“Shiver Me Timbers” is another slapdash slasher where the madman murdering nondescript nobodies is supposedly some twisted interpretation of Popeye.

“Ash” shows more promise for Flying Lotus’s filmmaking future rather than impressing as an early career highlight to be repeatedly revisited.

The tagline says, “Everyone’s a suspect,” but that’s not true. The primary suspect can only be the one actor most people have previously heard of.

“Locked’s” reticence to hit hard with a meaningful message, unsympathetic characters, and thinly stretched thrills destine the movie for mediocrity.

“Whatever, it’s fine” doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement, yet that’s approximately where “Hell of a Summer” lands in ultimate entertainment value.

“It Feeds” does just enough that’s different to become an example of how indie horror can be easily approachable without having to feel flat.

“Dead Mail” shows what indie filmmaking is supposed to look like when it’s done with passion as well as precision.

“The Woman in the Yard” languishes as a mostly muted spooker that’s heavy on dour drama, yet light on lasting chills.

Conceptually compelling and exceptionally executed, “Shadow of God” is the most memorable possession movie since “The Exorcist.”

“825 Forest Road” is recommended for fans of movies made by indie artists who put sincere commitment into personal projects.

“The Rule of Jenny Pen” fires off frightful suggestions from a bevy of barrels pointed directly at anyone who has ever felt unnoticed and unheard.

I can't recommend "Curse of the Clown Motel,” but I can recommend a trip to the actual Clown Motel and its surrounding town of Tonopah, Nevada.

It’s moderately more watchable than “Popeye’s Revenge,” though that’s like saying being mauled by a bear is preferable to being mauled by a lion.

“The Monkey” cheerily and cheekily revels in this brand of B-movie schlock, though it always does so with hyper-stylized shocks.

Samara Weaving earns top billing and the most minutes onscreen, but “Borderline” is really a greater showcase for Ray Nicholson.

The uneven experience ends up feeling so fleeting that I’m uncertain what needs to be said about the movie other than a head-tilting “eh.”

Once the slight shininess of “Bloat’s” “screenlife” sheen gets dulled, it’s even easier to see the movie as a rote possession yarn.

Dualities dominate “F Marry Kill,” though they cause confusing creative conflicts more often than they work in tandem to complement one another.

What’s the point in paying the movie any attention simply because it was first to hijack a lapsed Disney property for exploitation in hacky horror?