Worst of Netflix: Bachelor Party in the Bungalow of the Damned

Worst of Netflix

Every week, I scour Netflix for a movie rated at one star and put it in my queue, suffering through it for your entertainment so that you don’t have to. In the past, I’ve taken on anime cancer demons, softcore Iraq War porn and racist ventriloquism, and this week, it’s a horror movie about strippers by filmmakers who had only the vaguest idea of what those two words mean.

Bachelor Party in the Bungalow of the Damned (2008)

Starring: What you might call “Daytime Strippers.”

With a lot of the movies I end up watching for the Worst of Netflix, there’s a certain level of deception involved.  It’s most noticeable from the Asylum, a company whose entire marketing strategy is based on confusing customers into picking up Transmorphers, but it also shows up in more subtle ways, like when filmmakers try to assure the audience that David Heavener is, in fact, a movie star and not just some dude who wandered in front of a camera eight or nine times.  So in that respect — and only that respect — I’ve got to give this week’s honorees credit, because if you go into a movie with this title thinking that it’s going to be anything other than absolutely terrible…

Bachelor Party At The Bungalow Of The Damned

…then brother, that one’s on you.

The amazing thing, though is that it’s actually worse than it sounds.  I mean, there’s Bad, there’s Worst of Netflix Bad, and then somewhere way below that, there’s Let’s-Open-With-A-Shot-Of-Lloyd-Kaufman-In-Drag Bad:

Bachelor Party in the Bungalow of the Damned

To be fair, that actually is a step up from the slow motion zoom on Julie Strain’s vagina from Tales From the Crapper.

Once the mood’s been established, the movie starts lumbering into its plot, which concerns a quartet of bros who go up to a house in the Hamptons for their buddy’s last night of debauchery before he gets married, only to have his fiancee show up, leading them to try and cover up the evening’s sexy festivities.  It’s basically someone’s Entourage fan-fiction, but with the added addition of allegedly sexy vampires.

It’s the horror element that I think misses the mark most of all, because really, when your protagonist is a dude in a club shirt with flaming skulls on it who wears a Fred Durstian backwards red cap even when he’s in a hot tub, there’s not really much reason to not want to see him get brutally murdered.