Directed by Paul Tarnapol
Distributed by Freestyle Digital Media
I’ve never been keen on the whole “Jersey Shore” phenomenon or any other reality show where what once was looked upon as tacky and tasteless is now seen as normal, acceptable and all the rage. Anyone either in the business of monitoring celebrity actions or not can tell you that overexposure can be a killer. If you put yourself out there for too long, you’ll most assuredly burn under the hot rays of fame, much like the SPF-deprived Jersey-ites that have taken the MTV-generation by storm over the last few years, more importantly, Jenni “J-WOWW” Farley, one of the “Shore’s” resident ringleaders.
While she’s opted to stay off-camera for this horror show known simply as the Jersey Shore Massacre, she has fully grabbed the reins as (cough, cough) “executive producer” and lent her expertise of the party scene to a cast of representative doppelgangers closely mimicking the physical processes of her reality-show cronies. We’ve got Snooki and “The Situation” lookalikes and all the rest of the fist-pumping, gold chain-wearing, spandex-stretching, stiletto-teetering paisons from the Garden State in the house.
The story sets up simple enough – lead actress Danielle Dallacco, as Theresa, is throwing a summer beach bash for her and a group of pals at a house that is supposed to be rented out to them exclusively. While a mix-up by the beach house’s landlord (in a quick but funny cameo by porn icon Ron Jeremy) leaves our fiesta-seeking booze hounds without a party-pad, Theresa hatches a plan to use her jailed uncle’s lake house as a spot for the orgy-hankering crew.
So the bash has a new landing area, and the debauchery commences; however, the problem is there’s a killer on the loose, and he’s focused his sights (and implements of torture) on the not-so-lucky congregation of the Italian persuasion. The madman’s methods are crude and cruel upon his victims and, at times, derivative (with nods to Friday the 13th and Psycho). While we see a fairly decent amount of gore, there are more than a few instances where a camera cut-away is NOT the movie’s best friend – Farley has been noted as saying that the film was “nearly given an NC-17 rating due to the gore.” Alongside Jeremy’s jocular performance as the stoned landlord, we’re treated to an assemblage of cameos, mainly from shock-jock Howard Stern’s psychotic radio show guests (Richard Christy, Sal Governale and Bigfoot) – they all have comical execution in their roles, with Bigfoot playing a larger part than expected (pun intended).
In the end, director Tarnapol does a decent job with the visuals and pacing of the film – you’re never really left snoozing when waiting for the next action to appear before your eyes. In the negative terms, dialogue is to be what you’d expect from a movie with this title – f-bombs are dropped with feverish rapidity (Pesci would be proud,) and jokes will hit at a 50 percent success rate, possibly less. Inside of this 88-minute foray into a prototypical slasher-movie template, we’re left with a cast that you literally can’t wait to see get picked off one-by-one, and when the aforementioned does eventually happen, you’ll have a smile on your face – maybe from the nature of the killings, or just knowing that the movie is that much closer to the end will satisfy all who dare to lay eyes upon it: a massacre indeed.
2 out of 5