Death Spa is a movie that’s been doing the rounds among VHS Revival readers recently. To begin with I knew nothing of it, but the title alone was enough for me to make immediate comparisons to another movie, one that happens to be a particular favourite of mine in the realms of low-budget, slasher exploitation. I am of course referring to David A. Prior’s absurd, gym-based sleazefest Killer Workout aka Aerobicide, a film starring Deadly Prey, B-movie regular Ted Prior and a whole host of clueless douchebags looking to break into Hollywood along the most misguided of paths. The kind of cheapo VHS flick that comes with an undisclosed budget, Killer Workout served up a fast food brunch of blood, babes and MTV aerobics.
As an exercise in the delightfully absurd, Killer Workout takes some beating. First on its agenda is the unadulterated exploitation of the female form. In the smut-driven mind of David A. Prior, women are little more than neon-clad bitches looking to shed their spandex at the merest hint of attention, swooning over some of the most chauvinistic pigs ever captured by celluloid, the kind of dull-witted muscleheads who mock the movie’s resident killer for not raping his victims first. Vile sentiments for sure, but everyday conversation over at Rhonda’s Workout. The movie also features impromptu kung-fu battles, ludicrous plot twists and the kind of inept detective work that is perhaps most startling of all. Killer Workout should be offensive but you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who could allow themselves to become distressed by such flagrant and utterly enchanting nonsense, though maybe I’m looking at things through neon-tinted spectacles.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Death Spa is another lost gem with an undisclosed budget. Producers clearly weren’t digging the whole girls in spandex/slasher concept as anything more than B-grade sleaze, though to be fair the aerobics fad had been around for so long by 1989 that it was no longer such a novelty, and the same could be said of the slasher genre. Of course, Death Spa is a different kind of slasher. As is common with movies looking to tap into whatever markets will have them, the film also has an alternate title, perhaps the best alternate title this side of Howling II: Your Sister is a Werewolf in Witch Bitch. Blunt and wholly unmarketable, but as a title which attempts to encapsulate this horror absurdity it is quite the effort, one made even more important by the movie’s incongruous poster design, a drab affair that does little to encapsulate the film or even successfully sell it. It looks more like the cover of a second-rate fantasy novel than a promotional accompaniment for a gimmicky slasher. But don’t be fooled, because in many ways Death Spa outdoes its older sibling for sheer ridiculousness, and take it from me that is no mean feat.
On the subject of neon-tinted spectacles, by the time you’ve finished watching Death Spa you’ll feel like you’ve been wearing them all your life. Sometimes the screen glows with so many gaudy colours that you’ll find your eyes darting all over the place, distracted by the Z-grade melodrama unravelling somewhere beneath. Imagine an episode of Saved by the Bell with a dash of Dario Argento at his most colourful and cavalier and you’ll get as close as I can give you to a comparison. Thanks to a so-careful-its-laborious opening shot of the spa’s unfortunately lit logo, I suddenly imagined that Death Spa was going to be the demure younger sister of Killer Workout rather than another exercise in grainy trash, and to an extent it is, though it’s all fur coat and no knickers, which for a concept such as this shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise.
As expected, the two films have much more in common than setting. Obviously, there are fitness industry comparisons. There is also ample nudity on display, and in fact Death Spa somehow manages to usurp its older sibling in its ceaseless quest to titillate. There are nowhere near as many cleavage (and other delicate area) close-ups as there are in Killer Workout, but for the most part Death Spa doesn’t waste its time with such half-assed antics. It instead rams full-on nudity down our throats as if it’s on the verge of going out of fashion. Particularly pornographic is an early scene which sees a fully nude birdbrain unleashing mountains of flesh in a steam room, playing with beads of sweat in a manner that is borderline masturbatory — because that’s what women get up to in public gyms, we all know that. So brazen is Death Spa at flaunting nudity that the movie’s ludicrous shower scene used extras hired through a porn casting agency, and as is the case with everyone else in this movie, their appearance is touched by creative lunacy.
From the looks of things, director Fischa takes his aesthetic cue from the likes of Mario Bava and Dario Argento, but the underlying sleaze and vacuity either make such a venture redundant or oddly fascinating, depending on your personal predilection. Taking influence from German expressionist cinema and even early Disney, the likes of Argento would bathe their movies in swathes of primary colours as a way to disorientate and beguile, to coax us out of reality and into the realms of cinematic evil, and, as in Argento’s Suspiria, colour seems to represent the presence of a supernatural evil lurking somewhere in the corridors of Starbody Health Spa. Those movies were often light on plot and characterisation too, and from a narrative perspective made little sense. Death Spa also has those elements in common, but while they were peripheral to movies which excelled in artistic endeavour, Death Spa is a glorified soap opera buoyed by a series of ludicrous death sequences, and when I say ludicrous I’m not fucking around.
Some of the sets are just priceless. Death Spa looks something like an episode of ’90s sitcom The Fresh Prince of Bel Air — even more so since one of the movie’s vacuous LA hotties is played by Karyn Parsons, who gives what is basically an audition for the role of spoilt Banks daughter Hilary as a neon slave to male sexuality. Other notable faces come in the form of Dawn of the Dead‘s Ken Foree doing anything for a pay cheque and Chelsea Field, an actress whose career had clearly plummeted in the two years since starring as Teela in Cannon flop Masters of the Universe. Death Spa would also be the last movie to star Star Trek regular Merritt Butrick before his tragic death from complications relating to AIDS at 29.
Still, compared with sub-genre sibling Killer Workout, Death Spa is rich and diverse, thanks mostly to the movie’s cocaine nights colour palette, but also because of the camerawork. In this regard, Killer Workout is barely a movie. It’s just a bunch of scenes thrown haphazardly together with the most basic direction imaginable. Death Spa director Michael Fischa actually has something of an eye. There are plenty of bog-standard scenes that are produced with all the creativity of a daytime soap opera, but he’s clearly having fun shooting this movie. The camerawork is amateur yet playful, with some interesting compositions, a few fairly accomplished slasher set-pieces, and even a couple of Flashdance pop video segments at a time when the medium was still fresh and novel, though the absurdity of the material never allows it to rise above the level of fascinating dreck.
Death Spa begins with a Chopping Mall style quirk as a trendy Los Angeles health club succumbs to the usual flash of neon electricity, which seems to be the trigger for the movie’s supernatural madness — either that, or its only purpose is to change the gyms sign from ‘Starbody Health Spa’ to ‘ d ea th Spa’. You see what they did there? It’s rather difficult to give you a true understanding of just how crazy this movie is without giving away the whole plot, but events begin with a series of unexplained deaths and accidents, beginning with a sauna mishap which sees the ludicrously gorgeous Laura (Brenda Bakke) burned from head-to-toe by ‘chlorine vapour’. The fact that she doesn’t seem to have any burns at all following the accident should come as no surprise given the movie’s budget, though she does wear bandages over her eyes for the entire movie, an image which gets more hilarious with each passing scene. At one point she blindly performs fellatio on a giant piece of asparagus after being hand-fed by lover and Starbody owner Michael, who is never convincing in the role, in spite of the fact that he was actually a real-life gym owner. Presumably they were looking for authenticity anywhere they could find it.
Michael, Marvin (Ken Foree) and a duo of vacuous cops suspect David is behind the spate of accidents. David is the former brother-in-law of Michael, whose wife died after setting herself on fire while pregnant out of jealousy for her husband’s supposedly salacious ways. This makes sense, since David oozes malice with such transparency it may as well be evidence. He also controls the crappy cardboard set with a humongous super computer, though events lead you to believe that there’s something else going on, that David may not be acting alone, or even be responsible for anything in a literal sense. Confused yet? Give it time, you will be. At one point, somebody plays a practical joke with what looks like a live human embryo, though Michael seems to think its a bird. I don’t know. I’ll leave that one for you to decide.
The amount of craziness being served up is truly breathtaking. For one thing, almost the entire movie is set in a gym whose members never seem to leave. In fact, they even throw late-night soirées there. Now, I’m not really a gym person, but this seems like an unlikely venue, especially with all the murder and mayhem going on. Surely it would just be simpler to close down the spa until it all blows over. Those oversights are ten to a penny, but they don’t even begin to explain the madness. Bizarre paranormal investigators? Check. Exploding women? Check. Killer blenders? Supernatural, Carrie style massacres? Undead witch/werewolves rising from the ashes? Check, check and double check. Still don’t want to see this film? If the answer is No, then shame on you.