KILLER WORKOUT & DEATH SPA
Directed by David A. Prior. United States. 1987.
Directed by Michael Fischa. United States. 1988.
KILLER WORKOUT is about working-poor artists in New York’s East Village struggling to make ends meet while navigating relationships during the height of the AIDS crisis.
No, wait, that’s RENT.
KILLER WORKOUT is about an unknown killer bumping off spandex-clad babes with a jumbo-sized safety pin. I always get those two confused. The opening credits say the title is AEROBICIDE. That is a catchier name, but it doesn’t play nice with Page’s autocorrect, so I’m very glad they changed it. And would ya look at that? David Prior wrote and directed it, so you know the logic will be airtight, and the dialogue will sound naturalistic and sincere. It even has a soundtrack full of catchy pop tunes that play over and over again during the movie. And did I mention the spandex?
You haven’t seen this many bopping asses and gyrating crotches since the morgue scene in FRIDAY THE 13TH: THE FINAL CHAPTER. I really hope you’ve seen that movie; otherwise that sentence will sound extremely odd. Many minutes are spent on shots of big hair and bouncing breasts, spread legs, and rolling hips. Because this is workout porn choreographed like a music video, all the women are perfect, not a drop of sweat in sight. Occasionally, there’s a shot of a man in the crowd of leaping lovelies. I never said the film is perfect.
This gratuitous show of carnal calisthenics takes place in Rhonda’s Workout, a popular health club in beautiful, sunny Los Angeles, California. The owner’s name is, you guessed it, Rhonda. She's a real stick in the mud, a tight-ass businesswoman whose sister Valerie was roasted, toasted, and (nearly) burned to a crisp in a freak tanning booth accident a few years back. Her lead instructor, Jamie, is a flaky floozy endlessly pursued by a meathead trainer named Jimmy. When gym members start getting bumped off by a maniac with a giant safety pin, Detective Morgan starts snooping around. And if that isn’t enough plot for you, how about an undercover private detective named Chuck digging up dirt on Rhonda’s business dealings?
The murder spree begins with a shower scene, a la PSYCHO, albeit without a kitchen knife. This is where you will either stick with the film and have a blast or lose your mind trying to figure out just how much effort it would really take to stab someone to death with a four-inch safety pin. The murder weapon is the thing this film is most infamous for. It’s stupid, ridiculous, and highly impractical. Even the killer seems a bit embarrassed to be using it, as they plant a knitting needle in the locker with the dead body. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re so crazy that you’d be walking around stabbing people with a safety pin.
A trio of disgruntled gym members write ‘death spa’ on the front window one night and are quickly dispatched by the killer, this time wielding a knife. It’s a much smoother experience. Way less fuss. Can’t slit a throat with a safety pin, can you? Nope, and you can’t punch through a car roof with it either. You’d think this encounter would make the killer second-guess their choice of edged weaponry, but nah. The killer goes right back to ramming their pin through skulls the next day. So many bodies get carted out of Rhonda’s Workout that you’d think they’d close down for a bit, but oh no. They keep on thrusting those hips in the next room. The cops could be carting out corpses in wheelbarrows, and the fitness freaks would keep shaking those buns of steel.
Truth be told, KILLER WORKOUT isn’t all that interested in blood and guts, so don’t expect a torture parade. It’s scatterbrained, leaping from a fist fight behind the gym to some daytime cable TV hanky-panky. The film will jump from tight asses wiggling to long stretches of corny hard-boiled detective talk between the gruff and grim Detective Morgan and the bitchy femme fatale Rhonda. ‘Tonally inconsistent’ is an understatement. The film is being held together by Scotch tape and a prayer, a rickety rollercoaster barreling forward down a track made of paper mache and toothpicks.
KILLER WORKOUT is a ball of lunacy and sheer joy. It’s a fucking blast to watch, from start to finish, loaded with bodacious babes and hilarious poolside brawls. Logic? Who needs it? Just load the film down with babes, chase scenes, men hitting each other in the face, ludicrous displays of safety pin violence, bad acting, catchy pop songs, and shootouts. It is pure 80s fun from start to finish.
Oh, and speaking of ‘death spa’, I’d be remiss not to mention another slice of 80s aerobic horror called, you guessed it, DEATH SPA.
DEATH SPA is the story of a health spa owner whose business is threatened when a vengeful spirit takes possession of the spa’s state-of-the-art computer system, turning some of the equipment into implements of murder. No, that’s not a joke this time. That is the actual premise of this movie.
Like KILLER WORKOUT, DEATH SPA begins with an unfortunate accident, this time involving a woman named Laura and some chlorine gas in the sauna. Thankfully, Laura survives. Michael, Laura’s boyfriend and the owner of the titular death spa, visits her in the hospital. If you were hoping that this movie would also have a gym owner set on fire, you’re in luck. Michael’s wife, Catherine, burned herself to death a year ago. David, her bitter twin brother, operates the gym’s computer system. It controls all the fun stuff at the gym, like the resistance level on the exercise bikes, and whether or not everyone dies.
Right off the bat, you’ll notice that DEATH SPA is much more cinematic and glossy than KILLER WORKOUT. Sure, we’re given first-scene nudity from the lovely Brenda Bakke, and a second-act full frontal group shower scene, but the film never devolves into a parade of bouncing bosoms and jiggling butts. The premise is every bit as bonkers as KILLER WORKOUT, if not more, but DEATH SPA takes itself much more seriously, bringing in the cops early and never letting them leave the narrative.
Just know that when I say ‘seriously’, I don’t mean the film treats the concept of a ghost in the gym machine like Shakespeare. It’s just not laughing at itself all the time. Michael has hairy shoulders. The cops want to dust for fingerprints on a public gym diving board because a bolt came loose. Michael suggestively feeds Laura asparagus. A weight-lifting machine causes a man’s arms to separate so much, his rib cage somehow explodes through the side of his body. And in the film's most ridiculous moment, a guy turns down sex with Chelsea Field. DEATH SPA is a terrifically silly movie with a stone face.
Michael visits a parapsychologist to see if maybe Catherine’s spirit is trying to ruin him. Though the quack seems to know more about his wife’s death than he should, Michael is hesitant to believe him. And why wouldn’t he be? Any reasonable person would think David is the culprit. He obviously hates Michael’s guts and can kill people by turning knobs. There’s also the suggestion of an incestous brother-sister relationship, so maybe jealousy is the motive? Makes more sense than a haunted gym shower. Oh, and let’s not forget Michael’s business partners who are all too happy to use the ‘accidents’ as leverage. They want to buy him out. So many possibilities. But that can wait; we need to douse a girl with acid, tear another girl’s hand off with a blender, explode some fingers, watch a man get killed by frozen eel, and blow up a few heads.
DEATH SPA is a lot of fun, but nowhere near as fun as it should be. At 88 minutes, it’s 15 minutes too long, with a second act that takes forever. The death scenes are gross, gory, and great, but they’re way too spread out, leaving the majority of the juicy pyrotechnics for the third act. The finale ventures into THE EXORCIST territory with a fight for David’s soul in the control room of the gym as Catherine murders partygoers left and right, like a bitchier Carrie White. The problem is that it goes on too long and ends in maybe the most generic way possible.
I feel like DEATH SPA had the opportunity to really swing for the fences. It instead settles for a ground-rule double. I think that’s good. I don’t know. I don’t watch baseball. I do watch a lot of shitty 80s horror movies, though, and DEATH SPA is one of my favorite Saturday afternoon movies. It’s loveably dumb, but it ain’t no KILLER WORKOUT. That film is on a whole other level of wonderful. Still, this is one fucking amazing double feature for fans of cornball horror.