Mass Transit Massacre

Rescue Mission Activate!
As some of you know and others don't care about, I spent the last year or so contributing to Pop Syndicate, a recently renovated website that lost all its past content (and writers). The following article appeared in 2009 and since you can't find it anywhere else in InterWorld, I'm rerunning it here. Apologies for the deja vu.

While riding the subway this morning, I experienced the occasional misfortune of hearing the sudden click followed by a very brief decrescendo. Once again, I had forgotten to charge my iPod. This being rush hour in one of the largest cities in the world, too many people were blocking my view of the new tet-heavy Dunkin' Donuts advertisement and I lacked the arm room to reach inside my bag for a book. What you ask, was a bored, half awake, rather irritable horror fan to do with only the screeching sounds of train tracks for entertainment?

Movie-filled imagination action, that's what. I've seen my share of bloodfests and know that the only thing scarier than watching someone die a painful death is realizing that the victim could be me, and the only thing more relaxing is realizing that it could be my enemy. And so, for those dark hours spent in mass transit (commonly known here as 7-9 AM and 4-7 PM), I present a few mind games to keep you sane and safe from boredom, danger, and the urge to kill the gum snapping secretary leaning on the center pole you can only grip with a pinky. Basically, you picture her death (and your subsequent survival) in your head via one of these scenarios:

Final Destination Destinies

The great thing about this growing franchise is that it gives paranoid obsessives like me an endless supply of things to fear. If a tanning booth and Slurpee can kill you, is there anything that can't? While your train is generally not stocked with life-threatening hazards (at least until the recession starts hitting mass transit budgets, that is), everyone around you is constantly at risk should Death draws their Metro card. 

That teenager applying mascara sitting next to the old man with an umbrella? Double eye gouging. The Mariachi band strumming away for spare change? One rough turn and those guitar strings could slice open a neck. An Mp3 player malfunctions to make some poor podcast listener's eardrums burst, sending a chunk straight into another commuter’s throat. A little boy munching on a peanut butter sandwich gets sick on the allergic man sitting nearby. He forgot to pack his  emergency kit. 

Anything could happen. Limits, thy name is not Tony Todd.

  

Battle Royale, Rush Hour Style

I can't think of many scenarios more awful than being whisked away to a deserted island, choked with a metallic and explosive collar, and forced to kill my friends and acquaintances. While I've been known to throw darts at blown up high school yearbook photos of cheerleaders back in my day, the idea of me having to kill--possibly with my own hands--is incredibly disturbing. 

At 8 AM on a Tuesday, however, that changes. State sanctioned murder is far more appealing when your bottom is dangling off a hard plastic seat because some sullen teenager next to you is comfortably stretching his legs in ways that would make my mother blush. Go ahead and airlift our subway car to the wilderness of Japan, fully fitted with danger zones and sharp rocks. I'll accept that AK47 or turn my government-issued pot lid into a neck-slicing apparatus if it means surviving in place of the irresponsible cyclist with a 10-speed standing on my foot.

The challenge here is twofold: 1) how do I survive when unarmed and wearing heels and 2) who's my real competition? Look around that car. Judge your fellow passengers. That skinny housewife may seem like a mouse, but imagine her fighting to defend the two kids she has in tow. Then size up the rugrats for further competition. For all you know, that fat college kid has no soul while the body builder's smoking habit will blast his endurance. Think hard. Just don't stare. Remember, the less people that believe the game is real, the higher your chances are for fictionally killing them without a fight. Plus, it’s rude.

Jason Takes Manhattan (or whatever metropolis you may inhabit)

Anyone who's seen the terrible/awesome eighth installment of Friday the 13th knows that Mr. Voorhees has no qualms about jumping a turnstile. Problem is, how can you possibly thwart him once the doors are closed? It's easy enough to use innocent bystanders as human shields in this scenario, providing your conscience can handle it. During rush hour, a machete can hack its way through quite a few grumpy suits, many of whom may prefer a fast death to another day at the office. Really, you’d be doing the a favor.

Eventually, however, you'll probably be forced to confront Crystal Lake’s number one hockey fan. Depending on which installment you consider to be genuine canon, the method of putting old JV out for a while may include a little electricity. One possible escape from certain death would be to lure Jason onto the third rail, but this is an ambitious plan that requires you to stay alive long enough to disembark the train and hope for the right chance to push. Too ambitious? Would you rather focus on saving your skin and leaving the dirty work to the pretty virgin you have befriended?

Sorry, but that's just as good as suicide. Nobody survives Jason; you die or kill him temporarily until the next series’ entry or your contract expires. Still, if you truly doubt your potential for ending a 90 minute massacre yourself, you could focus on escape.

My plan would be to run through the cars until an MTA policeman, seeing an easy ticket to fill his quota, takes action. By the time Jason catches up, I should be able to rile the law enforcer enough to merit a backup call. If nothing else, a few of NY's Finest will buy me time to cross the platform and hop on the express.

Urban Vampire Slayage

Subways--at least the ones that remain underground--seem like the perfect place for a blood-sucking night prowler to get his hunt on, what with the artificial lighting and a constant flow of diverse meals-in-heels. I doubt the more experienced vampires would feast during such high profile times as rush hour, but every group has its showoff. 

Your mission is to identify the carnivorous commuter and plan the much-harder-than-it-sounds disposal of said fiend. Remember the totally kickass subway fight between Spike and the 1970s slayer during Buffy’s fifth season? 

You probably won’t have that (unless you’re imbued with super strength, at which point you should have a better job than one that requires you to ride a death trap on tracks five days a week). Part of the game here is angles and tools. First, locate a weapon. A stray cane could work as a stake, or perhaps your odds are better of grabbing a schoolgirl’s pencil box and hoping she recently used her sharpener. From there, it’s all about locating the heart and finding the space to put enough force behind your stabbing. I’m sure physics has something to do with it.

Did I forget an important step? One that Sunnydale’s own heroine never mastered in seven years? The actual identification process is, of course, its own challenge. How do you spot a vampire at the start or end of your day, when your eyes are barely open enough to see the living things in front of you? Do you look for the palest person in your car, or is that just plain racist? Decide what makes a vampire and cautiously go from there.

I suppose you could transfer this game to other filmic villains as well. Any unibrowed figures hiding from the full moon, their necks absent of silver jewelry? Body snatching pod people lacking any sense of human emotion in their eyes? Henry-esque sociopaths trying to blend in or a separated conjoined twin clutching his basket/briefcase/backpack a little too closely, as if it may be housing a raging claymation Belial? New York City boasts an average of 5 million people riding the subway on any given weekday; the odds are pretty high that at least one of them is either a monstrous killer or misunderstood murderer you’ve seen the likes of before.

and of course, when all else fails, the Classic Zombie Contingency Commute

When a guy squeezes into the seat next to you smelling like the undead, you're rarely pleased, but if you're a zombie fan tired of reading the same ad for 20 minutes, you can at least be inspired. Forget, for a moment, the fact that the poor man hasn't showered since George Romero made a good movie and pretend instead that his rotting odor is the result of a crashed satellite, voodoo inspired resurrection or nuclear waste spillage. How much time do you have before his eyes open wide in search of a high protein snack?

As Max Brooks has pointed out, straphangers are pretty much the equivalent of canned sardines if stuck underground during an uprising--except, of course, these canned sardines taste really really good. Emergency exits don't provide much in the way of realistic refuge, but no zombie fan worth his or her weight in edible brains would give up so quickly; if nothing else, suicide must be improvised to minimize pain. That in itself is no easy task.

For those with stronger fighting spirit, however, the Zombie Survival Game is never more challenging than when played on the Metro. Can you swing that briefcase with enough force to successfully bash in every stench's head before they corner you? Should you spend time trying to free up a pole for pointed attacks, or is it better to just use it for leverage in getting a nice running kick at the right angle? Your chances are fairly slim, but daily brainstorming may very well prepare you to at least last long enough to make it to the next stop for a transfer. 

So what do you think, fellow commuting time killers with slightly psychotic tendencies? Is it wrong to imagine the guy holding open the automatic doors decapitated by his own sense of entitlement, or do morals evaporate when you’re stuck under the armpit of a fellow traveler in inexplicable train traffic while a bebop group sings out of tune?

Gimme Five

You may have noticed that this blog’s poll has been stagnant now far longer than usual. I typically like to start each month with a fresh question that gauges my audience’s taste in one random field or another.

So why, you may be wondering, has May’s Cinco de Pollo not made a June exit? The cynical may say it’s due to slackerdom on my part, but those true of heart should trust in my powers to know I’m simply speechless over the recent results.

It’s an industrious little franchise that reaches the 5 mark. Also quite often, a stale one scrounging for spark. Looking at the choices I assembled, how in the Hellraiser: Inferno did Halloween 5 and Friday the 13th V: A New Beginning get so close to nipping at the tiny heels of Seed of Chucky?

Before I get ahead of myself, let’s take a quick moment to examine the runners-up:

Children of the Corn V: Fields of Terror (Zero votes)

A terrible title and a film I apparently watched on the SyFy Channel a few months back, yet have absolutely no memory of. Did the Men In Black stop by the Bronx, or is this really that forgettable? Hard to believe, considering IMDB includes David Carradine and my dream pimp, Fred Williamson in the cast. 

Hellraiser: Inferno (1%)

A film I definitely have never seen (and not just mentally blocked), this fifth installment has no Clive Barker backing but does star Nightbreed hunk Craig Sheffer and Ajax himself, James Remar. The latter makes me happy, but the latter also popped up for a scene or two in The Unborn  and look how well that turned out.

Leprechaun in Da Hood (3%)

As surprised as I was at the poor showing of this wannabe cult classic, I’ll chalk some of the sway over to that other (far superior) horror comedy starring a different vertically challenged redhead. Despite a superb premise, watching Warwick Davis rap is far less fun than should ever be possible.

A Nightmare on Elm Street 5: The Dream Child (4%)

Maybe not the worst of the series but certainly the dullest (though the more critically acclaimed New Nightmare works hard to take that title). You’d think that the complexity of fetal dreams could at least birth some subtext (even Freddy’s Revenge managed to salvage its awfulness via homosexual metaphors) but aside from the apparent pro-life stance taken so early, this fifth Freddy romp is devoid of just about anything interesting. Lisa Wilcox’s Alice enters with mild residual sympathy, but her new batch of everyone’s-got-a-gimmick friends don’t bring much weight to the saga. Aside from a neat-enough comic book inspired death, Nightmare 5 is a snooze.

Hannibal Rising (6%)

There was a time when I was really excited to see this film. Most of that yearning came from the fact that Dominic “McNulty” West and Kevin “Lucious Vorenus” McKidd were listed in the credits. Four of you readers out there in the world would, it would seem, convince me to indeed rekindle that urge I once had. Perhaps one day when I find myself with a meat craving, I shall.

Saw V (6%)

The worst of the series and the epitome of what people who haven’t seen the films (but really want to complain about them anyway) would use as ammunition. Convoluted plot, characters we have no investment in, various loose ends, and an uninspired setup that manages to recycle plot points from just about every film before it. Power to Saw VI  for rescuing a franchise I had almost declared dead (Donny Walberg head smash dead, not Dr. Gordon is-he-or-isn’t-he deadish).

Diary of the Dead (8%)

In my personal estimation, Romero’s fifth in his Dead quintology (well now, sextology? stop giggling) series receives some unfair panning. Its weaknesses are glaring, but so were Day of the Dead’s (actors without indoor voices anyone?) and I will argue to my death that were the monotone narration removed, this would be considered a genuinely okay film.

Halloween 5 (22%)

Danielle Harris returns to give another fine underage performance, but aside from that, I have absolutely no idea why 14 of you presumably smart, kind and beautiful readers find anything to love about this lesser slasher. Enlighten me. Please.

Friday the 13th Part V: A New Beginning (22%)

Much like Halloween 5, this (spoiler alert) Jason-free installment teases audiences with the possibility that the previous film’s child survivor is now donning a dime store mask to match a bloody weapon. It's a tease that doesn't pay off, and the film's sole interest point seems to be the utter sleaziness it proudly sports. Are there really people out there in the world that dare to cite this a superior film to Jason Takes Manhattan???

The Winner, thank goobers:

Seed of Chucky (25%)

I’ve yet to fully expand on why I love this gleefully camped-out entry, but for now, heed my recommendation that if you haven’t seen Seed of Chucky, you're missing out on something really neat. 

It’s funny. 

It’s gross. 

Touching. 

Rather adorable. 

Bizarre.

And John Waters gets a cameo. 

Get to it.

2009 Goes For the Hat Trick

A Friday the 13th in November is to horror fans what Italian Christmas is to American Sicilians. It’s a perfectly timed, almost gluttonous Gregorian gift dedicated to those of us still mourning the rotting of pumpkins, price jumps on DVDs, and questionable glances from coworkers at our refusal to take those those Halloween decorations. Sure, that silver glittered skull head looks a little conspicuous next to paperwork, but on this particular matchup of weekday and date, it’s as natural as a turkey at Whole Foods.

In other words, think of today as an encore of October 31st, only a little more secular and a lot less obvious. Others may scoff--or more likely, ignore--your enthusiasm, but that’s no reason to not celebrate this rarity in the style of your choice. Here are a few suggestions for how to make the most of this pagan loved, Christian trashed, and slasher film revived holiday of a different sort.

1. Relive childhood terror:

Every horror fan has one true love, and by love, I mean that first film that invaded your nightmares and forced you to say “Mom, dad...we’re gonna need a bigger nightlight.” See how much you’ve grown by revisiting the boogeyman you knew before puberty proved to be more frightening. Most likely, you’ll laugh at your past softness and how tough your skin has turned but on the other hand, you just may reawaken a long dormant inner turmoil ready to churn its way into modern buttery psychosis. Don’t pretend you’re not excited. 

2. Face your fear: 

For Lars Von Trier, it’s flying. Billy Bob Thorton, antique furniture. Homer Simpson? Sock puppets. Most of us outgrow some of our minor phobias, like a too-informed Santa Clause, the dark, or what happens if you eat watermelon seeds and drink water afterwards, but no matter how old you may be, the Visitors of V would still be able to identify your current dread and use it to torture out secret battle plans of The Resistance. Maybe you’re still unnerved by fuzzy spiders or can’t seem to breathe when standing at extreme heights. Use today as a true test of your strength. Ask the teenage part timer at your local PETCO to let you touch a tarantula or take a trip to your nearest open-to-the-public skyscraper. Sound too therapy inducing? How ‘bout renting a movie? Trust me: my coulrophobia has been cured following a laughable rental of Fear of Clowns.

3. Make every decision based on a coin toss: 

What to have for lunch: Chinese takeout or a sub? Call heads or tails and toss up your quarter. The real trick is that every time tails comes up, scream Nooooooo!, explain that this is the doomed option, and choose it anyway. Guaranteed to annoy those around you and, if they’re self-reflective, cause them to reevaluate any former beliefs regarding their superstitious leanings.

4. Treat yourself:

So how many elementary aged witches and goblins hit you up for those Reeses two weeks ago? If you’re like everyone I know with a door, the answer is, quite sadly, a handful. So what’s the backup plan for that bowl of fun-sized Snickers? It’s almost time to make room in your pantry for canned pumpkin and candy canes so I recommend you do yourself a favor and purge the cabinets of all Halloween candy. If your karma is low, bring it to work and make sure your office mates know who’s fattening them up. Otherwise...well...Snickers has protein, so what’s stopping you from plastic bagging your lunch?

5.  Sound and fury:

Unsubstantiated superstitions annoy me, but none receive my throaty disgusted sigh with more phlegm than those of the theatre world. My favorite (to hate)? Ye olde curse of the Scottish Play, better known to most sensible people as Macbeth. Legend has it that Shakespeare’s tragedy is so dramatically cursed, just saying the thane’s name inside the walls of any theatre will summon enough bad luck to make sayings like “break a leg” sound not so figurative. Because I find this stupid and not at all because I once auditioned for a play in college with a monologue from Macbeth and didn’t get the part because I didn’t know this rule, I heartily despise this superstition. My solution? Be a cultured antisuperstitionist and see a show tonight. Enjoy it. Clap and discuss its theme. Just rename your date for the evening Macbeth and be sure to say his or her name at every chance you get before the curtain falls. And at intermission. And on your way out. 

6. Karaoke with Christopher Lee: 

You know what’s great about DVDs? Subtitles. You know what’s great about 1973‘s The Wicker Man? Well, pretty much everything but for the purpose of today, let’s go with its music. Sadly such classic ditties as The Landlord’s Daughter and Sumer Is Icumen In didn’t go platinum, but that doesn’t mean they don’t go well with a big screen TV, a few musically inclined friends, and a lot of Guinness. Hold your own pagan sing-a-long in your living room and videotape it for posterity and blackmail. Nudity optional (just like Britt Ekland’s rear).

7.  A Necessary Remake:

There are few things you should love more than the original Wicker Man, but one such activity worthy of adoration is making fun of Neil LeBute’s woefully misguided, painfully misconceived, and laughably misogynist remake of the same name. It’s easy enough to poke jokes at Nick Cage’s kung fu moves and bear suit brawling, but do you really think you could have done a better job? There’s only one way to find out: invite that same incredibly open group of friends over, pop in the rented DVD (because your money should be going to a better cause, like charity or Netflix) and take turns dubbing the Oscar winner’s lines. Bonus points for capturing his pained whine and bee stung screams with just the right amount of confusion and ham.

8. Monster Makeover:

Since many Halloween decorations are autumn themed, it is indeed possible to keep some of your favorites on display through the dearth of November. Then again, you may also be forced to explain why your dancing ghost candy dish is appropriate when everybody in the office is planning Thanksgiving dinner. Rather than gain a reputation as the lazy employee with bad timing, transform your pumpkins and ghouls with a more seasonal look. As you can see, all it took for my CVS rag witch was a post-it, two rubber bands, some leftover Halloween feathers, a paper clip, Q-tip, and the top of pen box and she’s become a regular contestant for a politically incorrect Thanksgiving pageant.

9.  Cheers, Mr. Voorhees:

No Friday the 13th is complete without, well, some form of Friday the 13th. It’s easy enough to pop in your boxed set or tune into one of the random cable channels sure to be airing a marathon, but why not make it a little more interesting (or just inebriated) with a perfectly suited drinking game? If alcohol isn’t your poison, might I suggest a fresh bag of half priced candy corn? Either way, toss in any one of twelve Crystal Lake adventures and take an unhealthy serving of bodily harming evil every time any of the following occurs onscreen:

-a final girl demonstrates her uptightness with an apprehensive glance or turndown of sex

-a class clown character tries to joke with Jason, only to then freeze, hold a stupid smile followed by a “what the fuuuuh,” and open his or her mouth before a scream is silenced by a brutal and fast slaying

-Jason tilts his head

...and so on. Feel free to edit according to whichever installment you choose. For example, I’d expect anybody watching Jason Takes Manhattan to take a gulp at every shot of Rennie’s cheap gold necklace or actorly tears. 

Have any more advice? Hurry and post it. Otherwise, remember it carefully for the next big Friday: coming soon in August of 2010. 

Hate On Me, Not Horror

We horror fans are a surly bunch.

Opinionated. Angry. Easily disappointed and even more easily disheartened. When we’re subjected to hack job remakes and speedily rushed sequels at a rate that defies the speed of a cheetah, it’s no surprise that we tend to bash any movie that dares to appeal to our well-honed tastes. What I wonder now, as Saw VI prepares to land its bloody feet on our ticket stubs, is if we were always such cinematic snobs.

Perhaps it’s the extreme nature at the very heart of most horror films that breeds such intense negativity. I guarantee that just as many people disliked the last tepid romantic comedy as those who greeted Halloween 2 with sneers (I was among the latter group), but you won’t see IMDBers drawing petitions to remove Diane Lane from Must Love Dogs with quite the same levels of ire as those itching to go all Godfather on Sheri Moon-Zombie and her fine white horse. 

Hating bad horror films is nothing to be ashamed of, especially if the films in question are made and marketed with little heart or respect to what its fans actually want. My problem with the oft-irked horror crowd is our habit of cracking the bad jokes before we actually sit down in the theater. I can’t count how many like-minded film lovers whose opinions I respect have issued death warrants to Jennifer’s Body based on its trailer, cast, and one-credit writer who has somehow amassed mass hatred by penning a single successful indie screenplay. Oh yeah, and of those who have cracked smug grins at the mention of its failed box office, take a guess how many actually confirmed their judgment by seeing the film. 

“Things were so much better in the ‘80s,” we grumble to our babysitting charges while taking a gulp from a rusty can of New Coke. Right, cinema was more innovative when a burly mute was silently slaughtering topless bimbos whose only method of survival was virginity and whininess. What have we come to when the most successful face of horror is a wrinkled old man with actual dialogue about the nature of mankind?

I won’t--and can’t--argue that the Saw series is composed of quality filmmaking, but every Halloween, I never fail to take a deep sigh before issuing a defense of the 5 and counting blockbuster(ish) films. Yes, the gore is gratuitous and the soundtrack grating, but how can someone who forked over $50 for the Friday the 13th boxed set still huff and puff about how torture porn is ruining the horror industry when Jason brought the bar down so low, the only escape was outer space? My idea of date night doesn’t usually include watching Brandon Walsh’s sociology professor get her rib cage torn apart, but at least Dina Meyer’s ill-fated detective was a literate and developed character. 

There’s something charming about ‘80s slasher cinema and daringly dark in the grindhouse days and cannibal genre of the ensuing years. Then again, there’s also more forgettable slashers than a Sesame Street vampire could count before sunrise.  And hey, it took a lot of cruelly killed wildlife in painfully unwatchable movies before Cannibal Holocaust cruelly killed wildlife to make a statement about such painfully wrought cinema. Maybe Martyrs’ twisted analysis of torture is the evolution of “gorenography”; just like we needed eight ho hum Halloween sequels before we could get a Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon, so each sub-genre needs to work itself out before it can achieve greatness. In the meantime, we as audiences watch what we like and judge what we actually see.

I can’t claim that we’re currently in a golden age of horror, as thus far, this decade has produced one masterpiece (Let the Right One In) and a few memorable gems that succeed mainly by honoring the old with a smart twist of new (Shaun of the Dead, The Descent, 28 Days Later). Still, there are plenty of modern films to make us celebrate the cinematic time we’re living in. Roll your eyes at Repo! The Genetic Opera for its headache-making chords, but don’t put it in punchlines and turn around with a ready-made rant about how filmmakers are currently devoid of creativity just because the few sparks of newness don’t appeal to your personal tastes. Most of all, bash nothing until you’ve actually basked in its badness. 

Rants and rusty sharp device heavy games are welcome below. Are we a glass of blood is half-empty kinda crowd, or has horror truly taken a dip into disappointing hell? Share your thoughts, preferably after downing a bag of sugar-coated happy thoughts.

Back To School, Slasher Style

Amid the glut of slick remakes and grisly torture porn that has thus far defined 21st century horror films, many fans like to harp back to the good old days of Reagan politics and drive-in cinema, sometimes falsely remembering every midnight screening as the second coming of Citizen Kane. It’s easy to forget that for all its giddy spirit and musical montage-fueled plot development, the 1980s contained a fair heap of cinematic slush, quite often slasher fueled.

And so we come to Slaughter High, Final Girl Stacie Ponder’s Film Club pick for the month of Shocktober. Directed by the possibly drunken trifecta of George Dugdale, Mark Ezra (both of Living Doll), and Peter Litten (director of To Die For, not, thanks to the helpful DVD extras, to be confused with the Nicole Kidman “starrer”) this is to the 80s what something like 2008’s The Hitcher remake is to our current time. Not good. Not needed. Almost bad enough for a good time with alcohol but a tad too awful to deserve your time.

Quick Plot: The world's oldest high schoolers since Grease decide to play a nasty prank on Marty, the bespectacled science nerd with an April Fool’s birthday. Campus hot girl Carol (genre babe Caroline Munro) pretends to seduce him in the locker room shower, only to abandon the birthday boy in his birthday suit while her obnoxious friends dip him a toilet and hurt Wendy’s commercial slogans his way. The totally ungnarly gym teacher issues athletic detention, inspiring one good humored bully to play yet another prank on the unpunished Marty by spiking a joint with poison and rigging a chemistry experiment so it explodes on the science whiz (because innocent whoopee cushions were soooo 1985). Add a jar of precariously placed nitric acid and it’s safe to say young Marty is having the worst birthday since Samantha Baker turned 16.

Ten years later (we assume), our gang of no goodniks return to their alma mater for a private high school reunion, this time as the world’s oldest looking twentysomethings. First, we get a far too long and incredibly dull scene establishing Carol as an up-and-coming actress unwilling to show her goods in a crappy little horror film (for those interested, Ms. Munro does not show her goods in this crappy little horror film either, although several others do so unimpressively). Other characters in this too-large group include a poor man’s Michael Imperioli complete with Joisey voice who seems to be something of a lead, a brassy blond with a randomly South Carolinean accent, and a few more soon-to-be victims who have just about nothing to offer the audience aside from their deaths.

Nobody seems to think it odd that only the cool kids have been invited to this reunion, nor does it raise an eyebrow that it’s being held in the rat-infested high school now abandoned (yet oddly enough, equipped with a working bathtub and fresh body wash). The school caretaker--why he still has to take care of a closed public school is unclear--pops by for a jump scare before being crucified on a graffitied locker as the old friends catch up the best way they know how: soulful bonding over recreational drugs. One of the more annoying male members gulps down a beer and quickly experiences an Alien-ish stomach eruption, minus the charismatic little creature (a shame, since it would have been more interesting than anyone else in this film). Cue frantic running around the dark empty hallways, splitting up for no apparent reason, random boob shots of women who may, if lucky, receive ribbons for participation in wet t-shirt contests, and poorly timed revelations about unseen children’s paternity. 

Yup, Marty’s back and he’s mildly pissed because, you know, these former big kids on campus ruined his social cred and mangled his face. The 99 pound weakling apparently spent the last ten years mastering the art of playing dead, then getting up really quickly and quietly so that several characters can glance at where his body should’ve been and gasp. Ugh.

Slaughter High is not a good movie, nor is it lovably bad like The Pit or slightly innovative and goofy around the likes of Hellgate. With three men credited for directing, it’s easy to see the many places the film went wrong. It’s never clear if we’re supposed to be screaming or laughing at some of the kills, most of which are gory but not particularly well executed. A bombastic score does nothing to heighten drama and the lighting and staging choices are so fuzzily dark that it’s often hard to understand what actually is going on. All this is bad enough, but what ultimately slaughters Slaughter High is its student population.

Normally, character isn’t something we expect to be focused on in a cheap slasher. Aside from the awesomeness of being able to say Kevin Bacon and neck spear in the same sentence, it’s a challenge to name any actor who met his fate at Camp Crystal Lake. The problem with Slaughter High, much like the recent F13 “reboot,” is that it overloads itself with an unruly number of characters while making us care about absolutely none of them. Munro’s Carol has no redeeming factor to make a final girl worth rooting for, while her posse of friends range from white bread bland to ungodly off-putting. Worst of all, Marty himself offers us nothing as either a victim or killer. Sure, I pity any picked-on geek on instinct, but give me one more reason to actually like him. In his one scene of dialogue, Marty comes across as whiny and dumb. My sympathies lied with no one.

At a certain point, however, Slaughter High dragged me into it enough that I was able to keep two eyes onscreen for the last twenty minutes. By then, it seems to be noon the next day (what the last couple of victims were doing for 6 hours is unexplained), which is apparently just enough time to resurrect a few corpses for a fantasy zombie sequence and toss in an unexplained twist rife with sequel and Halloween costume potential. If only anyone could care enough about this movie to get the naughty nurse in drag look.

High Points

I can’t complain about the look of the killer. The jester hat with a wrinkled old man rubber mask had a spark of creepiness about it

You have to love the totally 80s cheesiness of the poster art, even if it does bear a slight resemblance to what I imagine the Killer Condom looked like in his graduation photo

Low Points

You’d think that by featuring older actors with new life problems and what-if wonderings about their high school years, the cast could conjure up some interesting interpersonal relationships. You’d be wrong

Lessons Learned

A caretaker takes care of places

Avoid wearing jingly bell accessories if your main activity of the evening is scheduled to be stalking

When in the 80s, do coke

Gym sneakers retain their exact scent for ten years

If you have the chance to beat a psychotic murderer to near death with a baseball bat, it’s best to not drop the weapon at the mildly bruised killer’s feet and slowly run away

Trust me: the prom queen does not want to have sex with you in the girl’s locker room

Rent/Bury/Buy

Hardcore 80s slasher fans may get a kick out of this little remnant of a time passed, but most others should avoid the temptation of the somewhat kickass poster art. The sole DVD extra is a Pop-Up Video-ish trivia track that occasionally plays under the action to provide viewers with such life changing knowledge as “the hockey mask is a reference to the 1980 slasher film, Friday the 13th.” Random fun facts do offer something new; I only learned here that Nebraska was the last state to ban the electric chair, although what that has to do with Slaughter High isn’t spelled out for us in multiple choice quiz question. Perhaps the best tidbit comes in a True/False question: Actor Simon Scuddamore, who played Marty, died from an intentional overdose shortly after this film’s shooting. When that’s the most interesting thing about your movie, you have a problem.

Don’t forget to head over to Final Girl’s site for a roundup of other bloggers bravely travailing the muck that is Slaughter High. You never know: someone might have given it a passing grade. That someone would have bad taste.

Says the person about to fall asleep with a Sunday night showing of Showgirls.