In the VHS bonanza, Slash Dance earned an audience on the basis of a title that rode the coattails leg warmers of Flashdance and box art that promised a flesh-filled slasher film. In reality, it’s a low-wattage thriller with zero nudity and even less welding. Well, at least they weren’t lying about the lycra.
As several actresses and dancers go missing after auditions at a shoebox of a theater, LAPD cop Tori Raines (former GLOW wrestler Cindy Maranne) goes undercover there — or at least in theory, since she fails to operate under a pseudonym — in hopes of cracking the case. As luck would have it, she is one of five ladies selected for the musical, which apparently consists of one song, sounding strikingly similar to “Alley Cat.” Prepare to hear it on what may as well be a loop, as writer/director James Shyman (Hollywood’s New Blood) includes multiple rehearsal scenes — so many that the murder-mystery aspect of the plot gets bumped to subplot status to make way for his homemade, unofficial remake of A Chorus Line.
Still, Slash Dance has a little going for it, one being Maranne’s performance. Like her by-the-book cop character, it has a just-the-facts approach that suggests she’s a total pro; whether the movie turns out shoddy, she’s going to treat it as if she were playing both Cagney and Lacey. Compare her work to Jay Richardson (Illegal Affairs) as the police captain, a role he essays with just enough — okay, more than enough — of a shit-eating grin to let viewers know he knows how this thing will turn out, so why exert more than the bare minimum, atonality be damned?
Either not getting the memo or not caring in the slightest is the second highlight, Joel Von Ornsteiner (Mutant Hunt). As Amos, the theater owner’s mentally challenged brother, he steals the show with the kind of character Ben Stiller would play in various forms across the single season (1992-93) of his late, great sketch series. With all the swagger of a Sweathog and affecting a voice that fluctuates between innocence and insolence, Amos lets loose with one unfiltered and accidental bon mot after another, from “Shouldn’t you be out wiggling your butt … and not your tongue” to “Maybe he’s out someplace looking for a place to flop his dick out.” What a feeling! —Rod Lott