Dear readers, my levels of enthusiasm are absolutely popping at present! My quill quivers, my whiskers tremble, the air is vibrant with critical energy! It is always a most blessed day when we murder-consumed romantics have the occasion to dip our toes in into the ever-expanding world of Charles Lee Ray (Bradley Dourif), a serial killer whose soul is conveniently latched to a most inconspicuous vehicle. Inside the confines of a child’s toy ironically known as a “Good Guy,” Mr. Ray is able to murder with great abandon without great concern over legal repercussion.

Though this usually provides all the cover he needs for a good “spree,” Cult of Chucky sends its plastic male lead to an insane asylum, where Nina Pierce (Fiona Dourif) is being unjustly confined for crimes that Chucky committed (having seen the inside of a “health spa” or two dedicated to mental fitness, I may submit that the set decorators have not overburdened themselves with verisimilitude). Here, the culpability for Chucky’s latest crimes are once again foisted onto the poor Ms. Pierce, whose lowly status as an asylum inmate makes it downright impossible to convince anyone of the true perpetrator's identity.

It is no small feat tackling a series at this state of maturity. Birthed in the late 1980s out of the fertile minds of Mancini and Holland, Chucky has swelled to the status of icon, long having cemented his position among the pin-pricked demons and hockey-masked mouth-breathers of horror legend. Cult of Chucky is the eponymous doll’s seventh stroll onto the silver screen and so it is with no small measure of delight that I report to you, dear readers, that under the guidance of Don Mancini himself, the latest entry forcefully reaffirms Chucky's rightful place alongside the likes of Freddy, Michael and Death (*). 

While the quality of the Child’s Play films are steadfast, the tone has eluded any kind of uniformity. The first entry is by far the most frightening, with scares giving way to quips and japes as the initial trilogy ran its course. By the time Chucky was to be a groom and then a father (a considerable surprise given the anatomy of most children’s toys), the jokes had taken center stage. Curse of Chucky took a few steps back towards its horror origins, keeping Chucky completely silent for the a considerable portion of the film and turning Bradley Dourif’s first utterance into one of the most frightening moments in the franchise.

Cult of Chucky does an admirable job of incorporating the various tones that the preceding installments have adopted over the years, mixing comical asides with harrowing bloodshed. It even tackles as serious an issue as sexual assault, boasting the rare satisfaction of seeing a rape revenged without having to sit through the actual rape (though my tolerance for violence of all kinds is considerable, watching a woman ravished unwillingly can be a little too much for my constitution to bear).

In addition to its tonal victories, Cult of Chucky answers the call that sequels introduce larger and more fantastical sights than their predecessors in a most satisfying fashion -- namely, by providing multiple manifestations of Chucky, adding to the original a slightly more tousled variety and a handsome, crew cut-sporting option whose trim appearance had my dearest Penny Dee remarking that she would be proud to be seen with a Good Guy on her arm.

Yet despite the abundance of ginger-haired sociopaths, the highlight of the film is its pedigreed starlet. Fiona Dourif, the youngest daughter of Bradley, makes an absolutely smashing debut in the series. Ms. Dourif is no mere child parading around in her father’s garb while he’s off at work. To describe the breadth of her performance would be to spoil the experience for any gentle reader hoping to read this review for a mere recommendation, free from “spoilers” and other such noxious textual pitfalls. All I can say is that I hope she may find the franchise as fruitful and welcoming as it has been to her father. Her introduction is a sign that Chucky movies may continue to represent as sturdy a promise of an evening well spent as ever before.

Cult of Chucky runs 91 minutes and is rated R for strong horror violence, grisly images, language, brief sexuality and drug use.

(*) Death is a character invented by the Final Destination movies - Penny Dee, Ed.