A collaboration between director Tom Holland (Fright Night, Child’s Play) and writer David Schow (The Crow) would rightly have many horror aficionados on the edge of
their seats in anticipation, but We All
Scream for Ice Cream comes across chiefly as a half-melted case of what might have
been.

The Devil’s Rejects) stars
as Buster, a simpleminded ice cream man in a clown costume who rides around in
his van selling “Cheery Tyme Ice Cream.” When the young neighborhood punk eggs
on other kids into pulling a prank on Buster, however, things go terribly, fatally
wrong, and Buster is killed. One night 20 years later, Buster returns from the
grave (in full clown makeup, naturally) to seek revenge against the now-adult neighborhood
kids who let him die, as well as their children. Tracking down these kids, he
does this by serving up poisonously spiked ice cream cones which cause the kids’
parents to disintegrate and melt away. Standing in the way of Buster’s evil
scheme is the remorseful Layne (Lee Tergesen).

Forsythe is an understandable favorite of director Rob
Zombie and other horror/cult directors dwelling on the genre fringe, mainly
because he’s a fiercely committed actor who never bristled at the suggestion of
“more.” So his work gives We All Scream for
Ice Cream an anchored center, to be sure. The premise, too — which comes
across as part It, and part old-school
throwback to something like Nightmare on
Elm Street — is creepy and unnerving, trading more effectively in morality-play
mood than a lot of recent Masters of Horror titles, of which this film is an
entry. Schow’s story, though, leans heavily on a few predictable plot devices,
and the film ultimately never finds an extra gear that moves it past the level
of mere goosing entertainment.

Housed in a regular Amray case in turn stored in a
cardboard slipcover with an absolutely great cover, We All Scream For
Ice Cream is, like every episode in the aforementioned series so far, presented in a
1.78:1 anamorphic widescreen transfer, with solid flesh tones, deep and
consistent blacks and only a few mild problems with compression artifacts. Well-produced
Dolby digital 5.1 surround sound and Dolby digital 2.0 stereo tracks anchor the
audio presentations. Animated menus give way to the most substantial bonus
feature — an audio commentary track from Holland and Schow, in which the pair somewhat
gruffly talk a good bit about the sacrifices that are made, both in budget and
time, on the Masters of Horror flicks, and how less compression would have
allowed for different potential interpretations, tangents and/or inclusions. Other
supplemental materials include brief featurettes on the movie’s visual effects work
and a more generalized making-of overview, with interview clips from Forsythe (who
says he actually once worked an ice cream truck driver) and others. Rounding things
out are a scrollable photo gallery, trailers for other episodes in the series, a
DVD-ROM version of the movie’s script and a brief biography of Holland. To purchase the film via Amazon, click here. C (Movie) B- (Disc)

I know, I know… Valerie
on the Stairs sounds like a Counting Crows song. And yet it’s not. Adapted
from a story by Clive Barker, Valerie on
the Stairs is in fact the latest entry in the bestselling Masters of Horror anthology series, this time with series executive producer Mick Garris (The Stand) back in the saddle himself as
writer-director.

Tyron Leitso (Dinotopia)
stars as Rob Hanisey, an unpublished novelist who moves into Highberger House,
a grungy commune for broke, aspiring writers. This affords him the opportunity to
eat on a regular basis, and Tyron figures it might help keep the demons of
rejection somewhat at bay. On his first night, though, he comes into contact
with Valerie (Clare Grant), a gorgeous but mysterious apparition who lives in
the walls of the building and wanders its halls, under the control of a
frightening beast (Candyman’s Tony
Todd) who owns her soul. Rob believes he’s found his muse and a mystery worth
investigating to boot, but none of the other authors want anything to do with
his story. Are they perchance hiding something as well?

Barker has always had a layered penchant for literary in-references,
darkly ironic shading and sexual deviance (just think back to Hellraiser, with its barely contained
lethal-Goth eroticism bubbling just underneath the surface), and a good bit of
that distinguishing instinct remains intact with Garris’ teleplay translation. Valerie on the Stairs, though, while fairly
skillfully constructed from a technical point-of-view, also suffers from the
unfortunate editorial decision (addressed by Garris in one of the bonus
features) to inject goosing moments of gruesome gore and aural smash-cuts. The result
is, because of a small budget to begin with, the reduction in sum effectiveness
of what could have been a much more tightly contained psychological thriller. No need to try to play on a playing field for which you’re not suited, you know?

Housed in a regular Amaray case in turned stored in a
cardboard slipcover, Valerie on the
Stairs is, like every episode in the series so far, presented in a 1.78:1
anamorphic widescreen transfer, with solid flesh tones, deep and consistent
blacks and only a few mild problems with compression artifacts. Dolby digital
5.1 surround sound and Dolby digital 2.0 stereo tracks anchor the audio
presentations, and the latter, scaled-down mix is by the better offering, with
clearer dialogue and music. Animated menus give way to probably the most interesting
bonus feature — an audio commentary track from Garris in which he talks about
the pleasures of working with Christopher Lloyd and the challenges presented by
casting the series as a whole. Other supplemental materials include two production
featurettes with a nice variety of cast and crew interviews, a brief biography
of Garris, a copy of the movie’s script in PDF format for those who happen to have
a DVD-ROM-equipped computer, and a scrollable photo gallery. To purchase the film via Amazon, click here. C (Movie) B- (Disc)