We may as well establish that the lesser-known category within Slasher flicks, the killer exercise variety, consists of two films: Killer Workout, aka Aerobicide, and seated at the right hand of it - Death Spa, released one year later. Why should anyone ask the redundant question of "why?" in regards to Slasher films veering off in this direction. It's all thanks to the workout craze of the 1980s. Get with the program!
The film opens with a young woman that receives near-fatal burns as a tanning bed experience goes terribly awry. We're then treated to the likes of "Rhonda's Workout" – a gym, naturally run by a woman named Rhonda, that features a dance class that is infinitely in session, packed to the brim with facial close-ups, synthy hum drum, and anatomical regions of the feminine persuasion. This will be 1 of 5 (or roughly so, I actually lost count) dance sequences littered throughout. Amidst the slaughter of innocents with no relative modus operandi, the patrons of the workout facility barely bat an eyelash to acknowledge these gruesome affairs. Toss in your average "bad cop" authority figure who's willing to play hardball and a new muscle head employee who's actually a private investigator and you're ready to stir up the contents of a stereotypical 80s cheese-fest.
Moments worth cherishing within Killer Workout mostly pertain to the excellently delivered dialog, such as this bread-winner of Shakespearean-level achievement:
Typical Workout Jock: I just wanna know one thing. Workout Girl: What? Typical Workout Jock: (points to her zipped up spandex onesy) What's the zipper for, baby? Workout Girl: I'll leave it to your imagination .(storms off, rather annoyed)
What's the zipper for baby? It's a complicated human invention crafted from a metal compound called a zipper; it's commonly sewn onto a garment for the purpose of concealing basic parts our anatomy, in particular, her breasts, you dim-witted Neanderthal. Of course it's really a wonder at all that you can hear this conversation over the whine of the electric guitar busting into a solo as it plays on throughout the opening segment. And furthermore, who hugs someone else after a rigorous dance routine anyway? It's like Killer Workout was written and directed in an alternate universe called Make-Pretend-Movie-Land where the players are tra-la-la'ing. Only a world such as this would feature musical cues at the start of scenes that don't require them like a simple conversation. Why, oh why?
If these elements don't spark your fancy, perhaps you're in the mood for a few hilariously bad fight scenes. David Prior, who wrote and directed this low-budget travesty, has been known to string together B-rated action flicks throughout the course of his career – the evidence of such a preference is on display as it rears its marred visage. At one point neighborhood hoodlums spray-paint the words "Death Spa" on the front window of Rhonda's Workout as a result of the murders receiving public attention. What's that you say an omen? Is it a coincidence that a film entitled Death Spa would be released a year later? At least these thugs were dispatched off with ease, with crimped, Aquanet-sprayed locks a-flyin'. Indeed a punishment that befits the crime for suggesting that another Slasher fall under the confines of a training facility.
The murder weapon of choice is a large safety pin that'd really only serve the purpose of holding up a cloth diaper, not ridding a hapless victim of his or her life. Killer Workout has a length of about 80 minutes or so and concludes rather absurdly with a half-hearted twist that, not surprisingly, is not much of one at all. By the way, if you missed the numerous dance numbers that could've easily been sold as a workout video, available via VHS 25 years ago, catch a glimpse of them on repeat as the end credits play to a finish. Killer Workout is a pathetic movie in literally every facet of film-making imaginable. Forget the likes of Sleepaway Camp if you and your friends are in for a laugh - "Aerobicide" has it all and more fully equipped with brightly colored leotards and leg warmers.
The film opens with a young woman that receives near-fatal burns as a tanning bed experience goes terribly awry. We're then treated to the likes of "Rhonda's Workout" – a gym, naturally run by a woman named Rhonda, that features a dance class that is infinitely in session, packed to the brim with facial close-ups, synthy hum drum, and anatomical regions of the feminine persuasion. This will be 1 of 5 (or roughly so, I actually lost count) dance sequences littered throughout. Amidst the slaughter of innocents with no relative modus operandi, the patrons of the workout facility barely bat an eyelash to acknowledge these gruesome affairs. Toss in your average "bad cop" authority figure who's willing to play hardball and a new muscle head employee who's actually a private investigator and you're ready to stir up the contents of a stereotypical 80s cheese-fest.
Moments worth cherishing within Killer Workout mostly pertain to the excellently delivered dialog, such as this bread-winner of Shakespearean-level achievement:
Typical Workout Jock: I just wanna know one thing. Workout Girl: What? Typical Workout Jock: (points to her zipped up spandex onesy) What's the zipper for, baby? Workout Girl: I'll leave it to your imagination .(storms off, rather annoyed)
What's the zipper for baby? It's a complicated human invention crafted from a metal compound called a zipper; it's commonly sewn onto a garment for the purpose of concealing basic parts our anatomy, in particular, her breasts, you dim-witted Neanderthal. Of course it's really a wonder at all that you can hear this conversation over the whine of the electric guitar busting into a solo as it plays on throughout the opening segment. And furthermore, who hugs someone else after a rigorous dance routine anyway? It's like Killer Workout was written and directed in an alternate universe called Make-Pretend-Movie-Land where the players are tra-la-la'ing. Only a world such as this would feature musical cues at the start of scenes that don't require them like a simple conversation. Why, oh why?
If these elements don't spark your fancy, perhaps you're in the mood for a few hilariously bad fight scenes. David Prior, who wrote and directed this low-budget travesty, has been known to string together B-rated action flicks throughout the course of his career – the evidence of such a preference is on display as it rears its marred visage. At one point neighborhood hoodlums spray-paint the words "Death Spa" on the front window of Rhonda's Workout as a result of the murders receiving public attention. What's that you say an omen? Is it a coincidence that a film entitled Death Spa would be released a year later? At least these thugs were dispatched off with ease, with crimped, Aquanet-sprayed locks a-flyin'. Indeed a punishment that befits the crime for suggesting that another Slasher fall under the confines of a training facility.
The murder weapon of choice is a large safety pin that'd really only serve the purpose of holding up a cloth diaper, not ridding a hapless victim of his or her life. Killer Workout has a length of about 80 minutes or so and concludes rather absurdly with a half-hearted twist that, not surprisingly, is not much of one at all. By the way, if you missed the numerous dance numbers that could've easily been sold as a workout video, available via VHS 25 years ago, catch a glimpse of them on repeat as the end credits play to a finish. Killer Workout is a pathetic movie in literally every facet of film-making imaginable. Forget the likes of Sleepaway Camp if you and your friends are in for a laugh - "Aerobicide" has it all and more fully equipped with brightly colored leotards and leg warmers.