City of the Living Dead (Paura nella città dei morti viventi) (Lucio Fulci, 1980)

Disembodied voices which emerge from some register between screaming monkey babies and creaking wooden floors, mist which shrouds and shudders along city streets, visions of people that randomly appear and disappear all seem to weirdly fit with a painfully thin narrative about some hanged priest baloney and some ancient curse-like claptrap and some séance nonsense. But when the film gives us its set pieces–its bleeding shards of glass and a maggot whirlwind and a nasty trepanning and an even nastier regurgitation and a shambling coterie of the undead who either want to stare blankly at you or squeeze your head really hard–it all just makes us sigh and wish for some consistency in one’s supernatural tomfoolery, some believability in the unbelievable.

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