Crimson Quill’s Appraisal #123
Number of Views: One
Release Date: August 14, 2009 (Fright Night Film Festival), July 6, 2010 (UK)
Country of Origin: Canada
Running Time: 82 minutes
Director: Geoff Klein
Producers: Geoff Klein, Jeff Ross
Screenplay: Geoff Klein, Jeff Ross
Special Effects: Marie Ashley Nelson
Cinematography: Natalino Lattanzio
Score: Benjamin Beladi, Michael Vickerage
Editing: Jon Deitcher
Studio: BGOI Films
Distributors: Kaleidoscope Home Entertainment, Well Go
Stars: Cindel Chartrand, Danielle Doetsch, Suzi Lorraine, Christina Sciortino, Caroline Faille, Tarek Gader, Kerri Taylor, Ivan Peric, Sandy Greig, Michael Aaron, Pierre Lefebvre, Gigi Hébert, Christina Gentile, Michele Malone and William Jarand as Moe
Suggested Audio Candy
The Foundations “Build Me Up Buttercup”
 Rose Royce “Car Wash”
 Brian Hyland “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini”
One of the first things I ever learned was that, should you not have anything kind to say, then it’s best not to say anything at all. It made perfect sense to me and I have endeavored to abide by this rule as best as I can throughout my life. When I made a decision to start reviewing films, I had no intention of simply keeping up with the Joneses. Thus, I contemplated a fresh angle. The reason why I stumped for appraising them instead is simple: I wish to speak about the films that resonate with me on a personal level and offer a slightly more intimate perspective. Anyone who puts their heart and soul into making a movie is already a hero in my eyes and I would much rather build up buttercups than knock down shaky foundations with my verbal wrecking ball as I’ll be far too predisposed sniffing it to work out whether Miley Cyrus is in season.
That said, I’m only human. Occasionally I devote my time to a movie that leaves me frustrated in the extreme. Should said work fritter its exclusive opportunity then, as long as any criticism remains constructive, I feel duty bound to offer a little tough love. You will never find a 0/10 on Rivers of Grue as that is hardly going to provide food for thought to aid said filmmaker in turning the tide. However, I do keep a can of whoop handy just in case it is required for me to supply some cruel kindness. Today marks one such occasion as, after spending 82 minutes with Geoff Klein’s Bikini Girls On Ice and feeling soundly thwarted, I simply have to get a few things off my chest. Should Klein be reading this then firstly, I don’t mean to offend, secondly, great title and, last but not least, how’s about a refund?
I remember with great clarity the instant when I first laid bulging eyes on this rather obscure little slasher. It was the day of its low-key DVD release and run parallel to the point in my life where I would slide out of work and into the local movie store to peruse every horror title to surface each week, blowing large hunks of my salary on anything above an admittedly fairly base level standard. Adjustable expectations are key as there is no other genre that can get away with the blue murder that horror does. It has a solitary pre-requisite and that is to satisfy one of three fundamental criteria. Said movie should be up to par then it’s happy days, simple as that. However, should it fail to reach this touchstone then all is not lost. Decent grue can apply plasters over the exposed areas and numerous times I have allowed one to slip under the gate with my sole motivation being a handful of well-orchestrated kills.
Should it fail on these counts then things are beginning to look somewhat precarious but there is still a life raft it can inflate should it provide an adequate exhibition of female fondue. By this point only full frontal can have any hope of rescuing said film’s ailing fortunes as the wrongs committed have tainted it severely. Three strikes and it’s the locker room for the shameful defendant, with a swift whip of the sodden towel platted like Pippi Longstocking, to the backs of its calves. Like poor old Creepy Carrie White, Klein’s film is first to hit the showers but the totality of the sanitary pads buzzed at Sissy Spacek would soak up a fair percentage of the grue this sub-par slasher holds in its entirety. Most of the killings occur off-screen, making us feel as though we’ve been invited to a party and left on the door step. Thankfully, any movie named Bikini Girls on Ice and especially one which parades more skin tissue around on its DVD sleeve than Bill the Butcher should satisfy the skin quota right? Is my request unreasonable?
There are plenty of car washing vixens on exhibit and indeed they get their wax on in montage form but its like one drawn out fitness DVD. At virtually no point does one of these cock-teasing candy crunchers unfasten which puts any remaining libido on ice, just like the Bikini Girls of its title. I’m not some nookie-starved adolescent, pressing slow-play while firing my mind bullets into his gym sock. However, I am a visual creature, a red-blooded man with a penchant for sins of the flesh and no lack of budget can excuse such a shameful omission.
The premise could not be more simplistic. A throng of co-eds, many of which are girls in bikinis, are placed on ice by some guy called Moe. Moe fucking Schmo. While not a personal dig at William Jarand who does his level best with the tools he is provided, this practical non-entity possesses all the charisma of Christopher Lambert and the keen eye of Magoo when it comes to inventive dispatches. Outside of one isolated incident, all we receive for our endurance is a little blood splash and a solitary brace of titties that prove scant consolation for the other 81 minutes of this uncharitable fund-raiser we have had to endure.
The amateur dramatics are beyond inept, matched by a wretched script and some ludicrous plot fissures. In addition, some of the characters appear bored and simply walk off the set, giving even less of a flicker of potential splatter to proceedings and it’s all dreadfully muted when Moe gets to having his kicks, with most victims apparently unable to shriek. To Klein’s credit, he does shoehorn in a fairly animate ten-minute chase scene towards the tail-end of proceedings but that merely equates to less than an eighth of its overall runtime so not a particularly impressive quotient by all accounts.
I learned a valuable lesson the day I strolled to the counter with this cold turkey beneath my wing: don’t be seduced by the appealing box art or tangy title as all that shimmers is not necessarily golden. If you are ill-fated enough to have already acquired a copy of Bikini Girls on Ice then you have three options at your disposal. Firstly, you could continue to disregard its very existence. Secondly, you could do your best Dark Angel impression and launch said disc at the next person who walks through the doorway and, if all else fails, it could be used as a makeshift coaster for your morning coffee. Be warned though, it will likely curdle your milk.
Should there be any words of friendly advice to impart Klein’s way then I would say keep doing what you’re doing as, while Bikini Girls On Ice fails rather spectacularly at its reasonably simple brief, I have been exposed to far worse offenders during my tenure. The fact that I am even writing this is something of an endorsement not to give up. You’re not a million miles away from coming good on your oath and I get that budget limitations may have ruled a bloodbath out of the question. However, I’m sure that slipping any one of these voracious vixens a crisp $10 bill would have been all the sweetener required for them to flash a little more bare flesh and, while my car is indeed relatively clean after its visit to your car wash, a little more elbow grease and a dash of hot wax could have made the world of difference.
Crimson Quill’s Judgement: 3/10
Grue Factor: 2/5
For the Grue-Guzzlers and Pelt-Nuzzlers: It isn’t all bad as there is one reasonably acceptable throat slice that gushes deep red agreeably from its freshly carved cavity. However, throw one brace of mammalia into the melting pot and it’s a fairly dry 82 minutes all round. Don’t be fooled by the closing gallery Grueheads as the images you are about to peruse are all she wrote and may as well be gifs for all their lack of animation. A little tip for next time Geoff, while ice is admittedly rather splendid at perking up nipples, Bikini Girls on a Hot Plate would have provided far more opportunity for some good old-fashioned medium rare.
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of The Crimson Quill
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