A Sorority Is Only As Good As Its Wardrobe

Much like a good portion of the human population, I've had a rather serious case of Olympic fever over the past few weeks (much to the chagrin of NBC, who seem to be aggressively trying to cure this worldwide ailment with such antidotes as selective airing, ignorance of badminton, creepily leering broadcasters who can't hide the boners beach volleyball produces, lack of suspense, poor editing, and of course, Ryan Seacrest teaching your parents about Twitter). 

The result of this condition is that my moviewatching has been, shall we say, spotty. I don't feel guilty about this. After all, I can queue up The Unborn any day. I only get evil pummel horses stoically destroying the dreams of the Bronx ever four years.

That being said, I can only watch coxless rowing for so long before deciding it might be a good time to squeeze in a brisk 74 minute horror film, namely the fashion show spectacular that is 1986's Sorority House Massacre. Nowhere near a gold medal, but still far more interesting than coxless rowing.

And no, I'm not just repeating "coxless" because it sounds scandalous. As a public school graduate who's never watched a professional crew, I find the sport fascinating but only because it includes one team player three feet shorter than his or her teammates who does nothing but shout at his or her players to go faster. It's as if I missed my calling for the one Olympic event I might have stood a chance at.

Sigh.

Quick Plot: College student Beth returns to her sorority house following the death of her aunt. Despite the girls just wanna have fun vibe of her sisters, Beth can't seem to shake a series of powerful nightmares that involve a mystery man slicing his way through her comfortable party digs. Meanwhile, a seriously disturbed mental patient gives his doctors some worry across town. Could these two insomniacs have something in common?

Is an '80s final girl afraid of sex?

As you probably guessed, Sorority House Massacre treads no new territory in unfolding a very simple (yet somewhat convoluted, if the two can coexist) plot. It should surprise no one that Beth has mentally blocked some horrific childhood trauma that, whaddya know, involves the same man slashing his way through her gal pals and their terribly dressed boyfriends. Today's cinematic self-proclaimed purists can cry all they want about the moral perversion of remakes and Saw sequels, but when the only real thing separating Sorority House Massacre from the Halloween franchise is the holiday of Halloween, I can only roll my eyes.

That being said, I actually enjoyed this film quite a bit. Lead actress Angela O’Neill is a solid center for a surface story, and though none of the kills come with any real surprise, the cast is surprisingly likable in a way that makes their deaths linger sadly. Director Carol Frank opens the film with some eerie dream imagery that I found unsettling, but then again, it could just be because said imagery involved weird My Buddy-esque female dolls. Not that I have any relationship to things like that.

But really, if we need to examine what makes Sorority House Massacre worth watching, it's simple:

-A flannel shirt paired with checkered pans and complemented by an oversized cardigan
-Shoulder pads

-A Working Girl smart business dress suit accented with white cowgirl boots

-The classic two-piece Hawaiian dress
-Monochrome jumpsuits that call to mind Morgan Fairchild's cameo in Pee-Wee's Big Adventure

If that wasn't enough to get you off the couch and into the mall, Sorority House Massacre features that tried and true staple of any 1980s girlcentric film: the fashion show montage.

During which, you get boobs. See? Everyone wins! 

High Points

In case I was too subtle, let me be clear: THIS MOVIE INVOLVES A FASHION SHOW MONTAGE WITH JUMPSUITS SET TO OVERENTHUSIASTIC SAXOPHONE MUSIC

Got it?

Low Points

Look, I remember the '80s well enough to know that no killers died on the first try, but after about three false "the killer is dead!" moments, I couldn't muster much more sympathy for the squeamish survivors

Lessons Learned

Dream imagery is a challenging, yet occasionally practical and life-saving college major

When the house mother is away, sorority sisters will play…by trying on each other’s clothing and—GET THIS—eating the missing girls’ ice cream. It’s a “once in a lifetime” opportunity!

One rather skinny mental patient with a mid-sized knife is a force to be reckoned with, so much so that even if there are four of you (including one muscular man), banding together to take said skinny mental patient down is a far worse idea than separating and running for your lives unarmed

Stray Observation

Despite being set in, you know, a SORORITY, Sorority House Massacre stars the least horny male college students ever to be put on film. At least two of the boys decline 'staying the night' despite the cooing pleas of their ladies, while another preaches patience with his virginal girlfriend. What is going on here?

Oh. That.

How '80s Is It?

There's a blond, and her name is Linda. That's basically a birth certificate 

Rent/Bury/Buy

Sorority House Massacre isn’t particularly good, but it’s fairly high caliber quality in the realm of forgettable ‘80s slashers. The gore isn’t outstanding and the story is as original as Ryan Seacrest’s interview questions, but the cast is stronger than average and the utter ‘80s factor is enough to warrant a brief—74 minute!—stream on Netflix Instant. Then go back to gymnastics. Because it can’t be long before that pummel horse makes his real powers of evil known.

It's Not Easy Being Teen

I’m going to say something that hurts me very deeply. You know how stubbing your toe produces the world’s worst imaginable pain for about 10 seconds? This is kind of like that. Only I’m publishing it online, which means that pain will linger for as long as this Internet thing remains live, which in turn depends on what kind of apocalypse will ultimately bring us down (zombie invasion means the pain stops; Pulse-like computer ghosting screws me big time). Closing my eyes. Biting hard on a stick so as to save my tongue. Bracing self…

I. Was. Wrong.

Between my cries of pain, allow me to explain: for the last few years of writing about horror, I’ve displayed something of a snooty attitude when it came to found footage. Oh great, I’d sarcastically say to my cats whenever a shaky cam screener arrived in my mailbox. Another poorly filmed home video about stuff we can’t see attacking people I don’t like stumbling through improvisational dialogue when they should know to put that bulky camera down and save their dull butts already. Just what I want in my cinema!

Except, well, then I would watch low budget indies like Skew, The Feed, Meadowoods, Grave Encounters, and now, Megan Is Missing only to realize that just like those  previously overdone subgenres of zombies and slashers, a found footage film is not a gimmick when handled right. Michael Goi’s movie is certainly assembled as one—told entirely through ‘found’ video chats, newsreels, interviews and the like—but when viewed in its entirety, this is a new kind of horror done right.

Quick Plot: Megan is a promiscuous too-old-for-her-age 14-year-old who has that icky habit of wasting weekends trading oral sex to jerks for a few pot hits. Her best friend Amy, on the other hand, is an insecure mouse of a girl who keeps trying to fit in, despite a lower tolerance for alcohol and slightly higher standards when it comes to men. Both, however, are charmed by the mysterious “Skateboard Dude” they meet in a chatroom. Possibly named Josh, this Internet entity boasts a Brad Pitt-ish profile picture and the kind of game that makes even a hardened pessimist like Megan agree to meet him behind—not inside—a nearby diner.

Naturally, Megan winds up a missing person. Security footage catches her being led away by a faceless man. Amy comes forward with information about her cyber romance, only to…well, let’s just say one should never trust a one-sided webcam conversation.

Initially, Megan Is Missing feels like a direct horror adaptation of Catherine Hardwicke’s Thirteen told through found footage. The girls come off as crass, selfish twits who certainly don’t warrant a 90 minute film, especially with the kind of teenspeak and forced sluttiness that makes any potential parent pray for male offspring. Thankfully, writer/director Michael Goi proves to be incredibly clever in how his nightmare unfolds.

It begins when Megan, in a rare moment of utter unguarded honesty, tells Amy’s new birthday camera about her tragic past: as a child, Megan was sexually abused by her stepfather. Such a statement changes the way we view this character, who had—just two scenes earlier—recapped a sexual encounter with a much older Kevin Spacey lookalike camp counselor with creepy ambivalence and minor pride. It’s a fascinating character portrait process: Goi throws the misbehaving teen delinquent-in the-making at us only to carefully fill in the blanks to reveal a hurt soul in hiding.

Watching Megan Is Missing reminded me an awful lot of Catfish, for obvious reasons (people on the Internet aren’t necessarily who they pretend to be) and more subtle ones. Catfish, the pseudo-documentary juggernaut of 2011, was most interesting for how (MINOR SPOILER) its main subject created an alternate identity through social media. In Megan Is Missing, the entire film is assembled from webchats, video diaries, and ‘news’ programs that masquerade as justice finding journalism but end up being nothing more than headline juicing sleaze. Rarely are our characters honest, but their false faces seem to reveal even more truth.

To the ladies in the readership here at the Doll’s House: remember being 14? I hope not. There’s no worse age for a female than those tricky middle school years of, in the words of Britney Spears, being not a girl, not yet a woman. You WANT to seem like a grownup who smokes, drinks, and flirts like the pretty faces shown in magazines. But it generally takes you far too long to realize those things aren’t actually fun when you're not yet ready. Yes, one day you will have good sex with people who respect you, know your taste in cocktail or wine, and if you’re lucky, live in a city where smoking is banned indoors but when you’re an awkward 8^th grader desperately hoping black light decorated basements will make your braces less conspicuous, life is not so clear cut.

Like, seriously

Amy and Megan are the kind of girls who need to believe it gets better, but who can say that with any believability? They’re pretty, seemingly wealthy, and ultimately, incredibly unhappy. In Amy’s case, it’s because she’s trying so hard to fit into a mold she’s not yet made for. For Megan, the scars run deeper. This is a girl who knows that men will always be attracted to her, and though she also knows most are scum, she still wants more than anything for the right one to come along. It’s easy to see a teenager go meet a stranger in a non-public place and roll your eyes at her stupidity, but everything Goi has thus far captured showed that this is ABSOLUTELY the way an emotionally battered girl like Megan would go about landing her alleged Prince Charming.

I don’t want to spoil Megan Is Missing, as I’m far more concerned with recommending it. This is not a perfect film, but much like the similarly themed (and even more chilling) Lake Mungo, Megan Is Missing is a scary, thoughtful, and surprisingly deep exercise in using the trend of ‘found footage’ to tell a thoroughly frightening tale.

High Points

The nature of found footage is rarely kind to actors (see Low Points), but leads Rachel Quinn and Amber Perkins take on what I imagine is a huge challenge and succeed in creating realistic, flawed, and ultimately, sympathetic young teenagers (despite being much older in real life age, thankfully)

Though Megan Is Missing has a mostly serious tone, there’s an eerily funny sequence involving a ‘making-of’ clip for the reenactment of Megan’s abduction. The fact that this bit of black comedy is immediately followed by the film’s second most haunting image is even more noteworthy, as if the film—like the media—wants to glamorize the Lifetime movie-of-the-week material before a taste of realism shockingly brings us back to the fact that there are actual young lives at stake

Low Points

It’s hard to tell if some of the supporting cast members are actively shaky or if it’s the nature of found footage making their characters overact. While I could easily defend the occasionally grating performances on the grounds of “they’re teenagers acting for the camera,” it doesn’t make it any easier on the viewers’ eyes and ears

Lessons Learned

Virgins don’t know how to wear makeup

In case you forgot, being 14 really sucks

Never trust a camp counselor that looks like Kevin Spacey. Or a computer friend with a vague resemblance to a young Brad Pitt. Come to think of it, don’t ever, if you value your life, put your faith in any man who reminds you of a cast member in Se7en. (You probably already suspected as much about R. Lee Ermey and Leland Orser clones, but I would add Morgan Freeman to your no-date list, impeccable narration skills be damned)

Rent/Bury/Buy

I queued up Megan Is Missing right before it left Instant Watch, but I would definitely encourage a rental for almost any horror fan. In no way is this a typical slasher or even found footage flick, but once you get past the “are these girls really that annoying?” feeling of the opening, Megan Is Missing proves to be a fascinating, unique, and genuinely scary little indie. I’m excited to see what Michael Goi delivers next, and what’s far more shocking is that I’m in no way dreading the next round of found footage horror to pop up in genre circles. Megan Is Missing is a prime example of a filmmaker using unconventional tools to capture a different aspect of its story, and that's how it should be done.

I'd Rather Be On a Haunted Boat

Hey! Here’s a great idea: let’s make a movie about slightly better than average looking wealthy Caucasian 20something assholes doing terrible things to each other. Everybody LOVES mildly attractive rich white kids being awful to fellow mildly attractive rich white kids, right?!


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Is this thing on?

Quick Plot: Two vice-happy young British women take their just-cheated-on friend out for a day of drinking on the Spanish coast. At a bar, they meet a quartet of guys with access to a luxury yacht. With that comes videotaped sex, crystal meth, stolen champagne, inaudible but still inane (when it’s audible) conversations, and swimming. Thankfully, the ladies knew well enough to pack their bikinis inside their designer bags. Otherwise, just IMAGINE how awful the day would be!

Before long, 5 out of the 7 passengers are embarking upon group sex. The youngest preppy is eager to impress his older friends and decides to cap off his first time with the titular specialty move, discussed earlier in riveting flirt talk. Because even nameless blonds you’re having sex with are human, the girl dies and everyone else starts shouting things.

From there, Donkey Punch gets a tad more interesting as the boys plot a cover-up, much to the shocked protest of the remaining females. Cellular coverage wanes, boat keys are lost, video evidence rotates hands, knives stab, and rich white kid turns on rich white kid with more venom than a snake on a plane.

Made on a budget somewhere around South Africa, Donkey Punch is filmed, acted, and written with full competence. The gorgeous blue water looks great with well-toned bodies swimming through it, and the bouts of violence are executed effectively without shyness or digital shortcuts. In other words, Haunted Boat this ain’t.

Side note: have you watched Haunted Boat yet? Please do. You really won’t be disappointed in its adorable awfulness.

But back to Donkey Punch, the film that makes you kind of want to see very character die via donkey punch. Therein lies the main issue: these kids suck. Perhaps that’s the point—I can’t believe the actors or script are trying to get you on their side—but unlike, say, the Hostel films, there doesn’t seem to be any point to their sucking. If there’s satire, I don’t get it. And I’m the person who praised Starship Troopers as the year’s smartest film back when I was a 10^th grader in 1997!

I could fall back on the whole ‘this movie wasn’t made for me’ defense, but what does that really mean? If a movie about misogynist rich guys treating women like shark bait was made for younger or more male audience, then it’s just, well, kind of a misogynist film. There’s little humor or commentary to be found once the blood starts spilling, and while (MINOR SPOILER) all the bad guys DO suffer, the innocent don’t exactly get a weekend in the Bahamas. So abusing women is a punishable offense, but so, apparently, is discouraging such behavior.

I’m not saying Donkey Punch needed to be a treatise on male/female relationships, but I guess I’m just completely baffled by what the point of specifically making a film like this without ever pausing to consider its implications could be. At times like these, I often go back to the brilliant and sometimes misunderstood Deadgirl, a film that shares this type of shocking premise (teens tie down a beautiful zombie for nonconsensual sex) as an example of how you approach this kind of subject matter. Reading the DVD description of Deadgirl might be nauseating, but when you watch the film, you see how the filmmakers were using a dangerous, taboo plotline to explore something much deeper.

Donkey Punch takes the risk of calling itself Donkey Punch and, you know, killing a woman via donkey punch and basically does little to nothing with it but make a mediocre horror movie. True, we’re never rooting for the villainous men, but that’s only because they’re mildly more unlikable than the ditzy women. If the film gave us amazingly terrifying scares or dark and daring comedy (like the surprisingly sly Troma release, The Taint) at least, you know, there’d be some justification to its premise. Instead, it hovers on a strange line, being too afraid to go for full exploitation and just not smart enough to make a point.

High Points

As I said earlier, the violence is handled quite well. While the character choices don’t always work, the actual execution of stabbings, drownings, flamings, and shreddings comes off believably and extremely gross

Low Points

Here’s how I knew I would not care much for Donkey Punch: in the opening shot, our lead female is seen shaving her armpits in a bathroom without a touch of cream, soap, or water. Now I reckon’ this was done for the shock factor of beginning the film with a sexy shot of a bloody armpit, but no woman with a passing understanding of hygiene would just carelessly rub a razor into her skin when there’s a sink and, presumably, plenty of liquids right in front of her. It’s a small thing to harp on, and yet it instantly told me that this was a movie made by men who never thought to get second opinions on things only women do

Lessons Learned: The School of the Obvious Edition

Don’t do meth with strangers in the middle of the ocean

Don’t get on a boat with strangers in the middle of the ocean

Teasing a girl about rape just after your pal killed her friend during sex isn’t a turn on

A guy who doesn’t understand that women are supposed to enjoy sex is probably not the ideal sexual partner

Don’t have sex with the guy you just met who doesn’t understand that women are supposed to enjoy sex

Your slutty friend probably slept with your cheating ex-boyfriend

Brunettes are mildly more intelligent than blonds

Everyone in their 20s that looks decent in a bathing suit is awful and deserves to die

The Winning Line

“You want me to run through a glass door? Babe…you’re heavier”

Says one girl to her already low self-esteem carrying friend. It’s one of the rare genuinely clever lines that I could hear, and it made me wish Donkey Punch had a better sense of humor about its shallow characters

Rent/Bury/Buy

I was curious to see if Donkey Punch warranted its new cult reputation. After watching the film, the answer is essentially an eye roll. Technically, it’s well-made enough and shows that first-time director Olly Blackburn can easily put together a good-looking genre film. I can’t really comment on the script because I could only make out every other word, but it ultimately seems to be a passable straight-to-Netflix caliber bout of violence with a catchy title and nothing else.


In other words, no sharks. No albinos. No gnomes.

Isn't it time you boarded a Haunted Boat?

Not the One With Jewish Gary Oldman

If there’s one thing the woman in me finds frightening, it’s pregnancy.

Think about it.

There’s something GROWING INSIDE YOU. EATING what you eat. INHALING what you breathe. FEELING what you feel. It’s just SITTING there like some couch surfing broke friend, giving you nothing in return for nine months but morning sickness, bodily restrictions, and, if you’re taking your prenatal vitamins, outstanding hair.

(Based on observing friends and family carrying children, my understanding is that the only benefits one reaps during pregnancy are an increased chance of getting a seat on the subway and truly outstanding hair.)

Yeah yeah yeah, I know. The horrors of stretch marks and labor pains are eradicated by the birth of your beautiful perfect baby and all that jazz. Sure. I believe you. But what if said offspring is…

Not. Quite. Right.

Quick Plot: Brooke Adams plays Virginia Marshall, a children’s book author happily married to a successful lawyer and living the white collar dream of any American in the 1980s. The only thing missing is a baby, something Virginia and hubby Brad have been trying to make for several years but have hit roadblocks with both infertility and the nagging specter of Virginia’s occasional bouts with depression.

Enter James Karen as a wait-list-worthy gynecology superstar known for his stunning success with in vitro treatment. Past beneficiaries include Virginia’s annoyingly proud pal Cindy and a young Kathy Griffin’s New Age man-hating girlfriend. Never mind the fact that Cindy’s supposedly genius toddler drowned her older brother or that Kathy Griffin’s wife has turned violent. The baby seems fine so all must be in order…right?

The Unborn comes 17 long years after the better known mutated killer baby film It’s Alive but still follows in its tiny footsteps. Both films are interested in the oddness of the childbirth process, though The Unborn focuses most of its attention on the actual period of pregnancy. Where Larry Cohen’s wonderful It’s Alive trilogy was ultimately about a reluctant man coming to terms with fatherhood, The Unborn is more a scientifically minded Rosemary’s Baby exploring a hesitant mother-to-be learning her reservations might have been more justified than common cold feet.

As Virginia, Brooke Adams is the real strength of The Unborn. She’s a hard-working professional woman with a sarcastic sense of humor, someone who has to fight the urge to roll her eyes every time fellow women speak of the glow of motherhood and wonders of their perfect children. Both the writing and performance are impressively sharp for Virginia, making her come off as an actual person that you or I could certainly know (or even, in some cases, actually be). It’s a shame then that the ending ultimately betrays her.

I’m not going to spoil The Unborn, but if you’ve seen almost any My Child Is Evil film, there’s a good chance you’ll see the final shot coming. Well, I doubt your imagination will be that specific since once we meet the baby, it’s quite a unique little work of puppetry, but still: the outcome is obvious, and yet, quite unearned.

Directed by Rodman Leprechaun 2 Flender, The Unborn is a far better film than its VHS-only reputation might lead you to believe. Because Adams and the character-based writing (by “Henry Dominic, which is apparently a pseudonym for the Catwoman team of John D. Brancato and Michael Ferris) is so good, the audience is led to believe we’re watching an ambitious thriller about parenthood, the medical industry, and what it means to carry a child. Virginia’s past with clinical depression is a fascinating story thread that goes far in establishing her fears even before the mysterious rashes and cat-killing fetus shows its true colors. Much like how It’s Alive began with parents who almost terminated their pregnancy at its first signs, The Unborn starts with a self-aware woman unsure if she has what it takes to be a good mother. Sure, the film ultimately resolves that, but it seems like there was a more interesting answer to that question.

“Dominic’s” script also flirts with some amusing satire on the general culture of pregnancy and parenthood. Virginia’s yuppie friends set the bar for having obnoxious pride in their kids, something dashed rather horribly when one of them commits fratricide. The lighter touch is Griffin and her girlfriend espousing crystal energy and placenta power to a group of dubious non-lesbians. It’s still funny 21 years later.

So what doesn’t work about The Unborn? Sadly, the actual horror movie portion. Once we meet Mini Marshall, all the carefully wrought tension evaporates into bad puppetry and a rushed conclusion. At just 80 minutes long, The Unborn could certainly have taken more time in its resolution, though any more time spent showing the actual monster would have only hurt all the work building it up.

Ah well. The baby still looks better than Bijou Philips’ monster kid in the It’s Alive remake.

As does the crayon drawing made by my cat.

High Points

With the help of a surprisingly smart (when dealing with character) script, Brooke Adams absolutely nails the role of Virginia. Like Mia Farrow’s Rosemary, Virginia is pretty much onscreen for the film’s entire running length, making it vital that Adams registers with the audience. She does.

Low Points

Blargh

Lessons Learned

A dozen or so children still read in this country

There is something called placenta recipes and they are apparently delicious

The best venue to reveal the horror of expensive fertility clinics is generally not a lightweight morning talkshow

Look! It’s…

A young dark-haired Lisa Kudrow as James Karen’s assistant

Rent/Bury/Buy

The Unborn is currently streaming on Netflix and anyone with a passing interest in pregnancy horror will certainly get something out of it. My disappointment comes from the film’s squandered potential, but thanks to Adams’ performance and the occasionally very clever script, the film is still more than worthy of a watch. Especially if, like me, you just want the world to acknowledge how weird the act of pregnancy truly is.