Sunday Horror Afternoon Review: Necropolis (1987)

If Necropolis (1987) isn’t the epitome of video store sleaze, then no film is. A gloriously absurd concoction of punk rock aesthetics, occult weirdness, and neon-soaked sleaze, this ultra-low-budget oddity plays out like a gutter poet’s fever dream. It’s the kind of movie you’d discover on a battered VHS tape, its warped visuals and lurid cover art begging for late-night viewing.

The plot—if you can call it that—follows Eva (LeeAnne Baker), a centuries-old witch who resurrects herself in 1980s New York City to feast on souls and bring her coven back to life. Along the way, she crosses paths with hapless mortals, including a gritty journalist and a streetwise cop, both of whom are powerless against her charm and supernatural malevolence. What Necropolis lacks in coherence, it more than makes up for with sheer attitude.

LeeAnne Baker is the unholy anchor of the film, exuding raw charisma as the seductive, leather-clad villainess. Whether she’s leading blood-soaked rituals or lounging in her lair surrounded by undead minions, she owns every scene. Her performance is campy yet magnetic, embodying the film’s love of excess.

Director Bruce Hickey leans heavily into style over substance, with neon lighting and off-kilter camera angles giving the film a surreal, dreamlike quality. The practical effects, while laughably cheap by today’s standards, add to the grimy charm—particularly the goopy, stomach-churning gore sequences. And the soundtrack? A pulsating mix of synth and punk that perfectly captures the film’s rebellious, anarchic energy.

But beneath the schlock lies a twisted little heart. Necropolis isn't just a movie; it’s a manifesto for the weird and forgotten, a love letter to horror's grimy underbelly. It’s messy, ridiculous, and unapologetically itself—qualities that make it feel like an artifact from a bygone era of filmmaking.

If you’re craving something that feels like it was ripped straight from the shelves of a dingy video store, Necropolis is an ideal pick for your Sunday horror ritual. It's chaotic, campy, and completely unforgettable. Just don’t expect it to make sense—and that’s part of the fun.