14. The Innocents (Jack Clayton, 1961)

A masterful supernatural horror, Jack Clayton's The Innocents is often criminally overlooked by connoisseurs of the horror genre. At 50 years old, it is staggering that it should still hold the power to horrify audiences. And yet it does. Indeed, Clayton's ghostly masterpiece lingers with the viewer much longer than the majority of modern horrors.

The Innocents is a screen adaptation of Henry James' acclaimed novella The Turn of the Screw, a chilling tale in its own right, and one that has had more than its fair share of reimaginings. However, The Innocents stands out as by far the most accomplished and effective interpretation of the novel. Its success can be seen as a combination of director Clayton's unique idiosyncratic adjustments to the source material and renowned cinematographer Freddie Francis' incredibly skilful and original approach to capturing the ghostly essence of the narrative. His utilisation of bold, minimal lighting and deep focus frays the edges of the frame and allows us to believe that terror lurks in every dark corner of the film's gothic mansion setting. Clayton aptly disregarded the title of James’ original piece, instead favouring The Innocents as a title, which is entirely appropriate given that the film centres its horror on the debatable innocence of the child characters, questioning whether or not it has been tainted. The change of title is notable also because, although the narrative is borrowed from James’ prose, the film is entirely Clayton’s vision.

The story tells of a young governess (Deborah Kerr - in her forties at the time but managing to channel innocent naivety) who is sent by a wealthy socialite (Michael Redgrave) to care for his two children at his idyllic country estate. The children, Flora and Miles, turn out to be charming, and the maid, Mrs Grose (Megs Jenkins) friendly and welcoming. However, the governess becomes unsettled when she begins to hear voices and see figures watching her, first from atop the tower and later from the far bank of the river. Clayton and Francis' superb filming techniques create ambiguity in the images of the figures, allowing we the audience to question whether the figures exist or are merely in the mind of the over-imaginative governess. The children, however, soon begin to appear secretive and devious and, upon probing Mrs Grose, the governess learns of the fate of her predecessor, Miss Jessel, who began an illicit affair with the valet, the devilish Peter Quint, their descriptions matching those of the figures witnessed by the governess. Why is this news so terrifying? Because both of them are dead. Now feverishly paranoid, the governess sees evil and corruption all around her - a letter from Miles' headmaster, stating that he is to be expelled for being a bad influence on the other boys; the eerie lullaby hummed with a knowing smile by Flora; and a disturbingly adult kiss goodnight from Miles. All suggest to both the governess and we the audience that not everything is as it appears and that dark forces may be at work, influencing and corrupting the children. The governess becomes more and more hysterical; her aggressive, desperate questioning of Flora prompting the girl to scream obscenities and denounce the governess as wicked. After sending Flora away with Mrs Grose, the governess accompanies Miles in a final confrontation with her ghostly demons...

The story alone is fairly unsettling but Clayton's vision of James' prose adds numerous more layers of terror. We, like the governess, are led to believe that ghostly figures could lurk in every shadow, adding to the suspense and heightening the horror. In one particularly haunting scene, a pale, ghastly face glides out of the gloom to stare through the window at the petrified governess. From that point on, we see horror lurking behind every window and are forced to question whether the dark figure in the background is simply one of the mansions many statues or something more sinister.

Sound is also effectively utilised throughout The Innocents and helps to convey the unearthly, supernatural qualities of the narrative. Be it via Flora's gentle lullaby; the shriek of a creature outside the governess' window; the steady tap of a curtain cord swinging against the window pane or the plethora of disembodied voices that plague the protagonist, the skilful manipulation of sound contributes to the feeling of unease maintained throughout the film, until its dreadful conclusion. In a terrifyingly fervid climax, which ultimately ends in tragedy, we the audience are left shaken, burdened with the ghastly images of Quint and Jessel and yet, chillingly, still none the wiser as to whether they were ever there at all.

5. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Tobe Hooper, 1974)

Much like Wes Craven's The Hills Have Eyes, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre introduced the unsettling notion of primitive barbarians existing within backwater America. While previously, American horror movies had highlighted faraway lands such as Transylvania, foggy London and frozen Antarctic plains as places of terror, a new generation of the genre, pioneered by the likes of Tobe Hooper, suggested that real monsters existed in the forgotten corners of contemporary America. The fact that Hooper based his screenplay on the antics of Wisconsin serial killer Ed Gein, further emphasises the sense of dreadful realism that is infused within the horrific narrative.

With such an explicitly violent title, it is perhaps inevitable that the horror emerges right from the get-go. The film's exposition sees a youthful group of friends pick up a hitchhiker on their way to a family homestead. The hitcher (Edwin Neal) immediately brings an unsettling atmosphere to the film as he garbles about working at the slaughterhouse and begins to slash himself with a knife. When he aims the blade at one of the friends, the group forces him out of the car, leaving him ranting on the side of the road. So far, so creepy. But things really take a grisly turn as young couple Pam and Kirk separate from the main group and set off to find a local swimming hole. Unable to locate it, they call at a nearby house to ask for directions. Unbeknownst to them, within this house dwells one of the scariest cinema monsters of all time. While Pam waits outside, Kirk ventures into the seemingly empty house. Stumbling over a trip wire, Kirk suddenly comes face to face with the lumbering figure of Leatherface, a towering maniac whose face is concealed by that of another person. After cracking Kirk's skull with a mallet, Leatherface drags his twitching body into his workshop. Meanwhile, Pam enters the house, curious as to why Kirk is taking so long. Upon discovering a living room full of bones, animal carcasses and furniture made from human remains, Pam too encounters Leatherface, who nimbly places her, kicking and screaming, onto the end of a meathook.

What is truly remarkable about Hooper's film is that, much like Carpenter's Halloween, the majority of the violence is implied, rather than graphically realised. Indeed, while the aforementioned scene is inarguably horrific, we the audience don't actually see the meathook penetrate Pam's flesh, nor do we see a drop of blood splatter from Kirk's skull. And while the character of Leatherface and his methods of murder are entirely gruesome, the true horror within this scene, and the entire film itself, is established through atmosphere. The juxtaposition between the perfectly ordinary exterior of the house and the death-entrenched items within it is one of the most effective elements of Hooper’s film. This factor is furthered in the film's climax in which, after witnessing her brother being carved up by Leatherface, main protagonist Sally (Marilyn Burns), is trussed up and forced to endure a dinner party with the rest of his deranged family, which include the manic hitchhiker; the initially friendly proprietor of the local gas station; and "Grampa", a disturbingly ancient man who is so weak with age he can barely move, except to sup at the blood from Sally's finger. Despite the sense of despair and helplessness of this scene, the film offers something of a happy ending, with a blood-soaked Sally escaping on the back of a pick-up truck and cackling manically as she speeds away from the deranged Leatherface.

Although typically viewed as an exploitation film, and often lumped into the category of "video nasty", The Texas Chainsaw Massacre endures as one of the most effective of all American horror films and also one of the most well-crafted. Although superficially a film motivated by extreme violence - certainly it possesses one of the most explicitly violent titles in cinema history - TCM exhibits raw filmmaking talent through its use of sound - the buzzing of flies and the relentless screams, particularly in the dinner scene, contribute to an incredibly unsettling viewing experience, while the use of setting and mise-en-scene - the somewhat idyllic rural environment starkly contrasted against grisly props such as the human furniture, the corpses in the rocking chairs and Leatherface's blood-soaked workshop - craft an undercurrent of death and stagnancy that flows throughout the narrative. The character of Leatherface also represents a terrifyingly grim masterpiece. He evokes many of the strengths that the figure of Michael Myers possesses - the silence, the masked face, the relentlessness - but he is much more complex than Carpenter's monster. Subtle scenes such as that depicting Leatherface sitting with his head in his hands, seemingly in despair of his murderous urges mark the antagonist as a troubled, complicated monster, and all the scarier for it. All in all, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is everything good horror should be. Multi-layered, atmospheric, bloodthirsty, gripping and rotten to the core.

7. The Wicker Man (Robin Hardy, 1973)

Perhaps the most unique horror film within this countdown, and certainly one of the most original creations the genre has to offer, Robin Hardy’s The Wicker Man remains a deeply unsettling piece of filmmaking and one of the most acclaimed British horrors of all time. Though best remembered for its horrendously grim finale, Hardy’s film boasts many more chilling treasures than that.

Like many horror films of its era, The Wicker Man places heavy emphasis on lust and sexuality. However, unlike the Hammer Horrors that portrayed such themes via amorous vampires and the like, Hardy’s film channels them through an almost entirely untouched subject. Though a deeply disturbing and macabre topic, the notion of Paganism remains mostly unexplored within the cinematic realm. However, screenwriter Anthony Schaffer’s script boldly introduces the unnerving concept that, on a rural island off the coast of Scotland, dwells a community of Pagans who believe that the only way to ensure the success of their harvest is to present their gods with a live human sacrifice.

Edward Woodward portrays the islander’s offering, Sergeant Howie, a straight-laced religious policeman who, on visiting the island after receiving reports of a missing girl, is unable to hide his contempt and suspicion for the chirpy villagers who deny all knowledge of the disappearance. However, through the deliberately slow pace and commendable storytelling technique, both Howie and we the audience begin to sense danger amidst the collection of welcoming smiles. As Howie encounters various bizarre incidents; his plane is sabotaged, stranding him; a recently buried casket contains the body of a rabbit; a schoolmistress sternly informs her young pupils of the workings of the male genitals, it is clear that something sinister is afoot.

And at the centre of all the mystery and unease is the king of horror himself, Christopher Lee, as Lord Summerisle, the dashing ruler of the islands folk. Summerisle’s blatant disregard of Christian principals and deliberately perplexing responses to Howie’s enquiries infuriate and horrify the policeman, who is forced to continue his search alone and with renewed vigour and desperation. Ultimately, he unravels the mystery too late and endures one of cinema’s most memorable exits.

Though the protagonist’s ultimate fate at the hands of the cunning villagers is indeed horrific, what makes the film so enduringly unsettling is the ever-present atmosphere of unease built up throughout the film. Despite the fact that almost everyone in the film-watching world knows how the film ends, the sense of dread remains all the more intact as we watch Howie’s desperate plight, knowing full well what will become of him. Also, the ambiguous nature of the antagonists adds to the unnerving quality of the film. While we feel blatant fear towards the likes of Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger et al, how are we supposed to respond to the beaming villagers, who ultimately assure Howie that his sacrifice is a great honour? While we feel empathy towards the doomed police officer trapped in the torso of the ominous wooden figure, it is difficult to despise the jubilant villagers as they stand hand in hand singing “Summer is a-coming in.” Is the film not simply playing on our anxieties towards other cultures? Does not animal sacrifice still exist elsewhere in the world even to this day? Such ambivalent elements uphold the film as a masterful horror, one that allows us to carry the perplexing dread with us for a long time to come.

2. 28 Days Later (Danny Boyle, 2002)

While Blair Witch may hold claim to the most disturbing ending to any horror film, 28 Days Later without question possesses the most terrifying introduction. With a brief prologue succinctly setting the scene – a group of animal rights activists releasing infected animals from a laboratory unknowingly unleash a highly contagious virus – the film proper begins with our protagonist Jim (superbly portrayed by Cillian Murphy) waking from a coma 28 days after the aforementioned incident. Finding his hospital entirely abandoned, he sets out into a truly unnerving environment. The sense of isolation and apocalyptic dread reaches immeasurable heights as Jim wanders the streets of a deserted London, desperately trying to assess, as are we the audience, just what has happened while he was sleeping.

This chilling opening sequence bleeds into the main narrative as we realise that the virus has spread throughout the country, and that only the infected remain. To label these antagonists as “zombies” would perhaps be unjust. A far cry from Romero’s shambling hordes of the reanimated dead, Boyle’s nightmarish vision reimagines zombies as super-fast, utterly relentless killing machines. While Romero’s rotting corpses hobbling around shopping malls may stand as clever metaphors for hot topics such as consumerism and nuclear warfare, the monsters in 28 Days represent something much simpler and much more terrifying. They capture that primal fear of society breaking down and of the total isolation that stems from this notion. And within a post-9/11 world, such fears when envisioned as effectively as Boyle manages to achieve, become all the more horrific.

Indeed, it is the concept and the way it is established within the opening frames of 28 Days Later that is the film’s greatest strength. Inevitably, it somewhat loses steam in the narrative’s second half, when the threat shifts from the vicious infected to the cunning inhabitants of a fortified army base. Nevertheless, nothing can undermine the true terror of the first half which contains some of the most chilling scenes ever committed to the big screen; be it the empty London streets littered with bank notes; the creaky church with the message “the end is extremely fucking nigh” scrawled on its walls; or the plague of rats fleeing the encroaching hordes of infected.

Through such visceral, mortifying images, 28 Days Later stands as an example of complete, unrestrained horror, born from originality and brilliant directing. No colourful masked villains; no clichéd set pieces or hammy performances, Boyle’s film is quite simply a nightmare of unimaginably horrific proportions brought to life with remarkable believability and ruthless brutality. Utterly terrifying.

3. Halloween (John Carpenter, 1978).

Channelling the ominous shadow of Norman Bates, John Carpenter's Halloween stands as the pivotal moment in the creation of the slasher film. Truly a horror for the Halloween season, Carpenter's masterpiece provides heebie-jeebies galore as the truly terrifying figure of Michael Myers stalks the sleepy town of Haddonfield on Halloween night, searching for attractive young babysitters to unleash his insatiable bloodlust upon. Regarding the film's voyeuristic villain, Carpenter keeps it playfully simple. Myers is pure evil. Unlike the disappointing Rob Zombie remake, which unsuccessfully attempted to explore Myers' childhood in order to explain his chilling motives, Carpenter's original merely implies that the killer is an insane individual who was simply born to kill. And we the audience may need know no more than that.

A variety of factors contribute to Halloween's legacy as a triumph of the horror genre. Perhaps most notable is its use of music. The strikingly simplistic theme tune, composed by Carpenter himself, remains a sound that, much like The Exorcist's Tubular Bells theme, has become synonymous with terror. Throughout the film, Carpenter's moody soundtrack helps to form multiple layers of fear to build within the audience's mind.

Another praiseworthy element of the film is its direction and ingenious manipulation of light and shadow. Carpenter's frequent use of long shots and steady tracking shots, often accompanied by the husky sound of Myers' breathing, add a voyeuristic aspect to the film, giving the impression that the protagonists are constantly under surveillance by the ever-present menace, while at the same time, drawing we the audience all the more intimately into the horror, as we are forced to observe the oblivious victims through the killer's eyes. Carpenter's direction also allows for the figure of Myers' to be almost constantly obscured, whether he be hiding behind a hedgerow in the distance, hovering behind billowing sheets on a washing line or lurking in the shadows of a dimly lit living room, the audience is constantly aware of the possibility that Myers may lunge from any corner of the frame. As Carpenter commends of Hitchcock's Psycho; "the scariest scene is where Arbogast comes up the stairs...that moment of [the killer] coming out of nowhere is what influenced me for Halloween". It certainly shows; barely a frame goes by in Halloween where we the audience are unable to convince ourselves that Myers may jump out from the shadows at any moment.

A further noteworthy element of Halloween is the fact that, despite the intensity of the horror, the film contains very little gore and a relatively low body count. Within the main body of the film, only three deaths occur, and each are incredibly drawn out, the majority of the horror being established through suspense. And when the killer finally does strike, barely a drop of blood is seen. Similar to Psycho's infamous shower scene and the much-discussed fact that we never see the blade penetrate the victim's body, in Halloween, even when Myers uses his knife to pin Bob to the kitchen door, the majority of the gore is merely implied. Instead we see two ghostly silhouettes - one with a knife hilt protruding from its torso - framed within a mass of shadows, further proof that clever use of lighting and framing can be much more effective in creating an atmosphere of horror than any amount of graphic violence or buckets of fake blood.

Ultimately, Carpenter's Halloween, with its favourable comparisons to classic Hitchcockian horror, it's impressive status as the origin of all slasher movies and the confession from Christopher Lee that his decision to turn down the role as chief protagonist Dr Sam Loomis was the worst decision of his career, must therefore be regarded as one of the most impressive horror films of all time. Its memorably chilling villain, its portrayal of suburban America as a principal setting for terror and its immeasurably effective use of sound, lighting and camerawork all contribute to the creation of a genuine horror masterpiece.