If there’s one thing I love more than fads-ploitation (movies based on short-lived and instantly dated cultural obsessions) or a good slasher flick, it would have to be terrible amalgams of both. Thank writer/director David A. Prior (Sledgehammer) for making me so happy with Killer Workout (also released with the much better title, Aerobicide), which is as wonderfully bad as a late-’80s movie about a maniac killing attractive people in an aerobics studio ever could hope to be.

Unlike other wannabe horror auteurs, Prior doesn’t feel beholden to such traditional cinematic crutches as suspense, character or plot. He’s happy instead to merely intercut random murders of folks we don’t give even the teeny-tiniest fuck about with extensive footage of hot, busty babes exercising enthusiastically in the kind of minimal outfits only the very fittest of us should ever be allowed to wear in public.

As fads-ploitation, Killer Workout is literally nothing more than 30-plus minutes of absurdly sexualized workout footage. As a slasher film, it’s a catastrophic failure. The secret identity of the scarred killer is obvious as soon as she appears onscreen and is the only one dressed in the aerobic version of a burka; nameless victims are introduced in the same scenes where they’re killed; and the hot instructor with the best butt and highest thong is clearly established as the probable protagonist until the screenplay suddenly forgets all about her and decides to kill her off-screen instead.

Combined, however, the result is almost hypnotic in its base appeal. Bouncing boobies. Kill. Thong-clad buttocks. Kill. Random karate fight. Kill. More boobies. Kill. More buttocks. Kill. Kill. Kill. And all I can say is, if you don’t understand the appeal of this, why the heck are you even reading this? —Allan Mott

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In this absolutely dreadful, no-budget horror anthology, two seemingly mentally retarded boys try to get to the video store before closing time to rent CreepTales. They don’t, so they raid the grave of Uncle Munger, who was buried with a copy of the fine, fine film. Then they take it home to a house full of monsters to enjoy a viewing. This passes for a wraparound story.

The amateurish tales — ranging from an unbearable three minutes to an unbearable 20-plus — begin with “Warped,” in which a young woman goes to visit her crazy cousin (“Oh, Mama, you’re making my gall bladder act up!”) and her even crazier mother. Entering into the story are the screen’s fattest cop in history and an entirely predictable skeleton baby. “Snatcher” — about a killer purse — is notable only for the presence of Tom Kenny, the voice of SpongeBob Squarepants, and the stupid song he sings about his houseboat.

“The Closet” is about a monster in a closet, every bit as original and exciting as its title. “Groovy Ghoulie Garage” is just as stupid as its title would lead you to believe, about a gas station populated by ghosts. “Howling Nightmare” is about a werewolf, “Sucker” is about a unique vacuum cleaner, and the entire film itself is about 88 minutes too long.

The aforementioned creatures watching the films within the film pop up between segments for alleged comic relief, shown eating popcorn (with rats in it, ho-ho!) and ordering pizza (and not paying, hee-hee!). You don’t need to sit through all six stories to realize you will hate yourself for watching this. —Rod Lott

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Rip-offs of The Exorcist are a fascinating subgenre all their own. So many were made in that blockbuster’s wake, it’s difficult to keep them apart. It doesn’t help that so many of the foreign imports played in the States under a litany of titles. Originally L’ossessa, Italy’s Enter the Devil can be found as The Tormented, The Devil Obsession, The Obsessed and, best of all, the rather misleading The Sexorcist. But it’s the moniker of The Eerie Midnight Horror Show under which this mess is mostly widely available — a sheer marketing ploy of association with Rocky Horror, with which it shares nothing but color.

According to the opening credits, this one’s “based on a true story.” Because no doubt, every art student like Danila (Stella Carnacina) has been raped by an arched-eyebrow Satan (Ivan Rassimov, star of Umberto Lenzi’s Eaten Alive!), who inhabits a 15th-century, wooden crucifixion sculpture and makes it come to life to show her wood of a different kind. From there, her face goes flush and she begins exhibiting strange behavior.

You know the drill: gaping stigmata, thrashing bed, scab-ridden lips, emission of more orgasmic cries than there are minutes in the movie. Her parents catch her masturbating, but wait for an uncomfortably long time before doing anything about it. (That could be because her mom is a bit of perv herself, a cheating whore who likes to be whipped, played by The Arena’s Lucretia Love, a name that sounds like a Sucrets fetish.)

Before long, it’s “Get thee to a nunnery!,” where the nonsensical script kicks into narrative overdrive and crackles with compelling dialogue, like this exchange:
“Good morning, Father Xeno.”
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Father Xeno.”
“Morning.”

The last 15 minutes find said Father Xeno (Luigi Pistilli of For a Few Dollars More) in the inevitable good-vs.-evil showdown. The possessed Danila wants to give him a beej, then foams at the mouth and vomits great, green gobs of greasy, grimy gopher guts or something of that sort. Don’t pretend like you don’t want to see that. —Rod Lott

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Considering their mutual dependence on hot, 20-something actresses pretending to be clothing-adverse teenagers, combining a slasher film with a teen-titty comedy does sound like a natural fit, but efforts like Cheerleader Camp quickly prove this isn’t the case. Instead of just ending up with a terrible slasher movie, the filmmakers involved inevitably make something much, much worse: a terrible, bitterly unfunny slasher comedy.

Set in a strange, bizarro world where adults who have clearly graduated from college are slaughtered willy nilly while gathered together in a wilderness summer camp location to practice horribly choreographed cheerleading routines, the film doggedly reproduces only the worst aspects of both genres, with the result that you find yourself covering your eyes whenever it tries to be funny, and laughing out loud when it attempts to be frightening.

Chances are, however, you’re going to watch Cheerleader Camp anyway, since it features what has to be one of the most intriguing exploitation casts the period ever produced. Where else are you going to find a balding ’70s teen idol has-been (Skateboard’s Leif Garrett), two ’80s B-movie icons (Private School’s Betsy Russell and Breakin’ starlet Lucinda Dickey), two of the era’s most infamous Playboy Playmates (Rebecca Ferratti, who became a tabloid sensation after describing life in the “harem” of the Sultan of Brunei, and Teri Weigel, the only centerfold in the magazine’s history to become a hardcore pornstar), and George “Buck” Flower (They Live) to top it all off?

A perfect example of what happens when cynical filmmakers attempt to produce a saleable product instead of a good movie, Cheerleader Camp is one of those miserable experiences every genre fan has to suffer through because the cast, poster art and concept are too much to resist, resist it though they should. —Allan Mott

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Dan Curtis’ Burnt Offerings comes from that era in horror when the genre was a chic gig for Oscar winners and A-list talent, rather than any given season’s crop of young, cheap TV supporting players. This one has Oliver Reed, Karen Black, Burgess Meredith and even the grand bitch herself, Bette Davis.

Reed and Black portray the Rolfs, who — with son Davey (Lee Montgomery) and Aunt Elizabeth (Davis) in tow — rent a sprawling Gothic manse for the summer for $900. Seems too good to be true? It is, because there’s a catch: Thrice a day, they are to set out a plate for the unseen 85-year-old woman who never comes out of her room. RUN!!!

Not only do they not run, but Mrs. Rolf does what she’s warned not to do: entering the coot’s room. After doing so, she starts acting all weird. Her hubby also starts exhibiting strange behavior — well, if attempting to drown your own kid counts. (Is it? I can’t keep track of things like “laws.”)

You get the idea Reed was just doing this slow stepper for beer money, because he tends not to invest much in it beyond teeth clinching. No one told Davis, however, who overacts the hell out of things, to the point where you can feel her arrogance seething through your TV. At least the ending is kinda cool, if expected. Was that scripted or was Reed so tanked he slipped? —Rod Lott

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