SuicideGirls: Naked Horror

SuicideGirls

A dozen punk rock chicks with tattoos, piercings and a pronounced allergy to clothing, go way in the hell out there to a “roughing it” cabin with every known convenience, to do a calendar shoot. During the “broads in broad daylight” photo sessions, some girls wander off and don’t come back. Did they get bored and decide to hitchhike 700 miles back to whence they came? Did all the wine and beer and pot run out so they went to the store to get more? Were they hacked up by some guy in a hockey mask? The SuicideGirls would have you believe the latter.

More of a vehicle to promote their world famous internet brand than a “reality-based horror movie,” SuicideGirls Must Die! was one of those “looks good on paper” ideas: Take a dozen of their most naked girls up to a cabin on a lake and do a photo shoot for an upcoming calendar, showing parts of their bodies that, up until now, only their gynecologists had seen. That part works. Over and over. What doesn’t work are the “disappearances” of several girls, leading to more arguing and f-wording and all-out bitchiness than any crack-fueled Tupperware™ party.

When one “problem” chick doesn’t come back from hanging out on the dock, the others look for about one minute, then go back to taking off those awful clothes. The another goes missing. Lather, rinse, repeat. But the photo shoot must go on. The clothes must come off. And the hot tub scene, with nine naked chicks getting drunk and rubbing each others’ stress points, is absolutely essential to the plot.

Speaking of, they try and throw in a swerve by adding a weirdo dude with a fourth grade diploma who lives in a modern tent in the woods and hangs his Speedos™ out to dry on tree branches. Then there’s the woman-hating groundskeeper who yells unbefitting language right  at them. Then there’s Amina, the SuicideGirl in charge of everything, telling them all to go to hell if they’re not onboard with the plan. (By far and away, the best character. Best chest tattoos, too.)

SuicideGirls

When all this gets too much, the group splits up – four in a boat in underwear, three walking for hours doing nothing but arguing. Those that don’t bitch on each other, cry like wet kittens. So much for the SuicideGirls’ vaunted toughness.

In the end it was all a put-on. But you knew you were gonna be robbed about ten seconds after renting this “horror” movie. They promise tons of blood. Not so much. They promise scares. The contents in my laundry basket are more frightening. They promise lots of boobs. OK, one outta three ain’t bad.

But you don’t rent movies like this for a horror experience. You watch it for the hot tub scene, which by the way needed way more soap. If you’re gonna talk dirty, you’re gonna have to pay the price.

SuicideGirls Must Die! is promoted as the world’s first reality-based horror film, unscripted, unrehearsed, unplanned. Yeah, right. Look at the end credits — more working staff than Jenny Craig™. I, however, would like to offer my services as General Manager of Hot Tubbery for the sequel. No charge. Heck, I’ll pay THEM.

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