This week on The Rotten Horror Picture Show Podcast, Clay and Amanda turn their attention to one of the most haunting and elegant horror films ever made: Eyes Without a Face (1960). The French classic from Georges Franju is a chilling blend of poetic beauty and surgical nightmare, telling the story of a brilliant but unhinged doctor determined to restore his daughter’s disfigured face—no matter the cost. Clay and Amanda dig into the film’s eerie atmosphere, its delicate balance of tenderness and terror, and the unforgettable imagery that has influenced decades of horror filmmakers. It’s a quiet, unsettling masterpiece that lingers long after the final frame.

Now, I’m sure it’s a wonderful film. Truly. I take Clay and Amanda at their word. But I do have to point out a small personal complication: I, uh… don’t have eyes. I have a face, mind you—perfectly good face, all things considered—but eyes? Not part of the package. So when I sat down to watch Eyes Without a Face, I quickly realized I might not be the target audience.

I tried, I really did. I listened closely. The footsteps, the dialogue, the unsettling music—it all sounded very atmospheric. I imagine there were some striking visuals happening as well. People often mention a mask? A very creepy mask? I’m sure it’s fantastic. I just… can’t confirm that personally.

Still, Clay and Amanda do an excellent job walking through the film for those of us who, for whatever reason, might not be able to see it. They describe the performances, the tone, and the infamous surgical sequences in vivid detail—which is both helpful and, frankly, a little distressing.

So if you’re blessed with eyes, definitely give this one a watch. And if you’re not? Well, good news—you’ve got Clay and Amanda to paint the picture for you.

And don't forget to follow Clay and Amanda as they dig in to a year of sequels on Patreon at patreon.com/thepenskyfile!

This week on The Rotten Horror Picture Show Podcast, Clay and Amanda travel into the haunting, melancholic world of Guillermo del Toro’s The Devil’s Backbone. Set during the final days of the Spanish Civil War, the film blends ghost story, historical tragedy, and gothic atmosphere into one of del Toro’s most emotionally powerful works. Clay and Amanda explore the film’s themes of memory, loss, and the lingering scars of violence, as well as its unforgettable imagery—from the lonely orphanage to the pale, sorrowful ghost of Santi drifting through dark hallways. It’s a beautiful, eerie meditation on how the past refuses to stay buried, and why del Toro remains one of horror’s most compassionate storytellers.

Which, frankly, is a perfect topic for how I’m feeling right now—because something tragic has happened here as well. I arrived late to what was supposed to be a lovely gathering. There was talk of paella. Real paella. Rice, saffron, seafood, maybe a little chorizo—warm, fragrant, glorious. A communal dish meant to be shared. I could practically taste it.

But when I got here? Gone. Completely gone. Vanished like a ghost in an old Spanish orphanage.

What remains in the bowl before me is not paella. It is not even food in the traditional sense. It is chip crumbs. A desolate little graveyard of tortilla chip fragments and dust. Someone scraped the bottom of the bowl and said, “Well, there’s still a little left,” which is the culinary equivalent of emotional betrayal.

So now I’m sitting here, hungry and betrayed, listening to Clay and Amanda discuss The Devil’s Backbone—a story about lingering sorrow, unfinished business, and ghosts that refuse to move on. And honestly? I relate. Because until the paella situation is resolved, I too will remain here… haunting this empty bowl.

And be sure to follow all the tasty coverage of horror sequels with Clay and Amanda this year on Patreon at patreon.com/thepenskyfile

This week on The Rotten Horror Picture Show Podcast, Clay and Amanda hit the gas with a discussion of Duel (1971), the lean, mean thriller that marked the feature debut of a young Steven Spielberg. Originally produced as a television movie, Duel was so effective, so tightly constructed, that it was later expanded and released theatrically—launching Spielberg’s career with a simple but terrifying premise: one man, one car, and one relentless, faceless truck driver who refuses to let him go. Clay and Amanda break down how Spielberg builds unbearable tension out of open highways, sparse dialogue, and pure cinematic momentum. It’s stripped-down suspense at its finest, proof that you don’t need aliens or sharks to make an audience squirm—just a road and something chasing you down it.

Now, personally? I don’t care for driving. Not because of road rage. Not because of reckless truckers. No, my grievance is far more tragic. The windshield. That thick, cruel pane of betrayal stands between me and what could be a veritable buffet of airborne delights. Do you know how many juicy, protein-packed bugs are out there on the highway? Countless. And what happens? Splat. Wasted. Perfectly good snacks smeared uselessly against the glass instead of landing directly where nature intended—right in my open mouth.

Watching Duel is especially frustrating for me. All that speeding down lonely desert roads, all that prime insect territory just zooming by untouched. Dennis Weaver’s character is busy worrying about a murderous truck, and I’m thinking, “Sir, do you realize the missed culinary opportunity here?”

Still, Clay and Amanda make a strong case for the film’s brilliance. They explore its minimalism, its craftsmanship, and how Spielberg transforms the mundane act of driving into a primal survival story. Me? I’ll be listening carefully—preferably with the window down. You never know what might fly in.

And don't forget to visit patreon.com/thepenskyfile to help support the show, and follow Clay and Amanda down the road of horror sequels this year!