Editor’s Note: This was originally published for FANGORIA on February 27, 2004, and we’re proud to share it as part of The Gingold Files.
If there’s any subtext to the goofball horror/comedy Club Dread, it’s that respect for the source of a parody always helps make that parody better. The Wayans brothers, who did the first two Scary Movies, evidently disrespected their fright-film sources (just check out their interviews on the subject), but the Broken Lizard gang, who star in and wrote Club Dread, just as clearly have an affection for the mad-slasher films of the late ’70s and early ’80s.
While their movie pokes fun at any number of the subgenre’s conventions—multiple red herrings, the unkillable villain, a great visual joke about how slow-stalking killers can always catch their fleeing prey—and is far more raucous than Scream (perhaps this movie can serve as a corrective to lazy critics who insist on calling Wes Craven’s film a spoof), it also respects slasher traditions. The murderous situations are directed straight, even when what happens in them is silly, by Jay Chandrasekhar; shooting in widescreen for the first time in Lizard history, he even comes up with a few shots that wouldn’t be out of place in a John Carpenter or Brian De Palma film of the period.
Also contributing to the nostalgia factor is the unabashed reveling in nudity, drinking and drug use, all of it actively encouraged by Coconut Pete Wabash (Bill Paxton), owner and operator (except that he doesn’t actually do anything) of the Costa Rican Pleasure Island resort where the movie is set. Paxton has great fun getting back to his comic roots as the blissed-out hedonist still coasting on the glory of a long-ago singing career; the ’70s aura is further reinforced by the inclusion of few of Pete’s dreadful hippie-lite-rock songs. One of them becomes crucial to the plot, while another, “Piñacoladaburg,” is a dead-on sendup of “Margaritaville.” (But don’t mention the latter to Pete; he’ll just get mad and start ranting about how Jimmy Buffett stole his glory.)
His Pleasure Island staff is composed of a group of eccentrics played by the Lizards: Chandrasekhar as the pompous, Brit-accented tennis pro; Kevin Heffernan as the newly arrived masseur, who’s got more special touch tricks than Mr. Spock; Paul Soter as Coconut Pete’s nephew, who’s tolerated despite (or maybe because of) the fact that he’s also the resident drug supplier; Steve Lemme as the dive master and self-appointed ladies’ man; and Erik Stolhanske as head of the island’s Fun Police. There’s also the obligatory hot aerobics instructor (Brittany Daniel) and assorted secondary folks who are the first to go when a disguised maniac begins a bloody rampage.
In a twist on slasher standards (and a goof on the old films’ oblivious characters), this particular psycho not only targets the staff instead of the carnally engaged guests, he insists via cryptic notes that they continue to go about their jobs, and not let anyone else know what’s happening, or more will die. Now, of course, the staff has a distraction: Who is the killer? One of their own, a newcomer to the island—or is it Machete Phil, an island legend who supposedly roams the island with a blade in one hand and no genitalia? (The campfire recounting of this story results in one of the movie’s more outrageous sight gags.)
The whodunit provides a framework for the Lizards’ freewheeling humor, which is of the throw-everything-against-the-wall school and here has a gratifyingly high sticking rate. Reflecting their commitment to honoring their antecedents, the mystery actually becomes kinda involving in a silly sort of way, while the gore FX by Matthew Mungle, Kristian Kobzina and Tony Mandile are vivid enough that hardcore horror fans will be satisfied, and they won’t feel the films they love are being insulted. Yet while the film is predicated on murder, Club Dread otherwise lacks the mean-spiritedness that has made other recent raunch comedies a chore to sit through. The guys are clearly having fun, and even though it’s their vehicle, they’re gracious enough to give others in the cast a number of moments of their own. Beyond Paxton, the lovely Daniel does an impressive job playing straight woman to all the wackiness; Samm (Freaks & Geeks) Levine is hilarious as a horndog who’s so obnoxious he deserves to join the workers on the killer’s hit list; and Jordan Ladd has a fun, perky turn as a club guest who hooks up with the dive master. She also sheds her Cabin Fever demureness to provide what is certain to be the year’s best nude scene (gymnastics are involved—sigh…).
Like any vacation, Club Dread has its languors, but the company is so ingratiating that the slow spots don’t grate too much. And it’s obvious that the movie could have been longer; both the trailer and the outtakes that run alongside the end titles showcase scenes that aren’t actually in the film. Here’s a free joke for the Lizards, or whoever else might want to use it: a closing-credits “blooper” in which a perfectly good take is spoiled when one of the actors breaks character, looks into the lens and says, “Wait a minute—this scene isn’t in the movie!”
