A downcast member of a rock band sits in a self-service bar, recalling to an acquaintance the bewildering details of a road trip he took the year prior with a group of friends, one of whom was touched with extrasensory perception. Their relaxing getaway was interrupted by spirits of Confederate soldiers in desperate need of human help to free their tormented souls.
NIGHT OF HORROR is a cataclysmically poor film on every level imaginable, and the mind boggles as to how this minutiae of provisions could possibly have received even scant video distribution. Unappealing people doing nothing to speak of...that is the whole of this Godforsaken nonmovie. Just to hint at what a slop-job of amateur immersion it is, understand that a lengthy duration is prominently accented by a dust-bunny sticking to the camera lens. The sound and lighting appear to have been supervised by Helen Keller, the sets are a pathetic scramble of whatever fundamentals happened to be on-hand, and most importantly.... WHERE IS THE "HORROR"? A couple of immobile Southern Graybacks in the blaze of a floodlight who mumble indiscernably, and a single plaster skull? There's absolutely nothing...no bloodshed, no atmosphere, not even a single boob to breathe life into this rudderless tabula-rasa. All you get with this nothing-burger is a long stretch of coarse home movie footage showing some southern-fried Civil War battle reenactment, set to the tune of a nerve-raking folk ballad. It's so apocalyptically awful that it nearly qualifies as an act of aesthetic terrorism.
My rating? "The Finger".
NIGHT OF HORROR is a cataclysmically poor film on every level imaginable, and the mind boggles as to how this minutiae of provisions could possibly have received even scant video distribution. Unappealing people doing nothing to speak of...that is the whole of this Godforsaken nonmovie. Just to hint at what a slop-job of amateur immersion it is, understand that a lengthy duration is prominently accented by a dust-bunny sticking to the camera lens. The sound and lighting appear to have been supervised by Helen Keller, the sets are a pathetic scramble of whatever fundamentals happened to be on-hand, and most importantly.... WHERE IS THE "HORROR"? A couple of immobile Southern Graybacks in the blaze of a floodlight who mumble indiscernably, and a single plaster skull? There's absolutely nothing...no bloodshed, no atmosphere, not even a single boob to breathe life into this rudderless tabula-rasa. All you get with this nothing-burger is a long stretch of coarse home movie footage showing some southern-fried Civil War battle reenactment, set to the tune of a nerve-raking folk ballad. It's so apocalyptically awful that it nearly qualifies as an act of aesthetic terrorism.
My rating? "The Finger".