performance peaks in one of the most iconic sequences of the film—Thana’s nun fancy-dress shootout. Drenched in blood and surrounded by chaos, she dissects the partygoers in slow-motion with a terrifying calm, her eyes wide with cold sorrow. It’s a juxtaposition of innocence and savagery, like a child playing with fire and discovering its destructive power. Kudos to the deranged soundtrack here which really ramps up Ferrara’s nightmarish vision.

Ms. 45 is NOT a film for the faint of heart or the easily offended. It’s violent, raw, and unapologetically brutal, with moments that will leave you questioning your own reaction to Thana’s vengeful spree. There is something deeply primal about the film—the way it feeds off its viewers’ discomfort, forcing them to confront Thana’s rage. It’s a film that revels in its own madness, and yet somehow, Ferrara and Lund manage to make revenge feel like an art form. It’s as stylish as it is savage, as haunting as it is exhilarating.

In conclusion, Ms. 45 is a genre-defining thriller, a masterpiece of violent cinema that has lost none of its power with time. The 4K restoration is a perfect showcase for Ferrara’s vision, and Zoë Lund’s performance is a revelation—her beauty and intensity burn through the screen, making you wonder what might have been had she chosen a different path. But for those of us lucky enough to witness this film in all its gritty glory, it’s impossible not to see her as a true underground legend. Whether or not you’re ready for it, Ms. 45 is visceral, stylish, and uncompromising cinema—one that will stay with you long after the credits roll and that evil saxophone soundtrack beat fades out.

Mark: 9 out of 11

Cinema, Cult Cinema, Nickel Cinema

Cult Film Review: Entertainment (2015) at The Nickel Cinema, London

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Cult Film Review: Entertainment (2015) at The Nickel Cinema

The Nickel Cinema in Clerkenwell feels like a hidden temple for London’s true film obsessives — a grindhouse gem tucked into the city’s polished heart. It’s the kind of place where the air hums with cigarette ghosts and celluloid dreams, where the screen flickers with everything from outlaw art films to midnight slashers and sleazy euro-thrillers. The décor has that lived-in, clandestine vibe — red velvet worn thin, neon bleeding through the dark, and an underground bar serving the kind of cocktails that taste like trouble.

It’s not just a cinema — it’s a refuge for the subversive, the cultish, the weird and the wonderful. You’ll find Anger next to Fassbinder, Fulci, Lynch, Jodorowsky, Korine, Ferrara, Argento, Waters, Kern, Miike, Ferrara, Korine Noe, Cohen, Breillat, Refn and many more bleeding into audiences who actually cheer when the projector rattles. The Nickel doesn’t chase trends; it worships the offbeat, the forgotten, and the dangerous. While feeling still quite new, the place somehow still feels gloriously dirty — and absolutely right up your alley. If not there is a strip club next door if that kind of business takes your fancy.

Check out their website for the latest screenings here: https://thenickel.co.uk/

Last month I watched Rick Alverson’s Entertainment (2015) at The Nickel Cinema.

Entertainment is like watching the American dream rot in real time — a hypnotic, desolate odyssey through the dust and despair of the open road. Gregg Turkington is excellent as he plays “The Comedian,” a hollowed-out version of his Neil Hamburger persona, trudging through a series of soul-scorching stand-up gigs in half-empty bars, bowling alleys, and desert motels. Each performance is a small act of self-immolation — jokes that fall flat, laughter that curdles, a man dissolving behind the microphone as his identity blurs into the toxic sludge of showbiz delusion.

Director Rick Alverson shoots it all with a slow, clinical beauty — wide, frozen frames that turn America’s forgotten corners into alien landscapes. “The Comedian” drifts from neon-soaked diners to sulfurous desert plains, to prisons, to dead Western towns. Further, it contains some incredible locations including an unforgettable sequence at an aircraft graveyard — rows of dead machines basking in the sun, like monuments to ambition and decay. While low in budget the film makes use of such stunning locales, plus impactful acting interludes from John C. Reilly, Michael Cera and Tye Sheridan.

The film is not a comedy, not really — more anti-comedy or like an autopsy of one. Entertainment (2015) is a brutal, mesmeric study of loneliness, alienation, and the sick joke at the heart of performance itself. It’s the road movie as existential purgatory — unbearably awkward, strangely poetic, and utterly unforgettable. It doesn’t so much as have a beginning, middle and end, but a series of events which we are dropped into and experience until the credits suddenly roll. I like to ponder “The Comedian” is still out there, living and dying, on and off stage.

Mark: 8 out of 11

Articles, Cinema, Cult Cinema, Reviews

Cult Film Review: Possession (1981)

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CULT FILM REVIEW: POSSESSION (1981)

Directed by Andrzej Żuławski

Screenplay by Andrzej Żuławski

Adaptation and dialogue by Andrzej Żuławski & Frederic Tute

Produced by Marie-Laure Reyre

Main cast: Isabelle Adjani, Sam Neill & Heinz Bennent

Cinematography by Bruno Nuytten

Edited by Marie-Sophi Dubus & Suzanne Lang-Willar

Music by Andrzej Korzyński

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

Andrzej Żuławski’s Possession (1981) is a film that doesn’t just defy genre—it annihilates the very idea of categorization. Part spy thriller, part domestic psychodrama, part Lovecraftian horror, and part apocalyptic hallucination, the film barrels forward with such manic intensity that it becomes less a movie and more an exorcism of the soul. It resists structural and emotional compartmentalizing at every turn, choosing instead to implode in a flurry of shrieks, flailing bodies, and gooey, pulsing monstrosities.

Set in a divided Berlin, the film ostensibly begins as a break-up story: Mark (Sam Neill), a shell-shocked spy, returns home to discover that his wife Anna (Isabelle Adjani, in a performance of pure, unrelenting hysteria) wants a divorce. But from there, the film spirals rapidly out of the realm of conventional melodrama and into something far more surreal and terrifying. Mark’s confusion curdles into obsession, Anna’s descent becomes biblical, and reality itself begins to warp and splinter.

Is it a Cold War spy film? Yes, but only in fragments, and those are quickly consumed by the escalating emotional chaos. Is it a break-up film? Certainly—but filtered through an expressionist nightmare where the grief and rage of separation erupt as literal body horror. Horror film? Undoubtedly, though the fear is less about monsters and more about the abyss that opens when love dies. And as the narrative crumbles into bloody symbolism and metaphysical dread, Possession (1981) begins to feel like an apocalyptic drama—one where the apocalypse is internal, intimate, and unstoppable.

Żuławski directs like a man possessed, matching his characters’ unhinged energy with a restless camera and wild tonal shifts. The result is a fever dream of shrieking confrontations, doppelgängers, collapsing identities, and one of the most infamous subway scenes in cinema history. Possession (1981) is not an easy film—it’s messy, abrasive, and frequently overwhelming—but it’s precisely in its refusal to conform that its power lies. Indeed, much of the dialogue is obtuse non-sequitur in delivery as the actors deliver prose-like philosophical statements that have clearly influenced the writing of Yorgos Lanthimos and Efthymis Filippou.

To watch Possession (1981) is to witness cinema used as a weapon against coherence, comfort, and calm. I almost had a panic attack watching it. Neill, usually a calm on-screen presence looks as though he is lost in a nightmare he cannot escape. Heinz Bennent, as the lover, fully embraces Zulawski’s insane vision, while Adjani literally has a mental breakdown on screen. It is an unbelievably fearless embodiment of psychotic sexuality, arguably only matched in a commercial release by Eva Green’s Vanessa Ives from the majestic gothic TV series, Penny Dreadful (2014-2016). Ultimately, Possession (1981), is as much about the disintegration of self as it is about the end of a marriage, the failure of ideology, or the horror of being alive. One doesn’t simply watch Possession (1981)—one survives it.

Cinema, Cult Cinema, documentaries

BFI Film Review: Scala (2023) – At the Altar of Nostalgia for the Scala Cinema!

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BFI Film Review: Scala!!! (2023)

Directed by Ali Catterall & Jane Giles

Produced by Andrew Starke, Alan Marke & Jim Reid

Cinematography by Sarah Appleton

Edited by Andrew Starke and Edward Mills

Music by Barry Adamson

The Scala Cinema, nestled in the heart of London, was more than just a film theatre; it was a refuge, a haven for anyone with a passion for films that didn’t fit into the mainstream mold. I can still feel the sticky floors, the cats in the dark, hear the muffled sounds of the trains passing overhead, and see the hazy red glow that filled the theater. In the 1980s and 1990s, going to the Scala wasn’t just about watching a film; it was about being part of a community that celebrated the bizarre, the boundary-pushing, and the boldly artistic.

During those years, the Scala felt like my second home. It was where I could disappear into films that I couldn’t find anywhere else – obscure horror flicks, campy B-movies, gonzo-pornos, arthouse selections, and controversial classics from around the globe. It was my church. Films by David Lynch, John Waters, Yuen Woo-ping, Derek Jarman, Werner Herzog, Sam Raimi, Lucio Fulci, Russ Meyer, Kathryn Bigelow, Alex Cox, John Woo, Stanley Kubrick, Jane Campion, Orson Welles, Dario Argento, Alejandro Jodorowsky and many more – each screening felt like a small rebellion, a discovery that I’d carry with me. The Scala didn’t just show movies; it curated experiences. All-night marathons, double bills, and surprise screenings became a staple of my weekends, filling my mind with scenes that blurred the line between reality and the outrageous.

When I watched the Scala documentary on BFI Player, a flood of memories came rushing back. It was as though I’d been given a ticket back to those wild, late nights. I remembered how Scala regulars would shout lines at the screen or break into laughter at inopportune moments, making each viewing unique and unpredictable. The documentary captured not only the films but the spirit of the place – the staff who loved cinema as much as the patrons did, the strange but welcoming crowd, and the sense that Scala wasn’t just a venue but a movement. Watching it felt like reconnecting with a part of myself, an era when cinema was raw, thrilling, and unpolished.

The Scala in King’s Cross is a legend, and for those of us who were lucky enough to experience it, it’s a chapter we’ll always cherish. I was even there when they showed A Clockwork Orange (illegally), which led to the ill-fated court case which forced it to close. This documentary is both a valuable historical document and a joyous sharing of stories from those who worked there and attended the films shown, including: Mark Moore, Mary Harron, Isaac Julien, John Waters, Ben Wheatley; Barry Adamson, Matt Johnson, Adam Buxton, James O’Brien, Stewart Lee, Lisa Power and Graham Humphreys. Overall, the Scala Cinema wasn’t just about the films we watched; it was about finding a place where film became more than entertainment – they were a way of life.

Mark: 9 out of 11