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While an understanding of visual storytelling seems to be imparted in the womb these days (is Nielsen tracking fetus viewing trends, I wonder?), believe it or not, the language of cinema had to be invented. Close-ups, wide-shots, cross-cutting; the mechanics of the modern blockbuster all have their origin in The Birth of a Nation (1915), director D.W. Griffith's sprawling three-hour silent epic set amongst the political and social turmoil of the Civil War. The Stonemans and the Camerons, once a cordial pair of families, find themselves on opposite sides of the conflict, destroying romantic relationships and turning lifelong friends into unwilling enemies. The crux of the argument revolves around slavery, leading to the heroic rise of the Ku Klux Klan, who gather their forces to defeat the unleashed Negro menace. Yes, that's Griffith's take on history, based on a novel The Clansman: A Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan . There's no defense for the film's p...

Supporting actors are more than just an anything-goes Academy Awards kickoff category; in the right circumstances - and despite minimal screen time -they can push everyone else right into the background. Take 1956's Hilda Crane , starring Jean Simmons as the titular modern woman, returning to her small-town roots and finding it difficult to adjust to common old-fashioned notions like marriage, kids and social compromises. The film, part of a wave of movies that questioned just what it meant to be a woman in post-war America, is predictably melodramatic and stagey (having been adapted from the play by Samson Rephaelson). It's 20th Century Fox quality through and through, but it's also a dreadful bore. That is until the entrance of Evelyn Barnes as Mrs. Burns, the overprotective prospective mother-in-law who takes an instant dislike to Hilda's scandalous past and is intent on breaking up the romance with her wealthy son, Russell (Guy Madison). Barnes takes a characte...

Even within the horror-exploitation fan community, Last House on the Left (1972) is a legendarily divisive film. It's not the most explicit in the rape-revenge genre ( I Spit on Your Grave takes things a bit further) and certainly not the most polished ( Night Train Murders tells the same story with much more style), but it staked its claim early as the premiere example of the heights (or depths) of which '70s horror was capable of achieving. Director Wes Craven and producer Sean S. Cunningham, with a pair of adult features behind them, knew the genre's success would soon be measured on a sliding scale of smut and pushed the limits relentlessly. On their way home from a concert, Mari and Phyllis are kidnapped by a quartet of escaped criminals who drag them to a supposedly isolated forest where they humiliate, rape and murder them. As fate would have it, the scene of the crime is only a short walk from Mari's home where her parents, having discovered the bodies...