The traditional dictionary definition of "asylum" is "a place where one can be safe" – a shelter, sanctuary, refuge. Back during the 1930's when I was a kid, my folks would take me to a wildlife sanctuary, and I'd get to feed stale bread to ducks. Therefore, one might assume that a nightmare asylum would be a place where people who suffered from nightmares could go to have pleasant sleep. Or, since this was a fantasy movie, perhaps a place where repetitive nightmares could go to obtain some much needed rest. For instance, I repeatedly dream that it's the first week of the academic year, that there are several classes that it's very important I attend, that I don't know where or when they are, and that the university has a policy of never releasing such information. That could use a rest, as well as the one where I'm teaching a class with no idea of what I'm supposed to be teaching. However, this wasn't such a movie. Unlike other reviewers, I watched it through to the end, though with the sound turned down because I couldn't make out what the nice folks in it were saying anyway and my dog needed her nap. The set was super low-budget, which I liked: mostly a cellar with steam pipes and the usual corridors that lead to dead ends. If the cast had appeared on the old Dragnet show, each member would have been arrested for overacting. The theme music should have been People, people who ear people / Aren't the most popular people in the world. The hamburger and various scrap meats seemed fresh enough, and leaner than what one usually finds in supermarkets, while the spaghetti seemed sufficiently cooked but not overcooked. I hope that the cast and staff salvaged most of their gore grub afterwards. The fight and dismemberment choreographies were frantic, unconvincing and boring. Especially those of a large, bewigged gentleman who waved a huge knife and his small, skinny gentleman pal. Since this film was made in the early 90's the pal didn't seem to be a Significant Other. That was kind of the author, producer and director.
