SLUMBER PARTY MASSACRE (1982) - proving once again that sexy slumber parties are a futile medium for feminist ideals

The score begins with some “Night on Bald Mountain”-esque keyboard noodling, creating an atmosphere of imminent synthdoom. Some asshole paperboy interrupts a tranquil suburban morning by delivering a paper that contains the headline “Killer of Five Escapes!”. For the illiterates in the audience, a radio alert confirms that, indeed, there is a nutter run amok. Oh yeah, and the movie is called Slumber Party Massacre. I guess I really should have expected the worst from the get go.

Unlike myself, the citizens of whatever the fuck town this is seem pretty oblivious to these warning signs. Young Trish is a swell example. She’s nubile and carefree, rocking out to some pussified Jethro Tull nonsense and flashing her tits. She grabs a paper bag full of dolls and tosses them into a garbage can on her way to school, and a mysterious hand saves one of the unwanted Barbies from an unceremonious grave. Surely this represents Trish’s denouncement of her innocent girlhood, and her ascension to freewheelin’ teenage harlot, the kind that has no qualms about showing her tits to a vast theatre filled with strangers.

We’re now at an all-American high school, and two boys are hitting on the girl that repairs the phone lines, because, quite frankly, she has a pulse. She apparently "doesn’t need a man", and promptly gets drilled through the head by the killer. I guess she just needed a good “drilling” after all. Either that, or it’s free lobotomy day on campus. Meanwhile, they’re holding tryouts for the girl’s basketball team, which is an opportunity to observe some short shorts and truly piss poor ball handling. It also provides legitimate narrative basis for an awe inspiring shower scene, complete with a close up of Brinke Steven’s glorious ass. The girls soap up their keisters and mention that Trish is throwing a party, which a character later mentions will be replete with "Doritos, No Doz, and crystal meth”; a far cry from the usual warm, shitty beer you get with most high school parties. They also talk about whether or not their titties are growing because, let's face it, high school girls have their troubles like everyone else. Valerie the nerd is apparently not welcome to attend the festivities, as she is probably too busy reading books or whatever to worry about her cup size.

Here's a Helix video featuring Brinke and Traci Lords as well. There's actually a version of the video with nudity, albeit with some underage Traci nudity, so you may not want to bother tracking it down. Pervert. Oh, and I realize that the song is shitty. Thank you.

Later on, a girl is being stalked by someone, but it turns out to be her football player boyfriend, whom she flips over on his back. We learn he is not invited to the party because:
A. he is a boy
B. he gets tossed around by a girl like he’s a rag doll, so he must be a pretty shitty football player
C. quite frankly, he is lame

The ladies basketball coach heads home, but a drill suddenly protrudes from the door. Well, it's just another lady worker putting in a peephole this time. Looks like the male carpenter and electrician unions must be on strike. Trish also gets grabbed from behind and frightened by a "family friend", and coach gets another false scare when she opens the closet and a cat jumps out with frisky abandon. As if it wasn’t already clear, Slumber Party Massacre is the grand friggin’ champion of false scares. Everyone is sneaking up on each other, objects are always falling over, and every asshole cat and dog in the neighborhood is poised to pounce on any teenagers in the nearby vicinity.

Well, the girls show up to the slumber party with beer and weed, proclaiming "we're here for the orgy!". My kind of party. Incredibly, the party is being chaperoned by a family friend, but apparently only as a front to be able to get in on the action. While the party goes on, there are two sisters in the house next door, and the two horny schmucks from earlier, who hang outside and try to, god willing, catch a whiff of a nipple or two. Slumber party attendee Diane calls her boyfriend to talk about the vertical shuffle, while the other girls listen in on her conversation. Diane contends that "her first amendment rights have been violated", but, as we all know, the right to party trumps the right to free speech. The power then goes out, courtesy of the two nerdwads messing with the fusebox. Apparently, they think that when a bunch of high school girls in their nighties are left alone in the dark, they will have sex with each other. God I hope so.

Instead, they order some pizza, the bill coming to six bucks for a couple of pies. Christ that’s a deal. They open the door, and the pizza boy has been drilled through the eyes, so he promptly falls over. No wonder it’s so cheap, with service like that. Unfortunately, the killer cuts the phone line, so now the girls are without power or the ability to have some more phone sex. Coach and the neighbor girl check in on the party, and the remainder of the movie involves these characters walking around and investigating in the dark and occasionally getting some more drill action. The killer finally gets his comeuppance when they “castrate” his big drill and impale him with a machete. You’d think this display of female empowerment, the disabling of this phallic tyranny, would lead to an eruption of joy and a celebration of conquering spirit. Not really. The girls all sit around and cry about, boo hoo, their friends being dead. I guess it’s true, that females having feelings and shit.

Surprisingly, Slumber Party Massacre, a movie about young girls showcasing their mammary portions and/or getting slaughtered, is directed by a woman. Even more surprising, it’s written by feminist author Rita Mae Brown. You might have noticed a copy of her book Rubyfruit Jungle forced in as product placement. Apparently, she wrote a brilliant feminist satire, but it was rewritten by male pigs only interested in exploiting female flesh. Even in a film that culminates in a castration of the male intruder, there was no avoiding getting fucked in the ass by the patriarchal bottom line. Also, lead actress Robin Stille (who played older sister Valerie) later committed suicide, her last film role being the female lead in American Ninja 4. Maybe if she had starred in an intelligent female-centric manifesto, as opposed to a titty hack party, she might have gone on to bigger and better things, realizing her Hollywood dreams. Such is the cruel irony of chance, presented under the guise of fate. Or, shit happens and people die. Whichever you prefer.