Pledge Night
Brothers to the end. The very end.
Year of Release: 1990
Also Known As: A Hazing in Hell
Genre: Comedy/Horror
Rated: R
Running Time: 86 minutes (1:26)
Director: Paul Ziller
Cast:
Todd Eastland ... Bonner
Lawton Paseka ... J.D.
Michael T. Henderson ... Chip
Shannon McMahon ... Wendy
Dennis Sullivan ... Bodine
Craig Derrick ... Cagle
David Neal Evans ... Goodman
Robert Lentini ... Silvera
James Davies ... Zahn
Tony Barbieri ... Tom
Arthur Lundquist ... Dan
Will Kempe ... Acid Sid
Joey Belladonna ... Young Sid
Summary:
Twenty years ago, Sid's college career took a sudden dive when fraternity pledge-masters gave him a fatal initiation bath - in boiling acid. This grisly death changed Sid's educational plans (and his name), and today, Acid Sid is back to earn his master's degree - in revenge.
He finds the perfect curriculum intact at old Phi Up, where unlucky pledges are still dying in horrifying initiation rites shrugged off as "practical jokes gone wrong." Sid takes on the evil frat rats one by one, turning the animal house into a human slaughterhouse. Eventually, one loyal frat brother sets out to stop Sid. But how do you kill a graduate monster that's already dead?
Review:
Pledge Night, remindin' everyone with the spirit of the '60s alive inside them to please keep it there.
And speakin' of freakouts, Chickawalka County has found itself in the midst of a heebie-jeebie outbreak after Newt Snoozy was found deceased inside his fishin' shack on Lake Gunkamucka Tuesday mornin'.
The way I hear it, Wade Sawyer reported 'im missin' the night before after no-showin' Chastity Dollarhide's tribute to the hula hoop at Walleye's Topless Dancin' & Bait Shop, and if it were anybody else, it prolly wouldna drawn much attention but for Newt not missin' an evenin' at Walleye's since the towers fell, and even that was only 'cause he hadda drive Grover Umpleby to the hospital after Taffy "Twin Towers" Edgett slipped on a sweaty $5 and ended up tumblin' off stage and breakin' 'er fall on Grover's face.
Sheriff Hardassian's callin' it death by exposure, but after inspectin' the scene for ourselves, Billy Hilliard and myself have reason to believe the truth's bein' covered up by the Chickawalka brass.
Now, you may be askin' yourselves how it is that Billy and I gained access to the shanty in question while it was under the watchful eye of Chickawalka's finest, and, well, it's like this.
"All units - I'm getting reports of... um... vandalism in the vicinity of Bunker Street," Magda Unger reported over the police scanner.
"Copy that - what kind of vandalism? Over," Lieutenant Duggen asked.
"Well, according to Mavis Crenshaw, every snowman on the block is... well... no longer gender ambiguous," Magda snickered.
"It's them goddamned Pankins kids again! Those sonsa bitches won't get away with this," Deputy Dahl growled, crankin' his cruiser and speedin' away from the lake to enact justice.
He was right, of course, but he'll never be able to prove it. Cost me $6 and a stack of old Penthouses, but those boys do good work. And once Billy and I'd watched Dahl fishtail onto the highway, I pulled the Topaz out from behind our haystack hideout and approached the shack for a closer look.
"Well, at least nothin' of value was lost," I observed, recoilin' from the sight of Newt's interior decoration.
"Vah'f col'," Billy chided, lookin' around for signs of foul play.
"Dude, look around - the man was obviously plannin' an abduction," I declared, gesturing toward the Chastity Dollarhide photo spread plastered over every inch of wall space.
"Pwopane he'ow," Billy deflected, pointin' to the Corona 17-DK sittin' beside Newt's beat-up old lawn chair.
"It's kerosene, and so what? Look, I cashed in a favor with those teenage loan sharks for this - what'n hell're you lookin' for anyway?" I demanded, examinin' Newt's unfinished game of Solitaire and movin' the eight of diamonds onto the nine of clubs.
"Emfy," Billy determined after removin' the fuel cap.
"So maybe he forgot to fill it before he came out here. We're talkin' about a guy who pumped gas with his lips for 35 years," I challenged.
"Ife iv melfed un'ow ih," he observed.
"Nice work, Columbo. Fine, so he was usin' the heater. Dahl's probably broken the icicle pickles offa those snowmen and headed back this way by now, so if there's 'just one more thing' I wish you'd get to it before we end up spendin' the night in the Crossbar Hotel with the cast of C.H.U.D.," I grumbled, before kickin' an old crate that failed to give way and purt'near snapped off three of my toes.
I'm not gonna repeat any of the things I said in the moments immediately followin' that kick, but suffice to say, if we'd had a swear jar with us at the time we coulda spend the weekend at Disneyland with the proceeds. More importantly though, while I was expanding on George Carlin's 7 Words You Can't Say on TV, Billy grabbed onto the crate and discovered a couple things:
1) It'd been *nailed* to the ice and was covering the 2' hole Newt'd drilled out to fish.
2) There was a severed catfish whisker measuring 11" in length that'd become pinned beneath it.
Now, let me just say - I am not a superstitious man, and I am not suggesting that the ghost of Crudfin has returned from the grave to haunt those responsible for his death. But I'll tell ya one goll durn thing - based upon what we found in that shanty, Newt didn't die of no hypothermia, and I'd be willin' to bet my autographed 1984 Rhonda Shear "Go for the Gold" poster that it was cardiac arrest following a close encounter of the absurd kind.
We may never know exactly what happened in that fishin' shack (and God help the forensic investigator who turns on a UV light in there), but I'm tellin' alla you what we found 'cause I don't think I could live with myself if anybody went out there not knowin' the truth and ended up chum.
On a totally unrelated note, I would also caution anyone plannin' to start their own investigation against runnin' across the ice shrieking like a little girl who's just discovered the decapitated body of her Rainbow Brite. Of course, Billy and I are grown men, and so naturally, we did not personally exhibit this kind of behavior - but I can see how someone *might* lose their composure in such a situation, and you'd be surprised how easily a person could bruise their coccyx tryna negotiate an agitated goose whose legs froze in the ice while nappin'.
I'd been plannin' to watch Orca: The Killer Whale after arrivin' home, but after thinkin' it over and decidin' I might like to sleep again someday, I opted to go with somethin' a little more land-locked and stuck Pledge Night in the VCR while the frozen burritos rotated. 'Course that just led to an entirely different but no less valid concern over the well-being of my hinder (what with the anal fixation that seems to come standard anytime you're dealin' with a frat house - not that there's anything wrong with that), but given the trauma I'd just underwent, I figured havin' an extra 45 minutes to recover before anything even remotely horror adjacent happened might not be a bad idea.
Kind of a strange flick, 'cause while you'd expect a gal who probably witnessed a fractured penis or two during her days as a porno screenwriter to come up with some pretty horrifyin' set pieces, she wrote the first half of the movie as a straight comedy until someone tapped 'er on the shoulder and reminded 'er that all the terrible characters she'd created were supposed to die.
That said, you have my personal assurance that once the ole genre gears finally shift things start gettin' suitably disgusting, and just to reassure everyone that this unconventional approach is surmountable once all foreign bodies have exited the film's proverbial anus, I will now share three essential lessons about the college experience to better help those of you who only endured hazing at a high school level.
First, never drop acid while on pot, as the latter has been known to remove one's ability to distinguish the literal from the figurative. Second, frat houses have communal, free-standing toilets for a reason - so don't go buildin' up stalls between yourself and your brothers. And third, in the frat world, unclenching your sphincter may result in the loss of your cherry.
The movie begins at a frat house where athletic scholarship terrorists grab a pledge while he's shavin' the heads off his pimples and proceed to drag 'im through the snow, tie 'im to a tree, and egg 'im until he's deemed fit to lead our next generation of independent thinkers. 'Course if it were up to them the pledge masters would never do this kinda thing, but because the future of our nation hangs in the balance, they understand it's their civic duty to punish the collective hineys of our young people to ensure America remains the leader of the free world. I only mention this 'cause there're people out there who consider it cruel to force their fellow man to walk to campus in their underoos holdin' a sign that says "Honk if my generation's soft" while the school marching band follows 'em around playin' "When the Saints Go Marching In" because they don't understand that it's for the pledge's own good. Like I was sayin' though - it's Hell Week, and one of our future captains of industry (Dan) is startin' to succumb to the strain of midterms, 2AM beer runs, and the alarming number of sorority house baby bumps croppin' up around 'im, until he goes apeshit at the breakfast table and stabs one of his frat brothers with his scrambled egg knife. His fellow Bro-Magnons haul 'im outta there, but it turns out it was all a setup to test the loyalty of the pledges (Bonner, Bodine, Cagle, Goodman, Silvera, and Zahn) who bore witness 'cause the head of fraternity household (T.J.) and his runt lieutenant (Chip) understand that they can't have snitches in the ranks showin' up to testify at a senate confirmation hearing 30 years down the road.
Then the Gamma Lambda Ding Dongs set out cherries on blocks of ice and make the pledges pick 'em up with their sphincters and run relays to check for loose ends before forcin' the losers to chow down on the chocolate cherries for the benefit of mankind. After that everyone goes down to the bar for another character-building exercise and all the pledges hafta tie strings to their things and wear a corn cob necklace on the other end so all the girls can yank on the cobs and turn everyone into Drama majors. Then Dan toasts Bonner's buns with a branding iron until Bonner's mama drops by to try to convincin' 'im it's possible to have a life of consequence *and* self-respect before tellin' 'im a story about how 20 years ago a pledge (Sid) got killed in a bathtub craptismal initiation rite when his brothers accidentally mistook a bottle of highly corrosive liquid for vinegar and sent 'im on an acid trip that he never came back from. 'Course you can't expect a woman to understand the bonds created between men who've all shared the experience of gettin' a car battery hooked up to their genitals, so Bonner ignores his mama's pleas and spends the afternoon bobbin' for maple logs, eatin' perfectly good fish bait, and drinkin' probiotic stool softener with his fellow pledges until everyone feels so close to one another that they vow never to stab each other in the back on future real estate deals.
Finally, morning brings the first day of the rest of their lives, only while T.J.'s in the basement reciting the fraternity history as composed by some Dungeons and Dragons enthusiast, Zahn gets fisted to death on the pot by the disembodied hand of Alice Pooper, causin' Chip to freak out over the damage such an incident could do to the next crop of insecure weenies in search of a socioeconomic crutch. Fortunately he doesn't hafta fret for long, 'cause pretty quick Dan shows up cacklin' like Frank Gorshin's Riddler to serve 'im a screwdriver before headin' down the hall and tossin' a stereo in the bathtub with some co-ed who looks like she fell down a well and got hauled out by 'er nipples. He then lashes another gal to the kitchen stripper pole and tongue ties 'er with an electric cake mixer and stuffs a cherry bomb up T.J.'s cherry bum, 'cept before he can light it the hazed and blazed zombie Sid chest bursts outta Dan's body, lights the fuse, and basically blows the ole fruit outta the loom. Sid is P.O.'d, and following the decapitation strike on T.J.'s colon, the Dead Head pops up in the basement where he strangles Cagle with his large intestine and causes Silvera's gutbucket to swell up like he's come down with a case of Never Ending Pasta Bowel till it explodes and sends a shower of gore and cockroaches scuttling for someplace less disgusting to live.
The lone surviving frat brother (Tom) manages to escape the house and call the cops but they won't listen 'im 'cause his generation's collective psyche has been irreparably warped by the musical stylings of Twisted Sister, and pretty quick the hippie with the acid washed genes starts throwin' voices around corners and lettin' the sunshine into Richard's skull. Bodine and Goodman discover Richard and his memory leak seepin' out onto the common room sofa until Wavy from Beyond the Gravey spins Goodman's head around like a paranoid barn owl and stuffs Bodine's face up inside his gutbucket where it gets burned off via sulfuric acid reflux - leaving Bonner and the often present but hitherto unimportant Wendy to fight it out with Sid in hopes of livin' to see the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Really shouldn't go any farther than this, but as a public service, I feel I should warn you that the crew forgettin' they were makin' a horror flick until the 40-minute mark is only the second most ridiculous thing about the movie once you've seen the conclusion, so be sure to see it through to the end. If nothin' else, you have my word that there'll be more late '80s Anthrax to console yourself as the credits roll.
Alrighty, well, I guess you've gotta marvel at the unique horror/comedy approach wherein the writer splits the movie in half and shifts from Animal House to Nightmare on Elm Street at the 40-minute mark without ever actually overlapping the genres. The flick was written by a gal named Joyce Snyder (whose writing credentials at the time included two adult films from the days when they actually had plots to fill the time between diddlins), and apparently, neither Joyce nor director Paul Ziller was very familiar with the genre hybrid nor horror movies generally given the choice to segregate the horror and comedy like steak and potatoes on a dinner plate. I'll give her credit for researching the ball-brained hazing rituals that make the first half of the movie work as a straight comedy film because they're too stupid and on-the-nose to be anything but genuine, but regardless, the idea of splitting a "horror/comedy" in half genre wise the way they did feels like the cinematic equivalent of someone hearing the term "money laundering" and runnin' a load of $20s through the wash.
It's completely understandable for people making their first legitimate film to choose the horror genre, given that it has long been considered the easiest to complete and comes with a built-in audience of people willing to put up with technical inadequacy as long as the final product proves entertaining. Furthermore, if a person had decided to go forward with a subgenre in decline (the slasher), it also makes sense to go the route of horror/comedy with the understanding that a movie willing to poke fun at itself shows a certain awareness regarding its absurdity. But I think you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone, anywhere, who believes the time spent researching the fraternity hazing rituals was a better investment than $10 worth of recent video rentals from Blockbuster to learn how to blend the two genres properly. I'm not suggesting that the second half lacks humor (I can honestly say I've never seen a finer death by fisting on the toilet scene before or since), but if they'd been givin' us a kill every 8 minutes or so startin' at the 20-minute mark like God and Roger Corman intended, they genuinely mighta had somethin' here.
There's a chance I'm bein' too hard on this one because of the potential I see in the last half hour (it's not that I'm upset, I'm just *disappointed*), but I promise to clean up my act and stop lettin' emotion get in the way from here on out, so let's break out the paddle and try to establish some order in all this chaos.
The plot, as previously railed against, is tonally inconsistent on a monumental scale and feels like two completely different movies stapled together by a flashback sequence that causes a whiplash-inducing change in direction so egregious it's a wonder the writer wasn't served papers by one Lionel Hutz. The movie likely woulda turned out better had the crew not tried pivoting to horror at all and just stuck with the classic T&A formula of titles like Spring Break and Malibu Beach that feature literally zero plot; although there is something to be said for the audacity required to try shoehorning every ounce of exposition into a three-minute flashback sequence. There are further grievances to air, but because my moral code forbids me from spoiling the ending of anything I can't go into specifics. Suffice it to say, however, it's clear that they either weren't sure how to button things up or were so committed to their three minutes of plot that they were willing to neuter the ending to tie together an entirely inconsequential and unnecessary subplot. Of course, the weirdness doesn't end there, because on some level the writer does realize that the flick can't end the way it would have, and so then attaches a second ending that sees our vindictive free spirit return to throw his hat in the ring for a sequel. In short - Mr. Spock would like a word.
The acting ranges from nearly adequate to weak, though for what it's worth, there does seem to be a recognition of talent (such as it is) that places the more qualified applicants in the most consequential roles. Todd Eastland is middling as the mark with a heart of gold and the brain of Scarecrow, Lawson Paseka is fair as the sadist frat president with a fascination for the male form, Michael T. Henderson is decent as the smirking toady, and Arthur Lundquist... well, he's not what you'd call good, but he's a first-class cackler that brings a little life into the picture. The best performance is that of Will Kempe as the decomposing Sid Squishous, who seems to have a better grasp of inflection, timing, and body language than the others, and is rewarded with the more memorable lines, such as "Bummer, huh?" and "That's for Spiro Agnew!" Joey Belladonna (he of Anthrax fame) also has a brief cameo as the pre-acidic Sid, but ultimately there's not a lotta praise to go around in the acting department.
Here's who matters and why: Todd Eastland (Mommy's Day), Dennis Sullivan (Alien Seed, Night Terror), James Davies (Heaven Becomes Hell), Lawton Paseka (Godzilla 1998), Arthur Lundquist (Alien Agenda: Under the Skin, Black Easter, Regenerated Man), Shannon McMahon (Blood Sisters), Barbara Summerville (Prime Evil), Cecelia Wilde (Psychos in Love), Suzanne Dean (Killer Tomatoes Eat France), Cassandra Delaney (One Night Stand), Mike Kimmel (Haunted High, Flying Monkeys, Portal, Killer Tumbleweeds, Seance, Candy Stripers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II), Ava Kelly (Class of Nuke 'Em High).
The special effects are much better than you'd expect after sitting through 40 minutes of hairy male hinders and Fear Factor challenges, and the makeup job Erik Schaper does on Wille Kempe's "Acid Sid" comes across as sufficiently gruesome and even creates a little hope for a flick that'd been flailing hopelessly prior to Sid's arrival. Pledge Night also marks the first gig for Robert Kato DeStefan, who would later work on flicks like Pet Sematary 2, Freaked, and Batman Returns before hittin' it big and moving onto big-budget modern titles where all the distracting CG ensures his work goes unappreciated. Unfortunately, most of Rob's stuff never made it into the flick because the MPAA was concerned that somebody might go on a cake mixer rampage through a major metropolis, but the aftermath of the cherry bomb rectal prolapse is brutal, Sid's emergence from the still squealing body of Dan is superb, and the blood formula is decent. Less impressive are the large intestine (I think) used to strangle Craig Derrick, the brain goo leaking outta James Davies (the goo is fine, there's just no indication of where it's comin' from), and the inexplicably undamaged face of Dennis Sullivan who gets stuffed into Sid's body cavity which produces a sizzling sound that never pays off. Decent work for the available resources, and probably the flick's strongest asset.
The shooting locations are solid, with the flick being filmed on location inside two actual fraternity houses near Rutgers University. Havin' learned everything I needed to know at daycare, I really can't speak to the total authenticity of a fraternity house, but I'd assume that the basement sequences were shot elsewhere on account of how utterly disgustin' they are, and the production taking an axe to the door, while the bar set is worse still, and looks to have been constructed in an area only about twice the width of a hallway. That said, the bathroom, common area, stairwells, and hallways all have the feeling of authenticity sometimes missing from bigger budget productions that try to spruce things up to make them more photogenic, and although that does result in a somewhat generic look, it works. You could make the argument that the structure is a bit underutilized and that a few messy dorm rooms with pop culture icons plastered across the walls would have given it more flavor, but at the same time, we're talkin' about a very low-budget production whose crew were likely thrilled to be granted access to the facilities for so little money, and as such, it doesn't pay to be demanding when you might jeopardize your principal shooting location.
The soundtrack is composed primarily of songs by Anthrax, and although the music is often decent, the thrash metal sound is often too heavy for the events of the film to live up to. It works well enough in conjunction with the opening sequence where the pledge is being dragged from his dorm to be pelted by eggs, but by and large, I don't think the action warrants anything harder than, say, Motley Crue or Guns 'N Roses. The rest of the soundtrack consists of synth tracks that're enjoyable and cheesy in a way that runs parallel with the tone of the film, though there isn't a lot of variety or need for it given the prevalence of the Anthrax tracks. In general, there's nothing completely out of step with the plot, but at the same time, the inclusion of the thrash metal mostly just reminds you of teenagers drivin' around in a Chrysler Neon blastin' Lamb of God tryna scare the old ladies out walkin' their schnauzers.
Overall, I never was able to get past the "tale of two movies" structuring conflict, and it's kind of a shame given that the last thirty minutes are pretty decent. The acting is often weak, but that decision to switch gears from straight comedy to horror in the middle of the flick is just so unpalatable and jarring that it single-handedly ruins an otherwise watchable flick. Honestly, I'd still recommend watchin' it just to gaze in wonder at the thought process that decided goin' from King Frat to Rush Week in two minutes flat instead of just copyin' April Fool's Day was a stroke of genius. So yeah, check it out, but only if you're willin' to do so in the interest of cinematic science.
Rating: 43%