Sunday, October 6, 2019

body rock.

Just a quickie today as I was all set to review Murder Rock then realised I'd done that a few months back.


Aerobicide (AKA Killer Workout, 1986).
dir: David A Prior.
Cast: Marcia Karr, David James Campbell, Fritz Matthews, Ted Prior, Teresa Van Der Woude and Teresa Truesdale.

"Just relax, I'm not some crazy killer."

Horse of face and pube of perm 'fashion' model Valerie (Karr from Real Genius, Savage Streets, Maniac Cop and latterly your local chippie) is excited to discover she's been chosen as the cover star of the new issue of Love it! Magazine (or something) to illustrate a story about infanticide or genital warts (don't have the issue to hand, sorry) and, eager to be at her most orange for the photo shoot heads off to the local gym to use the sun bed.

Unfortunately a freak accident means the machine cooks Valerie so they have to go with a I murdered my kids for talking during I'm A Celebrity/Jordan: my tits make my back ache cover instead.

Which is a shame really as the original idea would have probably gotten them some new - non granny based violence obsessed - readers.

Love it!

With the backstory out of the way we (as in the viewer) jump forward several years - and a dozen crimes against fashion - later and find ourselves (via the medium of film, not in reality obviously) in the middle of a funky Hi-Energy workout complete with dodgy 80's synth pop, crack splitting leotards and over ripe bouncy breasts where the sexily strict gym manager - and Crispy Valerie's twin sister - Rhonda (Karr again) runs the classes with a rod of iron, saving the worst of her venom for the sassy  Jaimy (Woude, star of Night Visitor) and local chubster Jimmy (mightily mulleted Matthews from Deadly Prey and The Devil's Rain) because, um, reasons.

No need.

Luckily for the viewer these soap opera shenanigans are quickly put on hold when keep fit enthusiast Rachel (queen of the walk on Truesdale) is stabbed in the showers by a nutter wielding a giant safety pin.

No, really.

Which is annoying for Jaimy whose (sweaty) jockstrap stealing antics are cruelly curtailed when Rachel's bloodied corpse falls out of a locker on top of her.

Enter (not literally mind) the Caramel faced Lieutenant Morgan (blond bruiser Campbell) who's brought in to investigate the murder and add some much needed testosterone to the proceedings.

Knife to see you, to see you, knife.

Whilst Morgan is roughing up the clientèle, Rhonda is surprised to find a strange man named Chuck (Ted - slightly less ugly brother of the director - Prior) ransacking her office.

Tho' not her orifices, obviously.

It appears her business partner has hired Chuck to, um, do stuff.

Oh and to have a vaguely homo-erotic fight with Jimmy in the car park.

Excitedly watching from the sidelines is Jimmy's ex girlfriend (whose name escapes me) who, overcome with lust for Chuck invites him back to her apartment for a quick shag and a biscuit.

As is the norm, the post sex chat quickly comes (tho' not as quick as Chuck) around to her ex, who it appears she dumped because he liked to 'tie girls up and stuff' making him the number one suspect for Rachel's murder.

I know, I can't figure that one out either.

Anyway, Chuck is too interested in watching the ladies ample breasts bob up and down in a slightly hypnotic way to really take anything in tho'.

As was I if I'm honest.

Juliet Bravo!

Luckily I snapped back to reality in time to see the local bad boys spraying death spa all over the gym's walls before being dispatched by the unseen killer.


Didn't he like the font they used?

Morgan appears to be as much use as a chocolate starfish as more and more supple, toned (dead) bodies turn up forcing him to run around accusing everyone of being the killer whilst Rhonda sticks her chest out and glares at the rest of the cast.

Bizarrely enough the small matter of the killings doesn't seem to have bothered the local fitness freaks at all, seeing as the gym seems busier than ever.

And if that isn't a metaphor for Brexit I don't know what is.

Same shit, different smell.

So, who is the workout obsessed killer?

Will anyone tell Rhonda that her bra is about three sizes too small?

And will Jimmy win back the heart (and not to mention huge breasts) of his ex?

To be honest, there aren't enough hours in the day to care really.

Every need yet no need at the same time.

The horror equivalent of itchy anal warts, Aerobicide takes your basic slasher plot, gets it drunk on cheap lager in a sleazy night club and buys it a kebab before roughly buggering it in the cab on the way home then kicking it out of the backdoor onto a dirty piece of wasteland half naked and bleeding.

Director Prior (he of, oh fuck it I can't be bothered listing the unadulterated shite he's been involved in, just look him up) takes a surprisingly competent cast and forces them to stand around in vomit inducing luminous 80's dance fashions whilst spouting whatever inane sentences just happen to come into their heads.

And my word what heads the cast have.

There are mullets, poodle perms and giant blonde barnets that look like they'd snap if tugged too hard, it's painfully obvious to anyone watching that the ozone hole is all the fault of this movie.

But all that fades when compared to the outfits paraded on screen - day-glo vests, spandex snatch splitters, shiny leotards and leg warmers are the order of the day whilst the electropap score kills any chance of suspense before it can rear it's head.

Bloody abysmal.

And I love it.

Tomorrow, something good.

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