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Bikini Bloodbath Christmas (V)

“Sadly, the cons rule the pros on this one, leaving the audience with a muddled, low-energy conclusion that can’t compete with the boisterous ribaldry of the first two films.”

Bikini Bloodbath Christmas is the conclusion to a fun-to-watch, super-homemade trilogy that started back in 2006, an aggressively stupid saga that––at least through the first two films––somehow managed to entertain, thanks to its repeated weapons arsenal of bare tits, witty montages, and cheap-looking kills at the hand of The Chef, the movies’ cleaver-wielding villain. First there was Bikini Bloodbath, wherein a bunch of 30-year-old high school girls in a rainbow display of varied hotness decided to throw a party, only be killed one-by-one by the aforementioned Chef. In Bikini Bloodbath Carwash, the girls had moved on to Community College University, working part-time at a tit-scrub carwash under aggressively lesbian carwash owner Debbi Rochon, and were once again inexpensively murdered by The Chef. The first two films were almost brilliant in their idiocy––if that makes any sense––really bad movies that embraced their own awfulness.

Bikini Bloodbath Christmas finds the girls working at a head shop called The Snotlocker. They’re constantly beefing with their Christian fundamentalist rivals across the street at the Underground Deli. It’s Christmas, so it goes without saying that there are dueling Santas involved. When the Uber-Christians at the Deli dare the sluts from The Snotlocker to meet them in the cemetery at midnight at the grave of The Chef, all hell SORTA breaks loose…but not really.

Sure, The Chef returns from the grave, but he doesn’t seem to accomplish much in the way of cheap-looking murders like he did the first times ‘round, choosing to spend the majority of the flick off-screen. When the main horror villain doesn’t appear on screen for huge chunks of running time, it can be hard to keep the audience focused.

Wracked with chatty dialogue scenes, the third film lacks the goofy sense of abandon of its predecessors. And frankly, it’s just not Christmasy enough. There were better holiday-themed kill scenes in Jack Frost. Familiarity breeds contempt, I suppose, and with nothing new or clever to offer, Bikini Bloodbath Christmas is a victim of the law of diminishing returns (AND of diminishing running times––at 71 minutes long, Christmas is the shortest of the bunch).

There ARE a couple of bright spots. There’s an impressively gross kill scene that has The Chef pulling a guy’s colon out through his rectum. Screechingly awesome hair band White Liger still provides the sweet background licks. Two salesman make mad attempts to unload a few Glaives––you know, those spikey, Chinese-star things from Krull––which was funny, but come on, characters like this definitely deserve WAY more screen time. Sadly, the cons rule the pros on this one, leaving the audience with a muddled, low-energy conclusion that can’t compete with the boisterous ribaldry of the first two films.


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