Cool loner Spike and his nerdy cousin are your late 80s stereotypes for this evening. Both youths phone a 'horroscope' hotline and receive oddly specific predictions that are actually instructions in how to advance the godawful plot, albeit too damn slowly. In reality the nerdy cousin would be phoning sex lines, not wasting his money on bullshit horoscopes. The cool guy would've banged the blonde chick and then refused to be in any more scenes.
I'll never understand why people who never showed any interest in satanic killings before have such a collection of convenient candles in their home.
It was Robert Englund’s directorial début. Credit earned for not just doing a Wes, but shame, shame, shame for picking such a terrible script as your first.
1½ messenger fish out of 5
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