http://houseofselfindulgence.blogspot.com/2011/01/death-spa-michael-fischa-1988.htmlDeath Spa (Michael Fischa, 1988)
Even
though your average person can probably afford to jump around in
skintight clothing in the privacy of their own home, the desire to have
others gauge the gradual remolding of your soon to be taut physique in a
public setting remains as strong as ever. Whoa, wait a minute, glancing
over the content of the semi-coherent sentence you just scribbled, it
sounds like your about to start typing a bunch of words that may or may
not pertain to a film that takes place in the dewier than normal world
of physical fitness. Nicely done, my highly perceptive,
chromosome-filled friend, you're absolutely right. The genitals are
packed tight, the legwarmers have been laundered to perfection, the
thongs are ready to be forcibly excavated from their rectal prisons at
any given moment, and an armada of saucy headbands await to be bombarded
with the saltiest sweat you can throw at them, it's time once again to
combine rigorous exercise with grisly murder. Whose turn is it now to
haphazardly smash the two unrelated activities together, you ask? Why
it's filmmaker Michael Fischa (My Mom's a Werewolf) and his cagey team of writers, Mitch Paradise and James Bartruff,
of course. An electrical storm is wreaking havoc in the sky above the
Starbody Health Spa, a computerized health club that is practically
crying out for a faceless killer with no morals whatsoever. A bolt of
lightning zaps its neon sign, which shorts out most of the letters. All
that's left is the 'd' in starbody, the 'ea' and 'th' in health, and the
word "spa" manages to escape the storm with its grammatical integrity
intact. (Word puzzle enthusiasts are already way ahead of me.) In an
eerie twist, the sign now reads "Death Spa." Yeah, that's right, the new
name of the spa is the same as the title of the movie we are watching.
How freaky is that? (You know an exercise-based horror film is doing
something right when the unveiling its title causes my inner half-wit to
get all in a tizzy.)
Is Death Spa
able to sustain the momentum it achieved with its stunning opening? You
better believe it. However, I must say, I did have my doubts. The idea
of watching yet another shadowy assailant slaughter people after they're
done performing aerobics was not something I was looking forward to. I
don't care how many firm crotches you shove in my face. That doubt
simply melted away, much like the skin of the film's many victims, the
moment Mr. Fischa tricks us into thinking we're watching something we're
not.
Leading
us into the spacious spa (fluid camera work interspersed with
sinister-sounding synthesizer flourishes), the director gives us the
impression that we are looking through the eyes of a deranged killer.
But what get instead is the first of many sly, Ken Foree-related misdirections.
What
the patrons of the Starbody Health Spa should be fearing is the spa
itself. Whether it be scalding sauna steam, loose diving board screws,
or shower tiles masquerading as deadly projectiles, there is definitely
something iffy going on at this place. Owner Michael Evans (William Bumiller), still shaken by the recent suicide of his wife Catherine (Shari Shattuck), is concerned that his current ladyfriend Laura (Brenda Bakke)
is going down the same road that his paraplegic, self-immolating spouse
did when her eyes get burned by low grade chlorine vapor while
sprawling seductively in the spa's state-of-the-art sauna. To make
matters worse, while detectives (Francis X. McCarthy and Rosalind Cash)
are investigating the sauna incident, a woman in an extremely tight
one-piece swimsuit takes an awkward tumble off a faulty diving board.
Oh, and shortly after that, a musclebound fella nearly gets torn to
pieces by a yellow weight machine.
The
bulk of the suspicion for these "accidents" is placed squarely on the
delicate shoulders of Michael's former brother-in-law David (Merritt Butrick),
the spa's resident computer expert. Why, you ask, does a health spa
have a computer expert? Well, you see, everything at Starbody Health Spa
is run by a kind of super computer, one that takes up an entire room,
and David, it seems, is the only one who knows how to operate the
complex behemoth.
As
you would expect, Michael wants to shutdown the spa's computer–you
know, until they can figure out what's causing all these "accidents."
The tech-savvy David thinks turning it off won't make a difference since
the computer doesn't control diving board screws or shower tiles. On
the other hand, Michael's lawyer Tom (Robert Lipton) and Priscilla (Alexa Hamilton), the spa's attractive manager, definitely want to keep it on, as making tons of money seems to be their primary concern.
Did
I mention that Michael is having these vivid nightmares that involve
his wheelchair-bound wife setting herself on fire and thinks feeding his
temporally blind girlfriend asparagus is the epitome of eroticism? No?
Well, he is and he does.
While
containing numerous attempts to mislead the audience, a couple of
workout montages, one shower scene, and a bizarre moment where one
heterosexual man compliments another heterosexual man on the cuteness of
his shorts, it was the film's supernatural elements that separated Death Spa
from the overcrowded spa-set slasher heard. Also, the gore had an
explosive quality about it that was fresh and exciting. What I mean is
the blood seems to spew rather than ooze, and, on some strange level, I
appreciated that. In addition, never before have I seen a man get his
throat torn out by a frozen fish moments after he failed to save a
female bartender from having her hand shredded by a homicidal blender.
The
film, on the whole, had a slightly off quality about it that I found
oddly appealing. You know what I mean, there was just something wonky
about its aura that made me want to cancel my non-existent health spa
membership. Don't get me wrong, the film is as well-made as a movie
called "Death Spa" can be, the synthesizer score (Peter Kaye) was top-notch and production design (Robert Schulenberg) was superb. I just felt a deep sense of uneasiness as I watched the melting flesh unfold.
In
terms of wearing a leotard in a manner worthy of a million excessively
worded sonnets, I think I'm going to have to nominate the gorgeous Chelsea Shield
as the gal who did the acclaimed garment the most proud (she also
sports an understated side ponytail at one point). Oh, sure, her
dialogue was sparse, and she doesn't do a single jumping jack during the
entire movie, but the whimsical spin she engages in as she impishly
navigates the spongy floor of the spa's weight room was a pure joy to
revel in.
The
so-called "Chelsea Field Death Spa Spandex Spin" (I know, as far as
made-up titles go, it needs a little work) is the stuff of snugly
attired legend in my mind. The way the dingy spa lighting bounced off
the white spandex pressing tightly against her robust thighs was
bewitching. And I wasn't the only one who thought Chelsea was the cats
pajamas, a weight lifter says to her, after she's completed her famous
spandex spin, "I'm Beta, you're VHS." Which I think is a compliment.
(Okay, the more I think about it, and believe me, I've thought about it,
the more I think that guy was insulting Darla.) Having to deal with
defective diving boards, lethal shower tiles, and videocassette-based
put-downs, I'm surprised Darla stuck around as long as she did.
Acting wise, I'd have to say the vastly underrated Brenda Bakke
and her deceptively brilliant turn as Michael's wounded girlfriend was
the film's strongest performance. Her multifaceted turn was a wonder to
behold, as she repeatedly navigated the realm that divides campy horror
acting from its more highfalutin cousin with a breathtaking ease.
Boasting the kind of legs that could destroy entire planets, Brenda
exposes her juicy stems with a profound recklessness at the beginning
and end of the film. However, it's when her eyes are bandaged, that
Brenda's true talent comes screaming to the forefront. Her best scene is
when Merritt Butrick
pops by to menace her. It's the sort of acting you see win awards and
junk, as it contains a hidden depth. In fact, she's so awesome in the
middle section of Death Spa, that I thought they (the producers) had replaced her with a different actress after her character's toxic sauna ordeal.
There's
an extended shower scene included to satisfy those who receive pleasure
from the sight of naked women bathing while standing in an upright
position. Personally, I was appalled by this sequence, but somehow
managed to enjoy it from an anthropological point-of-view. You see, the
problem with nudity is that it disorientates the viewer. The brain can't
focus on his or her favourite body part when clothing is totally
removed from the equation. And when all you're left with is an
ill-defined slab of meat, future trouser wetness is in no way
guaranteed. Stop playing with your rock hard nipples and put a fucking
bra on!
With Chelsea Field dominating the proceedings with her immense beauty and Brenda Bakke
uttering dialogue like a some kind of leggy acting machine who, for all
intents and purposes, could be a ravenous hosebeast hellbent on world
destruction, you'd think there wouldn't be much room for anyone else to
move as a fry cook, I mean, as a Death Spa notable. If you think that,
your brain must not work good.
While they may not shine as bright as the Field-Bakke combo did in this flick, you can't knock Karen Michaels as the spa's bumble bee costumed bar tender; Alexa Hamilton and her pink curve hugging power dress; Tané McClure (who delivers groceries to the recently maimed in white leather); Cindi Dietrich as Linda, a flirty spa patron (sporting the kind of boots you might see Jeana Tomasina wear in a ZZ Top video); Karyn Parsons (Fresh Prince of Bel-Air) as the flirty spa patron's best friend (her television static inspired dress was truly to die for); Vanessa Bell Calloway
(rocking a minimalist bikini like nobody's business); and the rainbow
pantied ladies of the Starbody Health Spa change room for trying.
You'll
notice that I mentioned one piece of clothing each when listing all the
women who were not named Field or Bakke. Well, that's because I was so
impressed with wardrobe designer Katherine Sparks, that I felt I the
need to highlight some of her outstanding work. Unlike Stacey McFarland, who was the chief leotard wrangler for Killer Workout
(a.k.a. Aerobicide), Miss Sparks' take on spandex and swimwear was much
more practical. Without sacrificing style or colour, she employs
kneepads, colour blocking, harlequin clown costumes, and a ton of
mismatched garments to create an authentic, disorganized quality. The
implementation of these stylistic choices have lead me to believe that
Katherine was trying convey the physical and economic hardship of the
spa patrons. Which, you gotta admit, is not something most
aerobics-based horror movies usually convey. Anyway, Death Spa is yet another fine addition to the aerobicspolitation sub-genre.
video uploaded by Warwolf2008
You can check out Chelsea's spin firsthand in a fan-made music video for the Crystal Castles' song "Courtship Dating" (watch Chelsea twirl at around the 45 second mark), and you can also view the Japanese opening titles, and other Death Spa-related clips, over at Scandy Tangerine Man's exploitation friendly YouTube channel.
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I'm thinking for a future review you need to evaluate the John Travolta masterpiece, The Experts. I recently re-watched it (a first since 1990) on netflix instant... And it's absurdity and tackiness would find a good home here along with Death Spa with a review!
You have to love a movie that has to include its title as part of the storyline ("Motel Hello" minus the last "o" equals?...).
Speaking of "future reviews", I have one for you, if you're interested. It's a comedy from 1984 entitled "Second Time Lucky" starring Diane Franklin. I've only seen parts of it, but I think you'll have a field day evaluating this movie.
You talked about the schore, but one thing you didn't mention was the workout music selection. Tell me there's 80s power rock to rival KILLER WORKOUT'S elusive and awesome soundtrack, and I'll beggar the church's coffers for a copy!
Anyway, yeah, I'll check it out.
Matt: I completely forgot that Motel Hell employs the same "title as part of the storyline" technique as Death Spa.
You've only seen parts of it?!? Now that's an endorsement. Just kidding. You had me at Diane Franklin.
Let me write down the title: "Second. Time. Lucky." Done.
The Vicar of VHS: Technology run amuck, exploding heads, yeah, there is a bit of a Chopping Mall vibe going on in the film. Good call.
The reason I didn't mention any of the films totally awesome '80s power rock was because there wasn't any. :(
Actually, there is one song that fits the bill that's featured during the end credits, but that's it.
My word verification is "pestio", which also happens to be the name of an Italian chef who doubled as a magician superhero. Busy dude.
My Finnish made bike is a Hell Spa, except it's spelled "Helspa."
Anyway, Hell Spa, eh? Sounds super obscure (10 whole people have voted for it on IMDb).
Very busy, especially the whole being Italian part.
I briefly thought of you as I lovingly cradled a copy of Turkish Stars Wars in my arms at my local video joint earlier this evening.
Just started checking out the blog. Digging it so far.
Cheers!