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Written and directed by Lars von Trier, one of the most influential and provocative filmmakers working today, Antichrist (2009), tells a story of parental loss, mourning and despair that result from the tragic death of a child. When the film screened at the 2009 Cannes Film Festival, it split audiences down the middle. Some attacked von Trier for misogyny (amongst other things), while others defended him for creating a daring and poetic portrait of grief and separation. Dense, shocking, and thought-provoking, Antichrist is a film which calls for careful analysis. The book follows an account of the film's making with an in-depth consideration of the themes and issues arising from it — the ambiguous depiction of the natural world, the shifting gender power relations, its reflections on Christianity and the limitations of rationality. At the film's heart, says the author, is a heart-breaking depiction of grief-stricken parents, a confounding interplay between psychology and psychosis, misogyny, and empowerment.

Despite its reputation as one of the greatest and most influential of all horror films, there is surprisingly little literature dedicated to Mario Bava's Black Sunday (1960), and this work is the first single book dedicated to it. This book places the film in the historical context of being one of the first sound Italian horror films and how its success kick-started the Italian horror boom. It considers the particularly Italian perspective on the gothic that the film pioneered and its fresh and pioneering approach to horror tropes such as the vampire and the witch and considers how the casting of British 'Scream Queen' Barbara Steele was crucial to the film's effectiveness and success.

Ridley Scott's 1982 film Blade Runner is now widely recognized as an undisputed masterwork of science-fiction cinema and one of the most influential films released in the last forty years. Yet on its original release, it was both a critical and commercial failure, criticized for its perceived prioritizing of style over content and a narrative that did not deliver the anticipated high-octane action that its star casting and large budget normally promise. How did a film that was removed from circulation within a month of its premiere come to mean so much to modern audiences and provide such a rich seam of material for film and media studies? This book excavates the many significances of the film — its breakthrough use of special effects as a narrative tool; its revolutionary representation of the future city; its treatment of racial and sexual politics; and its unique status as a text whose meaning was fundamentally altered in its re-released Director's Cut form, then further revised in a Final Cut in 2007, and what this means in an institutional context.

Few films have had the influence and impact of The Blair Witch Project (1999). Its arrival was a horror cinema palette cleanser after a decade of serial killers and postmodern intertextuality, a bare bones ‘found footage’ trendsetter. The Blair Witch Project was the tenth biggest box office earner of 1999. Even with strong competition in the horror genre, the film managed to stand out from the rest. It was arguably a product of its time more than any other film of the 1990s, heralding the advent of digital filmmaking. Backed up by an internet marketing campaign, The Blair Witch Project became a glowing example of what could be achieved with cheap emerging technology, imagination, and a ‘less is more’ approach. By the year 2000, and due to the influx of digital video cameras, there were far more independent features being made than ever before. This book explores the aesthetics of The Blair Witch Project, how identification is encouraged in the film, and the way it successfully creates fear in contemporary audiences. The book tells the story of the film from his conception and production, and then provides a unique analysis of the techniques used, their appeal to audiences and the themes that helped make the film such an international hit, including the pioneering internet marketing.

Mario Bava's Blood and Black Lace (1964) is a legendary title, and is commonly considered as the archetypal giallo. A murder mystery about a faceless and menacing killer stalking the premises of a luxurious fashion house in Rome, Blood and Black Lace set the rules for the genre: a masked, black-gloved killer, an emphasis on graphic violence, elaborate and suspenseful murder sequences. But Blood and Black Lace is first and foremost an exquisitely stylish film, full of gorgeous color schemes, elegant camerawork, and surrealistic imagery, testimony of Bava's mastery and his status as an innovator within popular cinema. This book recollects Blood and Black Lace's production history, putting it within the context of the Italian film industry of the period and includes plenty of previously unheard-of data. It analyzes the film's main narrative and stylistic aspects, including the groundbreaking prominence of violence and sadism and its use of color and lighting, as well as Bava's irreverent approach to genre filmmaking and clever handling of the audience's expectations by way of irony and pitch-black humor. The book also analyzes Blood and Black Lace's place within Bava's oeuvre, its historical impact on the giallo genre, and its influential status on future filmmakers.

When Candyman was released in 1992, Roger Ebert gave it his thumbs up, remarking that the film was “scaring him with ideas and gore, rather than just gore.” Indeed, Candyman is almost unique in 1990s horror cinema in that it tackles its sociopolitical themes head on. As critic Kirsten Moana Thompson has remarked, Candyman is “the return of the repressed as national allegory”: the film's hook-handed killer of urban legend embodies a history of racism, miscegenation, lynching, and slavery, “the taboo secrets of America's past and present.” This book considers how Candyman might be read both as a “return of the repressed” during the George H. W. Bush era, and as an example of 1990s neoconservative horror. It traces the project's development from its origins as a Clive Barker short story (The Forbidden); discusses the importance of its gritty real-life Cabrini-Green setting; and analyzes the film's appropriation (and interrogation) of urban myth. The two official sequels (Candyman: Farewell to the Flesh [1995] and Candyman: Day of the Dead [1999]) are also considered, plus a number of other urban myth-inspired horror movies such as Bloody Mary (2006) and films in the Urban Legend franchise. The book features an in-depth interview with Candyman's writer-director Bernard Rose.

This book is one of the most controversial horror films ever made. Despite not achieving huge success when it was first released, the Italian production found an audience on home video in the 1980s and became a 'must-see' for connoisseurs of extreme cinema. Indeed, Cannibal Holocaust's foremost legacy is in the United Kingdom, where it obtained its reputation as one of the most harrowing and offensive 'video nasties' — a term used to refer to a group of films deemed to be 'obscene' by the Department of Public Prosecutions. However, as the years have progressed, Cannibal Holocaust has been re-evaluated, mainly as the forefather of the 'found footage' film, and recent home video re-releases have added some valuable perspective to the onscreen violence with extensive cast and crew interviews. What is missing from this contemporary activity is contextualization of Cannibal Holocaust's style, affirmation and discussion of its locations and any extensive discourse about its representation of third world inhabitants (i.e. as 'primitives'). In addition, and also amiss from previous dialogue on the production, is that Cannibal Holocaust can be seen as one of the key post-Vietnam films. It is the spectre of war — and an explicit warning about Western involvement in civil conflict — which progresses Deodato's story of jungle adventurers in peril. By approaching the film from a more formalist position, this book provides an insightful discussion of this groundbreaking film.

Brian De Palma's adaptation of Stephen King's debut novel, Carrie (1976), is one of the defining films of 1970s ‘New Hollywood’ style and a horror classic. The story of a teenage social outcast who discovers she possesses latent psychic powers that allow her to deliver retribution to her peers, teachers, and abusive mother, Carrie was an enormous commercial and critical success and is still one of the finest screen adaptations of a King novel. This book not only breaks the film down into its formal components — its themes, stylistic tropes, technical approaches, uses of colour and sound, dialogue, and visual symbolism — but also considers a multitude of other factors contributing to the work's classic status. The act of adapting King's novel for the big screen, the origins of the novel itself, the place of Carrie in De Palma's oeuvre, the subsequent versions and sequel, and the social, political, and cultural climate of the era (including the influence of second wave feminism, loosening sexual norms, and changing representations of adolescence), as well as the explosion of interest in and the evolution of the horror genre during the decade, are all shown to have played an important part in the film's success and enduring reputation.

A mirror of tomorrow, Alfonso Cuarón's visionary Children of Men (2006) was released to good reviews and a poor box office but is now regarded by many as a twenty-first-century masterpiece. Its propulsive story dramatizes a dystopian future when an infertile humanity hurtles toward extinction and an African refugee holds the key to its survival. Cuarón creates a documentary of the near future when Britain's totalitarian government hunts down and cages refugees like animals as the world descends into violent chaos. In the midst of xenophobia and power abuses that have led to a permanent state of emergency, Children of Men inspires with a story of hope and political resistance. This book explicates Children of Men's politically progressive significance in the context of today's rise of authoritarianism and white nationalism. Though topical at the time, the film now feels as if it's been torn from today's headlines. Examining the film from ideological, psychological, and philosophical perspectives, the book explores the film's connection to post-9/11 apocalyptic narratives, its evolutionary twist to the nativity story, its warning about the rise of neofascism, and its visual uniqueness as science-fiction, delving into the film's gritty hyper-realistic style and the innovative filmic techniques developed by director Cuarón and his cinematographer, Emmanuel Lubezki. The book explores the film's criticism of the pathologies of a reactionary politics that normalize discriminatory hierarchies and perpetuate vast differences in privilege. Children of Men prods us to imagine an egalitarian alternative with a narrative that urges emotional identification with rebels, outcasts, and racial and ethnic outsiders.

For many, Close Encounters of the Third Kind (CE3K) is not so much a movie as a religious experience. On its release in 1977, CE3K virtually redefined the science-fiction film, shifting it away from spaceships, laser guns, and bug-eyed monsters into a modified form of science fiction that John Wyndham once called ‘logical fantasy’. What would it be like if extra-terrestrials made contact with people on Earth? How would it feel? Like 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Steven Spielberg's primary inspiration, CE3K is concerned with mankind's evolution towards the stars, towards a state of transcendence. But Spielberg's vision hinges not so much on cool scientific intellect being the key to our next stage of evolution, as on the necessary development of emotional intelligence. To that end, we must regain our childlike curiosity for what lies beyond the skies, we must recover our capacity to experience wonder. Intensity of emotion is inherent to the film's meaning, and the aim of this book is to explore this in detail. Along the way, the book delves into the film's production history, explores Spielberg's remarkable cinematic realization of the film (including a comparison study of the three different release versions), and considers in detail how CE3K fits into the Spielberg oeuvre.

Co-written by Irish filmmaker Neil Jordan and British novelist Angela Carter, and based on several short stories from Carter's collection The Bloody Chamber, The Company of Wolves (1984) is a provocative reinvention of the fairy tale of Little Red Riding Hood. Unraveling a feverish metaphor for the blossoming of a young girl's sexuality and her subsequent loss of innocence, the film entwines symbolism and metaphor with striking visuals and grisly effects. Released in the early 1980s, a time which produced several classic werewolf films (including An American Werewolf in London and The Howling), The Company of Wolves sets itself apart from the pack with its overtly literary roots, feminist stance, and art-house leanings. The film's narrative takes the form of a puzzle box, unfolding as dreams within dreams, and stories within stories, which lead further into the dark woods of the protagonist's psyche, as she finds herself on the cusp of womanhood. The book explores all these aspects, as well as placing the film in the context of the careers of its creators and its position as an example of the “Female Gothic.”

Released in cinemas in 1982, Creepshow is typically regarded as a minor entry in both the film output of George A. Romero and the history of adaptations of the works of Stephen King. Yet this lack of critical attention hides the fact that Creepshow is the only full collaboration between America's bestselling author of horror tales and one of the masters of modern American horror cinema. Long considered too mainstream for the director of Dawn of the Dead (1978), too comic for the author that gave audiences the film versions of Carrie (1976) and The Shining (1980), and too violent for a cinemagoing public turning away from gore cinema in the autumn of 1982, Creepshow is here reassessed. The book examines the making and release of the film and its legacy through a comic-book adaptation and two sequels. The book's analysis focuses on the key influences on the film, not just Romero and King, but also the anthology horrors of Amicus Productions, body horror cinema, and the special make-up effects of Tom Savini, the relationship between horror and humour, and most notably the tradition of EC horror comics of the 1950s, from which the film draws both its thematic preoccupations and its visual style. Ultimately the book argues that not only is Creepshow a major work in the canons of Romero and King, but also that it represents a significant example of the portmanteau horror film, of the blending of horror and comedy, and finally, decades before the career of Zack Snyder (Watchmen, Man of Steel), of attempting to recreate a comic book aesthetic on the big screen.

Critics abhorred it, audiences loved it, and Hammer executives were thrilled with the box office returns: The Curse of Frankenstein was big business. The 1957 film is the first to bring together in a horror movie the 'unholy two', Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing, together with the Hammer company, and director Terence Fisher, combinations now legendary among horror fans. This book goes back to where the Hammer horror production started, looking at the film from a variety of perspectives: as a loose literary adaptation of Mary Shelley's novel; as a film that had, for legal reasons, to avoid adapting from James Whale's 1931 film for Universal Pictures; and as one which found immediate sources of inspiration in the Gainsborough bodice rippers of the 1940s and the poverty row horrors of the 1950s. Later Hammer horrors may have consolidated the reputation of the company and the stars, but these works had their starting point in the creative and commercial choices made by the team behind The Curse of Frankenstein. In the film sparks fly, new life is created and horrors unleashed, but the film itself was a jolt to 1950s cinemagoing that has never been entirely surpassed.

The Damned (1963) is the most intriguing of director Joseph Losey's British “journeyman” films. A sci-fi film by a director who hated sci-fi; a Hammer production that sat on the shelf for over two years before being released with almost no publicity as the second half of a double bill. Losey was a director vocal in his dislike of depictions of physical violence, but he often made films that radiate an energy produced by a violent clash of elements. The Damned catches a series of collisions — some of them inadvertent — and traps them as if in amber. Its volatile elements include Losey, the blacklisted director; Hammer, the erratic British studio, Oliver Reed, the 'dangerous' young actor, and radioactive children. This book concentrates on historical and cultural context, place, genre, and other themes in order to try to make sense of a fascinating, underappreciated film.

Released a matter of days after the end of the Second World War and a dozen years ahead of the first full-blooded Hammer Horror, the Ealing Studios horror anthology film Dead of Night featured contributions from some of the finest directors, writers and technicians ever to work in British film. Since its release it has become ever more widely regarded as a keystone in the architecture of horror cinema, both nationally and internationally, yet for a film that packs such a reputation this is the first time a single book has been dedicated to its analysis. Beginning with a brief plot-precis ‘road map’ in order to aid navigation through the film's stories, there follows a discussion of Dead of Night's individual stories, including its frame tale (‘Linking Narrative’), a consideration of the potency of stillness and the suspension of time as devices for eliciting goose bumps, an appraisal of the film in relation to the very English tradition of the festive ghost story, and an analysis of the British post-war male gender crisis embodied by a number of the film's protagonists. The book includes a selection of rarely seen pre-production designs produced by the film's acclaimed production designer, Michael Relph.

The story of an all-female caving expedition gone horribly wrong, The Descent (2005) is arguably the best of the mid-2000s horror entries to return verve and intensity to the genre. Unlike its peers (Saw [2004], Hostel [2011], etc.), The Descent was both commercially and critically popular, providing a genuine version of what other films could only produce as pastiche. For Mark Kermode, writing in the Observer, it was “one of the best British horror films of recent years,” and Derek Elley in Variety described it as “an object lesson in making a tightly-budgeted, no-star horror pic.” Time Out's critic praised “this fiercely entertaining British horror movie;” while Rolling Stone's Peter Travers warned prospective viewers to “prepare to be scared senseless.” Emphasizing female characters and camaraderie, The Descent is an ideal springboard for discussing underexplored horror themes: the genre's engagement with the lure of the archaic; the idea of birth as the foundational human trauma and its implications for horror film criticism; and the use of provisional worldviews, or “rubber realities,” in horror.

Undoubtedly the most notorious title in director Ken Russell's controversial filmography, The Devils (1973) caused a real furore on its initial theatrical release, only to largely disappear for many years. This book considers the film's historical context, as the timing of the first appearance of The Devils is of particular importance, its authorship and adaptation (Russell's auteur reputation aside, the screenplay is based on John Whiting's 1961 play of the same name, which was in turn based on Aldous Huxley's 1952 book The Devils of Loudun), and its generic hybridity. The book goes on to examine the themes prevalent in the film—this is the only film of Russell's which the director considered to be political—and considers the representation of gender and sexuality, gender fluidity, and how sex and religion clash to interesting and controversial effect. The book concludes by revisiting the film's censorship travails and the various versions of The Devils that have appeared on both big and small screens, and the film's legacy and influence.

This volume re-imagines the study of English and media in a way that decentralises the text (e.g. romantic poetry or film noir) or media formats/platforms (e.g. broadcast media/new media). Instead, the authors work across boundaries in meaningful thematic contexts that reflect the ways in which people engage with reading, watching, making, and listening in their textual lives. In so doing, the volume recasts both subjects as combined in a more reflexive, critical space for the study of our everyday social and cultural interactions. Across the chapters, the authors present applicable learning and teaching strategies that weave together art works, films, social practices, creativity, 'viral' media, theater, TV, social media, videogames, and literature. The culmination of this range of strategies is a reclaimed 'blue skies' approach to progressive textual education, free from constraining shackles of outdated ideas about textual categories and value that have hitherto alienated generations of students and both English and media from themselves.

Nicolas Roeg's Don't Look Now (1973) has been called “a ghost story for adults.” Certainly, in contrast to the more explicitly violent and bloodthirsty horror films of the 1970s, Don't Look Now seems of an entirely different order. Yet this supernaturally inflected tale of a child's accidental drowning, and her parents' desperate simultaneous recoil from her death and pursuit of her ghost, Don't Look Now is horrific at every turn. This book argues for it as a particular kind of horror film, one which depends utterly on the narrative of trauma—on the horror of unknowing, of seeing too late, and of the failures of paternal authority and responsibility. The book positions Don't Look Now within a discourse of midcentury anxiety narratives primarily existing in literary texts. In this context, it represents a crossover or a hinge between literature and film of the 1970s, and the ways in which the women's ghost story or uncanny story turns the horror film into a cultural commentary on the failures of the modern family.