So he dies, she throws the body in the water and sets about ingratiating herself with the in-laws. But before she has time to work her way up to good natured jokes about menopause, she’s dealt a hand of murder – her blonde life extinguished by some mysterious figure in black. The family, unbeknownst to them the full, gory details, continue with their regular routines. Yet, how regular we can deem their routines when said days concern the repetition of the funeral of an infant daughter/sister who snuffed it some years back remains to be seen. Who killed our femme fatale? And what of these subsequent deaths – who’s behind all this bloodshed?

The veil of the whodunit floats down from the rafters, crinkled and still smelling from the time Francois Ozon played with it. It’s the old story: here are some potentially homicidal gents living in the Irish countryside, surrounded by peat and comical caricatures (“aye, by the balls of Finn MacCool!” cries the groundsman), and we are to guess the assailant. Is it the older brother with the Johnny Cash face? How about the younger brother with his disturbingly gap-laden dreams? Perhaps Patrick Magee and his shyster moustache?

The fact that legend orates that Corman requested Coppola make some Psycho-esque picture to capitalise on all that Hitchcockian fervour in the streets is of little surprise. Teasing hints at ghostly doings and various spectral agencies up to no good quickly give way to a spattering of the tangible. Trauma, repressed memories, and psychological precariousness are the order of the day here – fully embracing the Hitchcockian method of conjuring horror, albeit with added blood and less implied violence.

At the beginning I was slightly worried having missed the first dozen installments, but it turns out that no background knowledge need be possessed to enjoy the film – and enjoy it we will, as surprising as that may be. Whilst I couldn’t give a shit about Coppola and his pursuits in the world of Mario Puzo, Dementia 13 is well-shot and decently written, and looking at it, it comes as no surprise that he went on to successes beyond this. Plus, like Bucket of Blood, it shows that AIP and Corman could make films of quality, not weighed down by nonsense like having a budget. With a plot nicely rounded up at the end, and a story comfortably diverging from its hackneyed inception, I eagerly await the next chapter, Dementia 14: Jack’s Revenge.