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Published Monday, Aug. 10, 2009

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‘Quarantine’ will send you racing to flip on the lights

Normally I wouldn't consider digging into Quarantine in this space, a zombie movie that released here just last year and which I missed for reasons that no doubt included hangovers or throwing stars.

But the other day I was up in the attic of my day job, a windowless, pitch-black cavern where all I could see was the narrow beam of my flashlight and absolutely anything could have been right behind me. After I ran downstairs and stopped sobbing too hard for my mommy to understand me, my first thought was "Dang, that was exactly like Quarantine." So screw convention: this movie deserves another look.

While filming a segment with L.A. firefighters, reporter Jennifer Carpenter and her cameraman follow along on an emergency call to an apartment building. There, a disturbed woman critically injures a policeman, but when they try to get him outside for help, they find themselves sealed inside the building as a highly infectious virus spreads through the residents.

Trapping a bunch of hapless casualties inside an enclosed space with all kinds of terrible dangers is a classic horror recipe, meaning the difference between "tedious retread" and "so scary I couldn't leave the house for three weeks without carrying a sword" is all in the execution.

Director John Erick Dowdle executes like the state of Texas. He unfolds his plot like clockwork where the clock kills you, one new threat after the other, leaving the cast in a state of escalating panic. Restricting the footage to a single hand-held camera just amps up the sense of confused claustrophobia. Yet Dowdle lays out his plots and framing so well we're able to keep up even after the survivors have been reduced to chaotic hysterics, tearing around the apartments one step ahead of all the awful, awful things trying to shred them into meat confetti.

It's a ceaseless escalation of tension that leaves everyone in the room leaning as far back from the TV as possible. I'm normally so brave I wear cobras for bracelets and wear bracelets without fear of getting called a girlyman, but when the finale stretched and stretched until Carpenter was frenzied in terror and I was ready to make a permanent move to Under My Bed Street, I started to reconsider the virtues of cowardice.

"We should turn on all the lights now," my friend said as the credits rolled. I agreed.

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