Topical horror doesn’t come around that often — so it’s a surprise when Saw VI targets some real-life, cut-from-the-headlines villainy and goes for the jugular of crooked insurance companies and corrupt loan officers. Even more surprising is how this series somehow found its footing with this entry after waffling in complicated plot-land for far too long. This isn’t to say that Pt. 6 is a fine example of the horror genre — it still utilizes the same polarizing aesthetics that clearly separate its fervent supporters and die-hard detractors (i.e., grimy torture-filled deaths cut with an in-your-face flashy style). Yet sometimes in this all too self-serious franchise, an aura of morbid fun shines through, sometimes unintentionally (these films are not art), and sometimes planned to a perfect T. Thankfully with this one, the production team struck a good balance across the board, delivering a ridiculous concoction that manages to not be as torturous as its predecessors while providing a refreshing time at the gore store.

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Sometimes the setup for a film is so tantalizing that when the picture fails miserably, it hurts that much more. Pandorum is certainly one of these instances — a mysterious sci-fi horror freak-out that misses the horror altogether and bores the audience with asinine characters plodding through all-too-familiar territory. Take one part Event Horizon and equal parts Ghosts of Mars and The Descent, then mix them in a dirty blender, and that’s basically Pandorum. It takes a lot from what came before, then sullies things up by botching the execution, time and again. Instead of tension, viewers get frenzied editing. In the place of horror, there is literally a pool of fecal matter. As far as any kind of satisfying mystery, if the picture didn’t already lose its audience even before the halfway point, the rapid right turns in the finale aren’t going to blow anyone’s mind. Unfortunately for the filmmakers, the only thing they blow is a chance to deliver the goods.

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As a conventional slasher, this update on the original 1983 House on Sorority Row scores fairly big points for its impressive kills, yet it is brought down by the same kind of weak finale that has plagued many of its post-‘90s horrific whodunit peers. With the advent of Scream, the slasher genre has weighed heavily upon the hook of “who is the killer?” A rather delicious concept if done right, it can lead to a mindbender of a good time. Sadly, when this sort of 10 Little Indians plot goes sour, audiences get stuck with lame old men killers (à la: I Know What You Did Last Summer) or main characters who suddenly turn evil at the end, only to be overshadowed by their more frightening costumed selves from the first two acts of the film (My Bloody Valentine 3D). Many times, the poorly structured “reveal” comes complete with a James Bond villain speech about why they did what they did, eating up precious screen time at a point when viewers would rather be amped up than talked at. Thankfully, Sorority Row will still appeal to genre enthusiasts and the young crowd alike, thanks to its taste for bloody scares, T & A, and an above-the-line sense of style that should surprise most who come near.

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The filmmaking team behind the thoroughly over-the-top Crank franchise strikes out hard with their third outing — a half-cooked cautionary shoot-’em-up tale whose ADD-inspired visuals do little but bash the audience’s brains to an uncaring pulp. Devoid of any character development (or a strong plot), Gamer turns out to simply be a vehicle for Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor to go nuts behind the camera when they’re not sticking as much T & A on the screen as they can, all the while cowering behind a flimsy excuse for social commentary. This sort of approach might be fine if they put some time into creating a magnetic central character (à la Chev Chelios in the Crank films), but instead, they bore their viewers to death with this far-too-serious dramatic spin on The Running Man, starring Mr. Can’t Crack a Smile But Look at My Pecks, Gerard Butler. With warehouse gunfights aplenty, the picture is ruled by a third-rate Demolition Man revolutionary subplot and incoherent action — that is, when it’s not going hyperkinetic in its ugly version of a computer-simulation-addicted world gone horribly wrong.

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Rob Zombie takes his brand of hillbilly horror to new unpleasant levels with his follow-up to the much-maligned reboot of the Halloween series. Once again, gone is the slow-brewed tension that the franchise was framed upon. In its place are a series of brutal exercises — not only in onscreen deaths, but in genre filmmaking as a whole. The release that usually comes with enjoying a slasher film has been changed to sheer repulsion — and this doesn’t come from a conservative standpoint either. Zombie’s fetishized portrayal of violence baffles the brain with its mix of in-your-face gore and unrepentant viciousness, as if a homicidal maniac was let loose in Vietnam, complete with an MTV director filling in as a war photographer following his every move. One might think there was a method to this madness, but then, mixed with the sheer pretension of the added fantastical elements, it becomes quite clear that Halloween II is simply a mess — made by a misguided filmmaker whose access to Hollywood properties apparently comes with no barriers.

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Elementary school kids are in for a fun ride with Aliens in the Attic, a family-friendly action romp that is geared to get them riled up and dreaming of their own battle against an alien invasion. For all other audiences, the film is exactly what it is — a movie made for seven-year-olds. The checklist is as follows: Hits to the groin every 20 minutes? Check. A Jim Carrey-wannabe spaz acting like a clown anytime he’s onscreen? Yep, it’s got that, too. How about a possessed granny performing kung fu? Uh-huh. And a conceit that allows the kids to play while the parents are away? Oh yeah, the writers figured out a humdinger to explain that one. Indeed, those are cynical cheap shots — especially for a picture that will provide the goods to its target audience. However, one thing is for sure — a lot of time and energy was put into what will most likely be a forgotten bomb long after its days in the theatrical sun.

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There’s an underlying theme both in front of and behind the camera in the explosive war thriller The Hurt Locker — and that is craft. The story follows bomb squad Staff Sgt. William James (Jeremy Renner) as he comes to terms with the fact that nothing much else matters in his life other than being the best at what he can do — which is strap on a 100-lb. suit in 110+ degree heat and walk into a dangerous situation that he knows he can handle. With 873 successful bomb diffusions under his belt, James doesn’t blink, he just does. The same goes for director Kathryn Bigelow, who has already proven herself capable of standing shoulder to shoulder with the big boys of action, but hits yet another confident stride with this exercise in high-pressure filmmaking. The reason to see the engrossing Hurt Locker isn’t so much to soak in the politics of war or be overwhelmed by an overblown Hollywood budget, but to be taken on a journey of one breathless scene of tension after another. On the way, the heart of the picture makes itself apparent, but until then, this is an exemplary display of craft that’s sure to take your breath away.

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34-years ago this weekend, Steven Spielberg’s unleashed his legendary oceanic horror outing to stunned audiences everywhere — so what better time than now to dive into some of its most notable B-movie ripoffs? This particular batch of retread cinema can be a funny crop of B-movie adventuring. While trolling any number of video chains, viewers are bound to find a surplus of cheap thrillers featuring killer fish and a cast that usually comes in the form of Lorenzo Lamas, Casper Van Dien, or Anthony Sabato Jr. While some of the modern forays into deep-water horror tend to reflect the “smart shark” conceit of Deep Blue Sea, it’s their forefathers in the shark cinema arena that present a more delectable plate of stolen ideas and shoddy FX work, all stemming from the big, bad granddaddy of ‘em all, Jaws.

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