Quarantine is a Hollywood remake of the Spanish horror film [Rec] (a reference to the “record” button on a hand-held video camera). I saw the world premiere of [Rec] in Venice last year at 10am and had to change my trousers at noon. It scared the living daylights out of me. John Erick Dowdle’s shot-by-shot copy of this brilliant fright movie is set in Los Angeles at midnight.

Jennifer Carpenter is a young, bored reporter doing the graveyard shift for a local news channel. Her chirpy piece about the fire brigade turns into a sizzling flesh-eating nightmare when a senile old lady in a downtown apartment block takes a large bite out of a firefighter’s neck.

Within seconds the building is surrounded by trigger-happy SWAT teams. The electricity is cut off. The panic among the residents is absolutely terrific. Carpenter and her anxious cameraman, Steve Harris, record the hysteria like regional BBC reporters who hit Newsnight gold.

Logically, the film ought to die of embarrassment as soon as the cornered residents start turning into rabid psycho zombies. But this is the black, comedic genius of Quarantine. The tension is a work of art. “I haven’t seen anything like this before,” says the baffled medic from flat 3B, poking an infected corpse. “Mostly because I’m a vet.”

Quarantine is a lucrative steal by Dowdle. The Spanish original is arguably the best vérité fright movie since The Blair Witch Project. The American version is not quite in the same league. Dowdle erases the supernatural spice. He makes the grisly premise more “logical”. The curious result is that Quarantine is less frightening than [Rec]. But I’m talking fractions. Dowdle’s thriller is still a consummate nerve-shredder. And any film that buries an axe in the skull of reality television is to be cherished.

18, 89 minutes

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