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There is a bouncy '50s feel to Tsui Hark's lightning-paced blue-collar comedy, Working Class. One that represents a communal place of camaraderie and bright, day-glo dreams with an abnormal amount of political hubbub amid the four-colour fun. It may be a relatively straightforward comedy, but the film still exhibits Hark's incredible ability to add something to even the most well-trod narratives, showing us how life can be pretty unrighteous and hard to get through, but that man can find the meaning of life even in the most imponderable and trivial places and really be happy. The performances are hilariously exaggerated, as are most of Teddy Robin's ridiculous sunglasses and the bottle of baby oil used to keep an often-shirtless Sam Hui out-glistening his dry-looking castmates, while the romance between Hui and the always stunning Joey Wong is adorable. The best thing is getting to see Tsui on screen... he is such a cool guy, oozes charisma and intelligence, while his direction is as scattershot and screwball as ever, with some very well-handled comic scenarios that manage to move from cliché to humour, all brilliantly underscored by a not-so-subtle and incredibly catchy Canto-synth cover of Donna Summer's She Works Hard For The Money. Those expecting innovation may be disappointed by Working Class, but the film is ultimately a dazzling little gem in Hark's impressive filmography, one that's guaranteed to leave a smile on your face.

Just when you thought Freddy's antics were over, Wes Craven conjures a New Nightmare, recapturing the dark essence of the original but with a pre-Scream metatextual twist. An inventive, almost cathartic exploration of illusion and fear, the film gives us all the terror without any of the sarcasm, deconstructing Craven's own bastardised creation with a twisted sense of intrigue. It works as a criticism of what the franchise had become; Freddy is far more straightforward. He doesn't manifest elaborate scenarios for each death, instead relying on pure intimidation and an overwhelming presence. Hence why he barely appears in the film itself, but that's by design. Craven's direction is certainly more muted than his other films, with an almost semi-documentary style. The production design has a suitably nightmarish look, the special effects are excellent, and J. Peter Robinson's score is suitably haunting. The film may lack the trancelike dread and surreal tone of Craven's other contributions to the series, with the climax almost tipping it back into ridiculously goofy territory, but it ultimately makes me wish Craven had directed at least one more proper Elm Street before his passing. The acting is a bit of a weird mix; Heather Langenkamp seems rather lifeless, although her relationship with John Saxon is exceptionally heartwarming, Robert Englund is great, while the other members of the cast are servicable. The self-reflexive nature of New Nightmare leads it to serve as a worthy epilogue to the Elm Street franchise, delivering on shocks, suspense and creepiness even if the execution lacks the stuff it struts in conception.

Almost playing like an ill-advised and completely half-assed parody of its own franchise, Freddy's Dead is a chaotic headscratcher, reducing the once-terrifying Dream Demon into a blandly annoying and goofy Looney Tunes caricature. A kinetic, jumpy, tonally confused, starry-eyed mess of a film that proves to be a hysterical fever dream of bad choices. Nothing about it makes any sense; not the title, nor the baffling attempt to make Freddy Krueger a sympathetic figure, nor the frantic pace and incompetent editing. The sheer audacity of Rachel Talalay directing this and then later going on to helm one of the most critically acclaimed episodes of Modern Doctor Who is outrageous. So much of the film is shot in an exceedingly flat, murky, and downright unimaginative manner; gone is the surrealist edge, arthouse aesthetics and wacky creativity; it feels like a poorly plotted joke delivered with all the comedic timing of a slowly sinking ship. It all leans so hard into Freddy's pop-culture status that it's easy to forget that once upon a time, he was terrifying. Gone is the sinister, burn-scarred child-murderer who haunts our nightmares. Instead, we get Freddy in full-on prankster mode, almost like the franchise decided that if Freddy's fame as a pop icon couldn't be topped, it might as well lean all the way into it. At least Robert Englund is still having fun despite the horrendously groan-inducing dialogue he's been given; he's the only one who is, while the rest of the cast stand around wide-eyed or, in Breckin Meyer's case, sporting an actual war crime of a haircut. Ultimately standing as a curious relic of a franchise that had long since traded scares for laughs, Freddy's Dead proves that even the most fearsome villains can be defanged by their own fame, an explosive attempt to throw everything at the walls without a care in the world, landing with more of a yawn than a scream.