Sorority House Massacre

Look, I'm just gonna level with you on this one. Some movies are worth thought-provoking, eloquent, intelligent write-ups. And some aren't. Sorority House Massacre has aspirations, believe it or not, to be the latter, but it's the former. This feels like every third-string, trend-riding, late-era cash-in slasher ever made. The killer is a blank slate in the worst way -- not like Michael, where there was once a human but it was stripped away, and not like Jason, who was indiscriminate, cruel death incarnate. No, this villain is just a guy named Bobby. He's as intimidating as a bottle of ketchup. The kills? Every one of them is a knife stab; more realistic than Halloween 5's impalement with a shotgun, or Friday The 13th Part 6's head into the side of the RV, but none of them are exciting, inventive, or bloody, which means the slashing part of this slasher -- you know, THE ENTIRE SELLING POINT -- is forgettable. Despite this being written and directed by a woman, there is no hint of a strong female hand guiding this movie; there is copious, gratuitous nudity from three out of the four female leads, including a clothes-changing montage that must last a minute and a half (which, for a movie that's only 74 minutes, is a significant chunk of real estate) which exists for boobs after boobs after boobs after boobs. You'd also think the women would have strong voices and be more fleshed out. Nope, beyond the Final Girl, you have three entirely interchangeable women. They have less personality than my sofa. They don't even get personality archetypes like "the mean girl" or "the slut" or "the rich one". They're just dialogue delivery vehicles, and, when their number is called, hunting knife pin-cushions. Even the one original thing here -- an attempt to make some sort of psychic connection between the Final Girl and the killer -- is hastily tossed in there, and as undeveloped as the Mojave Desert. This is never bad, it's just a lazy, uninspired, slashers-greatest-hits package.