Movie Review: Sorority Row
Dario Argento once said that he preferred to murder beautiful women on screen, that it gave him more pleasure. And I have to say, as much as it pains me to do so, that I kind of agree. I would rather eliminate the beautiful women of the world so there’s room for people like me. That might be why I went to see Sorority Row-a little ugly girl’s revenge. I thought, “Well, this is going to suck, but at least I’ll get to see some fun death scenes.” I can’t begin to tell you how wrong I was. From moment one, I knew I was going to be bored out of my mind. I have never found myself wishing I had to pee so badly in my life. All I wanted was an excuse to leave the theater. Shit, I would have taken a head wound because, you see, I have a compulsion to finish things. This time I really wish I hadn’t.
I have to say, you know you’re in for some shit when there is a synchronized dance scene less than two minutes into a movie. Granted, it only lasted for about two seconds, but that was long enough for me to know. It was long enough for me to see exactly where this stinkfest was headed and exactly what kind of message it would send to people like me-a semi-intelligent horror junkie who can see a formula coming a mile away.
Usually when you go see a movie in Times Square on a Friday night, you are smack in the middle of a crowd of teenaged douchebags who hoot, holler, text, and kick the back of your chair, but I was virtually alone in the theater. So I pulled up the arm of the chair beside me and rested my legs on the seat. If I was going to sit through this, I wasn’t going to be uncomfortable. I settled in. I was ready for whatever this had to offer.
And what did it give me? Well, it started by giving me a butt. That’s right, a butt. A girl bouncing on a trampoline in the entryway of the sorority house is wearing pajamas with a trapdoor, and it’s hanging open. Do they even make those anymore? Next I see a girl standing in a bra and panties on a pedestal having her fat circled with black magic marker by her “sisters.” All right, all right, she’s a pledge, but the little feminist in me (the one I usually shut down when I see horror movies) threw up in her mouth a little bit. And then came boobs… lots and lots of boobs. I say “boobs” in this case because that is what these kinds of silicone-filled mammary glands are. They aren’t breasts or “the girls,” as I so lovingly refer to my own set. They are boobs. And they seem to be the major point of reference for the camera for the next hour and a half.
Now, I won’t bore you with the point-by-point details of this mess of a slasher film, so I’ll just give you the highlights. In 1983, House on Sorority Row was released. It was a sloppy but fun teen scream flick about sorority sisters who accidentally kill someone and are then stalked and killed during a party celebrating their graduation. Everything about it is par for the course. The sisters are as you’d expect. There’s a good one, an evil one, a dorky one, a slutty one, and a few in between. In the remake, we are treated to virtually the same cast list with one notable addition.
Carrie Fisher is in this movie. For some reason, I did not know this before I sat down and the opening credits spilled the beans on the bottom of the screen. When I saw her name, I gasped and whispered, “No!” A quiet scream of rejection. I couldn’t believe Carrie Fisher would sink so low. The girl boner I’ve carried for Princess Leia for nearly twenty years was instantly deflated by this terrible mistake. I sure hope she’s broke because there is absolutely no excuse for this-not from movie royalty like her. This woman was strong enough to stand up to Han Solo, and here she is stealing a page from the script of Black Christmas (the original-not that disaster with the little girl from Party of Five and a literally yellow killer) and playing a drunken house mother. And as much as I love Carrie Fisher, she doesn’t hold a candle to Mrs. Mac. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you are really watching the wrong horror movies.) As I watched the few scenes my first girl crush was in, I just kept picturing her shouting, “I sat around while my junk went bad!” to Liz Lemon as she sneaks out the door. That is the middle-aged Carrie Fisher I will hold onto. I will do everything in my power to erase her performance in this film from my memory. And if I succeed in doing so, I am left with a dead-in-the-water slasher film that isn’t worth the New York theater price I paid to see it.
As I’ve said in the past, when you bore the shit out of your audience with a plodding plot filled with horror movie stereotypes (stupid girls, misogynistic dudes, blonde bitches, shower scenes, etc.), you should be able to give us some exciting gore. I mean, they bothered to get an “R” rating for this movie, so I don’t really understand why absolutely nothing gory happened. I know some people will disagree with this assessment, but these are people who have never heard of Herschell Gordon Lewis or Lucio Fulci. And what a shame this must be for them.
Every killing in this film is generally the same. Sharp object (often the same one) gets shoved through the victim’s mouth or throat. Blah blah blah. Seriously, how are you not going to fall asleep? I needed fucking caffeine pills for these killings. For about two seconds I was almost sure there was going to be a robbery from the original My Bloody Valentine; I thought some chick (yes, these are chicks) was going to have her head shoved onto the shower head and that blood would (imperceptibly) flow through it when the killer turned it on. Nope. Not the case. I just got more boobs. In fact, when this particular sorority girl finally got killed, it happened off-screen. And we all know how I feel about off-screen violence in bad horror movies. It’s fucking pointless. If you aren’t going to show me the death, then I am going the fuck home. Except I didn’t.
Here’s the rub when it comes to the violence in this film: You never actually see a wound being created. I guess for some people (boring people), this is a good thing, but for any seasoned horror fan who knows how awesome it is when wooden shards get shoved through someone’s eyeball, this is just poor taste. Any idiot can make a movie with some gore (see Hostel and Hostel II).
So why are we stuck suffering through characters we can’t identify with and a plot we can get into? Well, it seems to be the growing belief that a horror-loving audience is not intelligent enough to know the difference. It seems we’re being condescended to. And this I will not stand for. And apparently, neither will anyone else-as there was almost no one in a theater in Times Square on a Friday night. It’s good to know even the teens (the same ones who keep showing up for those fucking Saw sequels) could smell the stink on this one. It gives me hope that there are horror fans in this next generation who will grow up to be the clever, gore-loving adrenaline-junkies that make this world such a fun place to watch a movie.
Total Score - 2 out of 10
