The first of the Universal monster movie crossovers (which is celebrating its 75th anniversary this 2018), 1943's Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man comes as the fourth sequel in the bolt-necked monster franchise, and a direct sequel to the tortured Lawrence Talbot feature, a man who was bitten by a werewolf and is now himself inflicted. Written by The Wolf Man scribe Curt Siodmak (and directed by Roy William Neill – a frequent 1940's Sherlock Holmes director), the screenwriter continues his tale of the tormented Talbot (Lon Chaney Jr. reprising his role) – cursed with the pentagram, the mark means that he is forever a pursued man (symbolic of the Star of David during World War 2, Siodmak, a German Jewish man, wrote the Wolf Man as a conduit for the horrid tale of his peoples’ torture, pain and death), a man who has supposedly been dead for four years.

Have you ever been walking late at night, and, as you travel your route, you hear someone following. . . the sound of their footsteps, slowly gaining, the ‘thud thud thud’ of their slightly quicker pace penetrating your deepest fears – your heart starting to palpitate as you pray that this is just mere happenstance and not some sort of psychotic stalker. This is the premise of the 2013 horror short: 2AM: The Smiling Man. Directed by Michael Evans (and based upon a Creepypasta – something I was unaware of until writing this article. . . it is a horror legend or image that has been copy and pasted around the Internet), the audience is placed in the shoes of a late night Roamer (Sean Simon), a twenty-something ‘anyman’ who is making his way home at 2 A.M. one night.

We’ve all had it happen before. . . an experiment goes awry – a recipe doesn’t turn out (and the cake somehow turns green), or we simply think ‘the old Mentos in a bottle of Coke trick’ is just a myth, but you’ve likely never had a day quite like scientist André Delambre (David Hedison – the only actor to play Felix Leiter in two James Bond flicks), a moment that will change his life forever – so, without further ado, I present to you 1958's: The Fly. Written by James Clavell (based upon a short story by George Langelaan) and directed by Kurt Neumann, the story is set in exotic Montreal, the french speaking Canadian city that is one of the oldest continuously inhabited locations in North America. It is here that a wealthy industrialist family is seemingly struck by a more than unusual tragedy – André Delambre has been found dead, head and arm obliterated by a hydraulic press. . . further adding to the mystery, his loving wife Hélène (Patricia Owens) is seen running from the scene of the crime.

Twenty-first century film studios have a very strict checklist as to which movies they produce. Sequels, spinoffs, crude comedies, reasonably priced horror flicks, animated fare, name/brand recognition, award hopefuls. . . all of this meaning that very few adventurous, risky projects get made anymore. Gone are the days (for the most part), when adult oriented features like Basic Instinct and Body Double graced the silver screen, or edgier family films such as Adventures in Babysitting, The Neverending Story, and Home Alone were made – whether you love them or hate them, they did not fit your prototypical mould. So, when a 2018 motion picture that is so far outside of the stratosphere gets a thirty-two million dollar budget (thank you 20th Century Fox – which may soon be snapped up by Disney. . . a worrisome acquisition for moviegoers, as the bloated studio already owns Lucasfilm, Marvel, The Muppets Studio, and Pixar), it is an exciting day for cinephiles and adventurous moviegoers. So, welcome to the El Royale. Bad Times at the El Royale is an R rated gem written and directed by Drew Goddard (co-scribe and director of Cabin in the Woods; adaptor for the screen of The Martian), the type of dynamic thriller that resembles a sharp British crime flick (one where we do not expect everyone to survive). As twisted as it is twisty, Goddard designs the most fascinating of settings (its own character). . . a neon-glowing, mid century modern gambling den of a motel, hidden on the outskirts of Reno, a building that straddles the Nevada/California border (and has one of those tacky red lines that indicates the boundary between states).

Could First Man finally be the film that brings Ryan Gosling that elusive Oscar? With two nods (for La La Land and Half Nelson), and countless other memorable roles that could have earned him more chances (think Lars and the Real Girl, Blue Valentine, Drive, and The Ides of March), Gosling has re-teamed, in short order I might add, with his La La Land writer/director, Damien Chazelle, for another perfect vehicle (one might call it a rocket) to showcase his acting chops – a fascinating Neil Armstrong biopic. Chazelle’s first directorial effort not to revolve around music (also, the screenplay does not come from him, rather Josh Singer), instead, he shoots for the moon. Gosling plays Armstrong, a man who has his own personal troubles. Married to Janet (Claire Foy), they have two children. . . one of which has cancer.

Special delivery – a five minute journey into a world devoid of science and logic, writer/director Roman Bubnov pits a mysterious, gift-giving force against a woman in an intriguing little Russian short film – Who’s There (2018). A twenty-first century Hitchcockian blonde (Darya Yanvarina) – ear buds in, phone attached to hip; a beautiful mystery, so alluringly aloof. . . a woman placed in a dire situation, she receives a text from source unknown, asking if she got the said sender’s present.