Strip Club Massacre – Blood, stilettos, and oddly familiar disco lights

Alright, so here I am, thinking back to the early 00s when I used to sneak into those dark, dodgy video shops out by Medborgarplatsen, just to grab the most absurd horror titles they had. Strip Club Massacre kinda gave me that same forbidden thrill, except this time, I watched it with a cup of bryggkaffe instead of cheap beer. You know how it is!

To be honest, when you see a film called Strip Club Massacre, you don’t expect Bergman-level storytelling – and yeah, you’re spot on there. Director Bob Clarkston, known more for his love of excessive fake blood than subtlety (though, honestly, who isn’t?), kinda throws you straight into the deep end. The main star Alicia Watson hammers out a performance that’s—well—energetic, but I dunno if we’ll ever see her up for a Guldbagge. And then there’s Lawrence Hill, looking like he just wandered in from a 90s soap and decided to stay. Gotta hand it to producer Tommy Green, he really let the makeup department go wild – the gore is full-on sylt, and it gets everywhere.

There was this one scene with flickering neon and Donna Summer blaring in the background – it actually reminded me of my cousin’s crummy birthday party at Knivsta Folkets Hus, 1994. Sticky floors and questionable fashion, minus the murder, hopefully.

Anyway, I reckon if you’re into stuff like Hobo with a Shotgun or just want to see what happens when you mix Dallas with slasher films, give it a shot. But bring popcorn and maybe a friend, or you’ll just wonder if your life took a wrong turn somewhere around 1am on a tisdagskväll. Strip Club Massacre isn’t deep, it’s not smart, but damn, it’s never boring. Säpo would probablly be concerned if they saw my watch history.

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