Back in the summer of 666 …

Brothers, sisters and neophytes … the temperature begins to plummet, the darker nights draw in, the leaves turn to gold and russet and fall from the trees like a crucifix falls from the hands of a nun who has just witnessed her first Walerian Borowczyk film … Summer ebbs, my delightful children of the night. Our ramblings through the darkly enchanted forests of this blog must come to an end. Likewise our cavortings beneath the moonlight (this specificially on the instructions of the missus!)

In short, friends, readers and degenerates, Summer of Satan draws to a close. But I have three more offerings for you, three more unholy examples of the filmmakers art. We will revel this week, my fallen angels, in an orgy of sex, satire, ceremonies and sin, of magic, mysticism and muscle cars … Three more offerings, beginning tomorrow, from Mexico, Spain and the Hollywood mainstream at its most lurid.

So invert your crucifixes, turn up the heavy metal, speak in tongues and remember why it is that Christ wasn’t born on the internet: they’d never have found three wise men or a virgin.