Bachelor Party Massacre

I love breasts. What’s not to like, eh? You’ve got your chest wall, you’ve got your pectoralis muscles, your lobules, nipples, the areola, you’ve got the duct, fatty tissue and you’ve got the skin — haven’t you? Perfection, right guys? You know what I’m talking about. And when I watch an embarrassingly low-budget, evidently rushed horror film, I like to see at least a couple of breasts.

Fortunately, the film in front of me is called Bachelor Party Massacre; the cover features a scantily clad, knife-welding stripper and a man with his legs apart in preparation for a lap dance, apparently not bothered by the very large, blood-stained knife in the stripper’s hand. The probability of seeing breasts, the cover would suggest, is very high and the fact that the film has been directed by somebody called Schumacker Halpern Overdrive surely guarantees at least a few explicit references to breasts, at least?

Schumacker Halpern Overdrive — how could this film not be good?

I’ve never really understood why a group of very manly males would hire strippers for a bachelor party. It’s like planning a trip to a chocolate factory, not to sample the chocolate, but to just look at it and shout and whoop about how much you’d taste the chocolate, as if to taste the chocolate wouldn’t result in you being put on a sex offenders register. It’s like going to a chocolate factory and discovering that the chocolate has no desire to be sampled by you, but because it’s being paid to, it’s forced to humour you and allow you to stare at it, despite its utter disdain for your existence.

But you know, some guys are into that kind of thing. Some see it as just a group of buddies having a few beers and enjoying the breasts of a woman who really needs money. Just a few guys sat around, having a good time and vocalising their disturbingly intimate, sexually inappropriate comments about what they’d do to an uninterested, no doubt repulsed woman. Just some blokes relaxing, concealing their erections, drinking gassy lager and trying hard to convince themselves that they’re not particularly sleazy individuals. Just a bunch of unattractive bastards lounging about, whooping and hollering at a woman who, frankly, isn’t being paid enough to endure the presence of a gaggle of inane douche bags.

Whatever. Tits — that’s what we’re here for isn’t it, guys? Big, bouncy tits, and to a lesser extent, the women attached to those tits.

Within the first 5 or so minutes of the film, Bachelor Party Massacre establishes itself as a film similar to The Hangover, although I should point out that Bachelor Party Massacre predates The Hangover by several years. It’s about sex-obsessed bastards at a bachelor party — with strippers! In their words: “It’s going to be the biggest bachelor party ever!” despite the fact that only 4 bastards are attending the bachelor party, including the head bastard or head “stag”.

Stifler and soon to be Mrs. Stifler.

Okay, let’s meet the bastards: there’s the head stag, the Poundland (which is where I bought this film) Stifler, who you might mistake for Stifler from the American Pie series of films; there’s Ebay Owen Wilson, from popular comedy film Poolaunder; and Price Cruncher Turk, who’s definitely not from the hilarious-when-the-sound-is-muted-but-generally-not-remotely-funny television series Scrubs.

Owen Wilson and Turk.

The stags are holding Stifler’s bachelor party at a place called Charlie’s Bar. As Owen Wilson explains later in the film, in a completely deadpan voice, Charlie went crazy and now spends most of his time, not running Charlie’s Bar, but eating his own crap. I’m serious.

Anyway, Turk and Owen are having some trouble finding Charlie’s Bar, and eventually decide to pull over in their car and flag down passing vehicles for directions. Eventually, this woman stops.


As you can probably gather from the image above, she offers very little help apart from establishing herself as the only suspicious character in the entire film. Bearing in mind that the film is called Bachelor Party Massacre, I think it’s safe to presume that a massacre is going to happen in the next 90 or so minutes and that this character is going to be responsible. I mean, look at her.

Eventually, Turk and Owen make their way to Charlie’s bar, and as soon as they do, they practically dive out of the car and begin to sing an impromptu rendition of the bachelor party classic “Titties In My Face”, a sweet, not particularly wordy little ditty about being uncomfortably close to a pair, or several pairs, of breasts.

"Titties in my face! Titties in my face!"

Earlier, I purposely didn’t mention my favourite stag/bastard, Carl. It’s easy to see why Carl’s my favourite stag. I mean, just look at him. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the word “BEER” written on it, immediately establishing him as the group’s designated “part-ay guy”. Bizarrely, the actor playing Carl can actually act as well, which is probably why he’s been given 70% of the film’s dialogue.

"PART-AY!" Carl. The C-Man. El Carlo.

Now that all the bastards have arrived, it’s time to bring on the titties! Carl introduces himself to the strippers in typical Carl fashion. “My names Carl,” he smirks, “this is my boner.” The camera pans down to his groin area. Classic Carl. The girls roll their eyes and the “party” starts.

In reality the “party” looks incredibly depressing. There’s no music, just a bunch of guys drinking and making awkward small talk to two very irritable strippers. Fortunately, the writer of Bachelor Pad Massacre has come up with some truly excellent incidental dialogue. For example, at one point we cut to the bar full of bastards while Carl appears to be in a deep discussion about the Hanna-Barbera cartoon The Snorks. “They have snorkels on their heads. That’s why they call them the snorks.”

It truly is a shame that the entire film couldn’t consist of this one discussion. Carl with his “BEER” t-shirt on — presumably because his “TITS” t-shirt was in the wash — drinking beer and making very obvious observations. “You know that Ramones song, ‘I wanna Be Sedated’? It’s not actually that sedate…You know, they call it football because the players, apparently, use their feet to kick a ball — true story…”

Strippers: four tits/two pairs of titties.

As the depression ensues, a killing occurs. A man delivering pizza is brutally stabbed and the film makes no attempt to disguise who’s responsible: the girl from earlier. You know, the one in the car — with the face.

“This is fuckin’ retarded,” says the pizza guy, moments before his death.

Like all good fictional killers, the girl — let’s call her Creepy Face — quips, “I hate sausage.” You know, because of the pizza. It’s funny.

Oblivious, the bastards sit slack-jawed in the other room staring at the gyrating hips of the two strippers they’ve hired. The atmosphere is weird, each one demanding “titties in their face”. Even from the safety of my living room, this is difficult to watch.

The strippers eventually stop and suggest private dances instead. The private dances are also very awkward; one ends with Turk vomiting his guts out into a toilet and another ends with Owen Wilson cumming in his pants, much to his own enjoyment.

Whilst Turk crouches over the toilet, Creepy Face strikes again, smashing Turk’s head against the side of the bowl. Her quip this time: “Have a seat.”

Ebay Owen Wilson also meets his gruesome end, but not before uttering this rather inspired big of dialogue:

“Oh, like to play games, huh? Well, I like to have sex — naked!”

The film then changes from a raunchy Hangover-type film and into something altogether darker. Despite appearing to have no real motive, Creepy Face kills again and again, each time with an even more ridiculous quip. For example, when she runs someone over with a truck she jokes, “You’re looking a bit run down!” When she kills somebody who’s smoking she says, “Smoking kills.”

I could be wrong, but is she killing people purely so that she can say these things? She doesn’t appear to have any other motive.

The film really takes a turn for a worse at this point. We’re over an hour in and we still haven’t seen a pair of breasts. It suddenly starts to dawn on me: perhaps I’ve wasted my time. How could I have been so wrong? The film’s directed by somebody called Schumacker Halpern Overdrive! Schumacker Halpern Overdrive! Damn you! Damn you to hell, Bachelor Party Massacre!

But just when I thought all was lost.


There it is. Titties in my face. And now, come to think of it, I’m actually pretty disappointed. Sure, breasts can be fun, but this wasn’t worth it. Owen Wilson and Turk made it look so fun; I guess I was just carried away by their excitement. I actually feel kind of depressed, like somebody who dances around singing songs about having breasts in their face after they’ve just spotted themselves in the mirror and realised how completely awful they are.

Anyway, I’ll continue, I suppose.

Creepy Face finishes off the entire cast of the film, including Carl, my favourite. Stifler’s fiancée turns up and eventually manages to overpower her and Creepy Face is sent away to an asylum.

Months later and Stifler’s fiancée is relaxing in the bath, finally getting over the loss of her soul mate, when Creepy Face enters the room and throws a radio into the bath. As usual she makes a little joke, which I won’t repeat because it’s awful, and the credits roll.

It’s a depressing ending. There was no twist and nothing remotely clever or unexpected happened. But to be fair, it was everything the title boasts. There was a bachelor party — a very depressing one — and there was massacre.

Overall, though, I can’t help feeling a bit disappointed. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but I was kind of hoping for more Carl, more lines like “Hi, I’m Carl; this is my boner.” I don’t know. I suppo–

Wait. What’s that?

That music. What is it? That song playing during the closing credits — it’s beautiful.

Those lyrics:

“On a foggy night (something something) together.
Throw a party for the lucky bachelor.
They got all the supplies and called up the fucking strippers!
And now they’ve all got boners bursting through their zippers!

Something’s wrong, it ain’t just right.
There’s something lurking in the cupboard of the night.
The party started, it’s a party with four dorks.
We arge (something something) and talk about the fucking snorks!”

And if that song wasn’t redeeming enough, the film then cuts to a series of hilarious bloopers! And to think, this is the stuff that didn’t make it!

Overall, not a great film, but it really wasn’t as bad as I was expecting. If you’re a big tit fan then you might want to give it a miss and try typing in words like “TITS” and “BREASTS” into Google (“JUGGS” perhaps), but if you’re a fan of massacres and great lines like “Oh, like to play games, huh? Well, I like to have sex — naked” you should check this out.

Don’t believe that those are the actual lyrics?

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