The Dorm That Dripped Blood
A crash course in terror!
Year of Release: 1982
Also Known As: Death Dorm, Pranks
Genre: Horror
Rated: R
Running Time: 88 minutes (1:28)
Director: Stephen Carpenter, Jeffrey Orbrow
Cast:
Laurie Lapinski ... Joanne Murray
Stephen Sachs ... Craig
David Snow ... Brian
Pamela Holland ... Patti
Woody Roll ... John Hemmit
Dennis Ely ... Bobby Lee Tremble
Daphne Zuniga ... Debbie
Summary:
Morgan Meadows Hall, an isolated seven story dormitory stands empty. Corridors that were once filled with the vibrant shouting and laughter of students are now vacant. The structurally unsafe building has been condemned and must soon be torn down.
Five college students volunteer to close the dorm during their Christmas vacation. Soon, however, out of the dark recesses of the quiet building emerges a haunting and lethal menace. Mysteriously all phone lines are cut and the students are plunged into the darkness of a powerless and increasingly frenzied gloom. In a series of grisly and barbaric incidents, the students begin to disappear. As the terror mounts and the high-pitched staccato of slaying continues, the remaining students realize that they are up against a terrifyingly real psychopathic killer.
The memory filled halls of the dormitory now echo with the screams and death moans of the students and the corridors drip with the blood of the innocent victims. Once the object of nostalgic affection, Morgan Meadows Hall has been hideously transformed into the most suffocating nightmare imaginable.
Review:
The Dorm That Dripped Blood, remindin' us that some institutions of higher learning are given that designation based entirely upon the THC content of its student body.
And speakin' of wakin' and bakin', I hope everybody's already pulled out their chairs and finished testin' the elasticity of their undergarments, 'cause I got a Christmas story so sappy and chock fulla white trash ingenuity that the Hallmark Channel only offered me $100 for the movie rights. Call me sentimental; call me immature; call me a person of interest in an ongoing investigation into the disappearance of a stuffed reindeer, but I gotta share this story with ya 'cause it's just so touching that it'll renew your faith in humanity right up until the next time you set foot in a Walmart.
It all started this mornin' when I stopped at Furry Mountain Stuffing to pick up Cleave Furguson for dinner after he'd pulled an all-nighter finishin' a job that hadda be done by Christmas so no halls got decked with his bowels. You prolly think I'm exaggeratin' for comedic effect, but you dunno Holly Ewert - she's into Norse mythology, fantasy dagger collecting, and runs through town on all fours wearin' a bear skin to celebrate the Pagan New Year. But I'm gettin' off the subject, which was... oh yeah.
"You 'bout done screwin' around back here? By the time we get to Sadie's place Billy, Duke, and Tetnis willa eaten the heads off all the gingerbread men," I bitched.
"Well, as luck would have it, I got a head you can munch on right here. Cripes, what time is it? I look alright?" Cleave mumbled, tryna inspect himself in the blade of a skinnin' knife.
"You're not gonna be cast in any Folgers commercials, I'll say that much. What'n hell were you doin' all night anyway?" I asked.
"Mountin' a cougar," he replied, runnin' his hands over his remaining hair.
"Uh huh. 30 years ago maybe, if you hadn't been so ugly, I mean," I chuckled.
"The mountain lion, jackass. Over there. I gotta deliver it by 11 or Holly's gonna go straight-up berserker on me," he scowled, pointin' to the critter behind his workbench.
"And how do you suggest we do that? I got Apollo and Shankles in the backseat," I objected.
"So I'll tie it to the roof! God forbid a little pussy occupies this heap even one--" he was sayin' when we both noticed it.
"Where the hell's Rudy?" he puzzled, referring to the taxidermied reindeer that'd been a Christmas fixture ever since he'd opened.
"Relax, he can't have gotten far, he hasn't got a skeletal system," I reasoned.
"What kinda asshole steals Christmas decorations on Christmas morning?!" Cleave howled, his mellow plainly harshed.
"Whoever it was, he's a mean one. A real heel, if you will," I concluded.
Needless to say, Cleave ain't a morning person. But after he tried tacklin' me and ended up makin' Elephant Man snow angels all over the sidewalk the two of us got serious and started questionin' everyone we encountered regarding the whereabouts of Santa's headlamp till finally we hadda quit and go ensure Holly's jolly Christmas.
I still don't see what the big deal was, but by the time we'd gotten the cargo strapped down I began to realize how much Rudy meant to Cleave and so I took Apollo to cover a little more ground while Cleave argued with Holly about "incineration surcharges" and "pelt conditioning fees."
We searched a twelve-block radius but all we come up with was the Baby Jesus Apollo took outta Rhonda Buckhalter's nativity scene and I don't mind tellin' ya that by that point my chestnuts were cold enough that the open fire roasting was beginnin' to sound downright pleasant by comparison and I woulda turned back right then and there if not for the approaching sound of a snowmobile.
Now, any idiot knows that drivin' a sled around on concrete's gonna file your carbides down to nothin' in due course, but this wasn't just any idiot, it was a Pankins - specifically, Harley Pankins. I could see he was towin' somethin' but I couldn't make out what it was until Apollo tore off after 'im and forced 'im onto the shoulder tryna score 'imself a ride on Satan's sleigh.
"Of course. It all makes sense now; property vanishes, you're not under house arrest, everything fits," I groaned.
"We were gonna take it back," Harley insisted.
"Jeannie, this prolly ain't the kinda thing somebody my age oughta be sayin' to a 15-year-old girl, but damnit kid, you can do better," I hollered at the figure clinging to Rudy's back.
"You're not gonna call the cops, are ya?" Harley whined.
"And tell 'em what? A coupla teenagers're joyridin' on a dead reindeer bolted to... just what'n hell is that, anyway?" I demanded.
"The hood off a '68 Torino," Harley confessed.
"So you've paid Bondo a visit too, I see," I nodded, inspecting the hardware.
"Leave him alone. It's my fault, really," Jeannie sulked.
"Before I die I'm gonna find out what it is about these Pankins genes that make suckers take the fall for 'em. Ya know, I spent a night in jail once to keep this chunkhead's mom from goin' up the river for moonin' a funeral procession," I grumbled, pointin' an accusing finger toward Harley.
"You don't understand. We were talking one night, just, you know, about the stuff we wanna do when we leave home, and I told him about how someday I'd like to ride in a carriage through Central Park," she explained.
"She's just coverin' for me. It was my idea. I wanted to give 'er somethin' nice for Christmas," he asserted.
"It *was* nice," she insisted, climbin' down and smoochin' Harley's disgusting, zit-riddled cheek.
"Alright, knock it off before I lose my SpaghettiOs - just tell me one thing," I demanded.
"Shoot," Harley agreed.
"How'd you get past the dog? Son of a bitch pinned me down in the trunk of a Dodge Dart for three days one night while I was... browsing," I asked.
"Gave him a can of bacon grease," Harley grinned.
"Hmmm... not bad... stuff soaks into the ground... leaves a lingering scent long after it's gone. Still, you shoulda gone for a Pinto; hood curls down at the tip, less resistance against the snow but still flat enough to keep the reindeer level," I suggested.
"You have any idea how hard it is to find a Pinto in a salvage yard that hasn't sustained permanent fire damage?" he retorted.
"Alright, fine. Anyway, you have her at Sadie's place by noon, get Rudy back to Furry Mountain Stuffing while we're havin' dinner so nobody sees you, and then you getcher own hinder home. It's dang near 11:30 and your mama'll be outta bed soon slavin' over that Stouffer's Christmas lasagna she makes every year," I instructed.
"I will. And thanks for, ya know, bein' cool," he said.
"Forget it. Now get movin' or you're gonna be pickin' what's left of your dinner offa Edgar's shirt," I warned.
Cleave was so stressed out after dealin' with Holly that he forgot all about Rudy until he found 'im sittin' right where he belonged the next mornin', so really there wasn't any serious harm done. I gotta be honest - I don't see Jeannie and Harley workin' out, but who knows, stranger things've happened. Heck, I might even stop by Harley's place tomorrow mornin' and see if Bambi's got any of that lasagna left. I mean, sure, she's got her problems, and I guess she's married and all, but I've yet to find another woman who can play "Ace of Spades" with nothin' but 'er armpits.
Anyway, dinner went off without a hitch (for once), and after Mrs. Sadie forced us all to sit through both Miracle on 34th Street and It's a Wonderful Life until we'd sustained permanent damage to our sensory receptors, I shoved The Dorm That Dripped Blood in the VCR at the last second just before she could finish us off with somethin' muppet adjacent.
A lotta people seem to have a bone to pick with this one and I'll admit that it's pretty light in the exposure category for a flick with the word "Dorm" in its title. Comin' within an eyelash of dethroning The Prowler for the title of Most Time Dedicated to Fruitless Searches doesn't help matters either, but I'll watch anything thrown together by the guys who made The Power and The Kindred. I realize that this isn't exactly a ringing endorsement, but before you pass judgment, I ask that you review the following teachable moments that the flick has to offer and afterwards if you still aren't convinced that you need The Dorm That Dripped Blood in your life, feel free to go Scrooge yourself.
First, tire chain enthusiasm among college students peaked in 1982 and has been in freefall ever since. Second, acquiring a bat with nails driven through it will require a stop at the hardware store because most sporting goods stores are owned by Dicks. And third, anyone submitting a bid to purchase used dormitory mattresses should be placed on the federal sex offender registry just on principle.
The movie begins at a collegiate Christmas send-off party with five students (Joanne, Brian, Craig, Patti, and Debbie) whose idea of a good time is to stay behind over the holiday and scrub furniture in a bid to purge any student bodily fluids that may one day threaten the appointments of future judicial nominees. This goes on until everyone accumulates enough credit to satisfy the Home Economics requirements for their Domestic Engineering degrees and they decide to call it a night, only about that time Debbie's parents find out what she's doin' and show up to bundle 'er off before anyone from their homeowner's association finds out and votes to have them expelled from the neighborhood by citing legal precedence forbidding the admittance of anyone found to have dishpan hands. Thankfully this concern proves unwarranted, 'cause soon as Debbie's dad goes lookin' for 'er he gets his skull turned into a whiffle ball by some whackadoo with a bat fulla nails who can't wait for spring trainin', and once Pop's been permanently benched, Sledgie Jackson strangles Mom with a lanyard and uses the family's Volvo to cancel Debbie's student loan debt. The next mornin', the survivors are makin' breakfast when a student who looks like Art Garfunkel out on a day pass from Bellevue (Hemmit) starts rootin' around in their dumpster in search of an afro comb, but when Joanne knocks on his door to confront 'im about his unauthorized presence and invasive fungal growth he won't come to the door and all she gets is the sound of silence.
Then somebody sneaks up on the custodian with a power drill while he's in the can and goes to work on the back of his head like an Alaskan oil tycoon in a nature preserve but nobody thinks much about the guy's disappearance 'cause they're all Gen-X cuspers and figure the guy was probably part of the establishment. The next day, Craig and Brian get ahold of Hemmit and try explainin' that he needs to get his unaccredited accumen outta there before all the guys with hard hats and pastrami breath show up to knock the buildin' down, but Hemmit doesn't have time to stop and talk 'cause he's gotta get home to feed his head lice. It seems like maybe Hemmit got the message, only while the kids're selecting a vintage toilet tank brew that'll complement their dinner, the mad batter drops by and pumps up his slugging percentage until the dining room looks like a buncha last minute Christmas shoppers found out the college was hidin' a Cabbage Patch Doll inside the rotisserie chicken. Then the lights go out and Brian has his 2nd Amendment rights violated when the professor of sliterature finds 'im and starts loppin' off appendages while Craig and Patti're downstairs tryna restore power. Craig finds the breaker box but apparently he got into college by bein' the teacher's heavy petter in high school, so by the time he figures out that he needs to flip the ones that say "off," the campus Krampus cracks his cranium and stuffs Patti inside an industrial dishwasher to help 'er rinse her delicates.
Eventually, Craig startles awake like he's back in second period Remedial Life Skills and collects Joanne so they can try to find Brian, only while they're gropin' around in the dark and havin' senior prom flashbacks, Hemmit finds 'em, decks Craig's halls, and tries to get Joanne to hear his side of the story. 'Course she won't listen to 'im 'cause he's got the look of a man who bypasses the dresser and goes straight for the hamper durin' a panty raid, and relations become even more strained when Joanne finds Brian's dismembered corpse hangin' around waitin' for Anatomy finals. Hemmit pleads his case in the hallway until he builds up the courage to face Joanne, 'cept when he comes through the door to 'er room she hacks into his shoulder with a machete and goes rootin' around the boiler room with Craig where they hatch a conspiracy to lure the geek into the open usin' Joanne's co-ed curves. Hemmit Otter takes the bait and tries to blow 'er jugs until Craig jumps 'im from behind and purt'near gets his brains squeezed out his nose, but thankfully Joanne's able to find the retired bedpost of sports alumnus Wilt Chamberlain in a storage closet and proceeds to bash Hemmit's skull in until he looks like the guy on the Lemonheads box. I'm gonna zip my lip right here 'cause I don't wanna ruin the endin' for everyone who fell asleep in the middle and may yet be astonished by the forthcomin' twist, but if you're payin' close attention you'll probably notice the "I got a C+ on my Creative Writing Midterm" grin Craig gets as he watches Joanne part Hemmit's hair with the foreign object and make the deduction.
Alrighty, well, looks like this brings my Video Nasty checklist up to 24/72, 'cause yeah, the fascists at the BBFC included this silly little holiday funfest on a list of films guaranteed to cause the downfall of Western civilization alongside flicks like Cannibal Holocaust and Last Stop on the Night Train. Musta been the drill scene - the Brits in Parliament have this thing about drills, like maybe they're afraid some maniac from Soho might kidnap 'em in the middle of Trafalgar Square and go spelunkin' inside their skulls to find out what makes 'em think they have the right to decide what decent people put on the telly.
It's too bad, too, 'cause that prolly means that they never got to see directors Jeffrey Orbrow and Stephen Carpenter grow as filmmakers when they went on to make The Power and The Kindred a few years later, but The Dorm That Dripped Blood was their first commercial venture, and for a movie filmed over a mere three weeks that was conceived entirely without a plot, gettin' on the Video Nasty list must have been a real confidence booster.
The flick's origins actually mirror the setting, with Orbrow and Carpenter shooting it at UCLA over the Christmas holiday in 1980 using the school's own equipment. Unfortunately, by the time it received a release in 1982, the market was pretty well saturated with slasher flicks trying to duplicate the success of Friday the 13th and didn't garner much attention with the exception of Siskel and Ebert highlighting it during one of their "Dogs of the Week" segments, which in 1982 probably would've helped the box office receipts if anybody who watched genre flicks paid any attention to those guys. The distributor's biggest mistake, though, was releasing it under the title "Pranks," which was ambiguous and dull unless you happened to be standin' in front of the theater lookin' at the poster art. They then retitled it and sent it back out as Death Dorm and The Dorm that Dripped Blood, but although the audience had a better idea of what to expect, the movie never quite clicked and went on to build what exists of its following via home video.
When you get right down to it there's really nothin' here to distinguish the film as some sort of forgotten gem, but even so, raising the profile of lesser-known titles released during the greatest era of genre filmmaking is what I do, so let's dangle a diploma and find out if this thing can make it across the stage without takin' a header into the first row.
The plot drags pretty badly at times and includes multiple sequences that seem to lead nowhere until you begin to grasp the fact that the filmmakers are following standard slasher conventions while also setting up a murder mystery angle akin to the original Friday the 13th, as opposed to many of its imitators that chose to establish their villains and commence with the slaughter. It must be said, however, that due to the confusing geography and no real indicator of how much time is passing between scenes, the plausibility of whether or not the killer could have committed each murder does come into question after the reveal, and the screenwriter seems to be aware of this, as the lengthy exposition sequence that follows shows a clear lack of confidence in the decision. I would argue that the ambiguity at least allows for the possibility that the murders could have been carried off, but even so, when a large portion of the audience has trouble digesting what you're serving, it's plain that you've made mistakes with the way your story unfolds.
The acting is astoundingly competent given the kinda payday the cast will have received, the lack of a casting director, and the fact that virtually everyone in the movie had never acted on television or in film prior to shooting (or since, for that matter). I'm not suggesting the cast's performances are worthy of cheap brass trophies likely to be lost in a move, but the moment you see the pitiful special effect in the opening sequence you instinctively lower your expectations for every aspect of the film before later learning that you may've jumped the gun. Pamela Holland is a little shaky, and Stephen Sachs has a rough time with some of the cumbersome dialogue forced on him in the later stages of the flick, but Laurie Lapinski is damn good as the final girl, and Woody Roll does a nice job with his wild-eyed, Clint Howard-esque portrayal of Hemmit. The film also marks the debut of Daphne Zuniga who gives a solid performance as the first victim, but the bottom line here is that the acting abilities of the cast and the concise direction of Orbrow and Carpenter kinda trick you into believing you may be discovering something special in spite of a script that tests your suspension of disbelief.
Here's who matters and why: Woody Roll (Breakfast of Aliens), Daphne Zuniga (Spaceballs, The Fly II, The Initiation, Mad at the Moon, Last Rites), Jake Jones (The Power 1984), Robert Fredrickson (Pumpkinhead), Chris Morrill (The Power 1984), Richard Cowgill (The Power 1984).
And the one that broke away: Daphne Zuniga (Jo Reynolds on Melrose Place, Victoria Davis on One Tree Hill).
The special effects are rough, but with an occasional spark of brilliance. Right outta the chute we're treated to a hand being carved down the middle that has a strange putty texture to it, which is then followed up by the aftermath of several checked swings from a spiked baseball bat. Obviously, it's not the effect's guy's fault that nobody told the directors how to shoot those bat strikes in reverse, but if you're gonna hammer nails into a bat, the results should be a little more grisly than the (well constructed) wounds depicted in the film. There's also a healthy flow of watery, bright blood that accompanies the squishing of Daphne Zuniga, some absurdly thick, bright blood that pours out of Woody Roll following the machete slice, and a mediocre disarmed torso where they pull the old "real head, fake body" routine. All that said, do keep in mind that the budget restrictions were tight and the effects crew consisted of *one* guy - a guy by the name of Matthew Mungle, who up to that time had only ever worked on the seldom-seen Christian farce, Years of the Beast; Roar; and Just Before Dawn, and who, to his credit, pulled off a drill to the skull that's almost as good as the one in The Driller Killer. Matt would go on to build effects for Mausoleum, The Power, The Kindred, Nightmare on Elm Street 3, The Guardian, and Bram Stoker's Dracula before movin' on to a buncha indoor bullstuff you've probably never heard of like Schindler's List and Natural Born Killers. In short - like most film careers, Matt's had a humble beginning.
The shooting locations (though not well utilized or photographed) are about as authentic as you could ask for given that the story is set, and filmed, on a college campus - though ultimately, one can't help but feel a bit disappointed with the results. It is likely, if not certain, that the filmmakers were limited in where they were allowed to shoot, and while what we get is certainly adequate for its purpose, you still wish there would've been sequences of distressed co-eds fleeing for their lives down the hallways and through the classrooms of UCLA. About all we get is a kitchen, some storage areas, an elevator, a stairwell, and one dorm room, most of which prove unincredible. There are a few decent exterior scenes that take place at night while the students are chasin' each other around in the dark, but the only really good location is the boiler room, which is either enormous or shot convincingly enough to make it seem so. Regardless, Orbrow and Carpenter took on several other jobs throughout the shooting of the film, with cinematography duties falling to Carpenter who had a tendency to bump the camera right before cutting, and who then (in an editing capacity) failed to clip those little mistakes off. I don't mean to knock either guy, especially considering that between them they directed, produced, wrote, edited, and shot the entire film, but all the same, there are some pretty basic mistakes on display here that could have been easily corrected, and regardless, the shooting locations don't live up to audience's expectations.
The soundtrack, more than any other aspect, makes clear the filmmakers' intent to draw parallels between their movie and Friday the 13th. Composed by a fresh-faced Christopher Young, its main themes follow in the footsteps of Harry Manfredini's frenetic string extravaganza while sprinkling in bits of tinkly percussion akin to the sound a windchime makes right before it jumps off its hook and clinks you to death for encroaching on its territory. The featured tracks are so similar to Manfredini's scoring that you can't help but wonder if Orbrow or Carpenter didn't just come right out and tell Young to mimic what'd been done for Friday the 13th, but at the same time, it works. Young would go on to compose the music for The Power before eventually landing the Hellraiser gig and creating one of the top five horror soundtracks of all time, and although his two stand-out tracks for this flick do draw inspiration from certain recent box office successes, the rest of his music is far more restrained, original, and filled with bits and pieces that foreshadow the phenomenal artist he would become in just a few short years.
Overall, the solid acting and soundtrack don't quite make up for the mediocre script, special effects, and shooting locations, but there's a lot of heart on display from start to end that makes it genuinely enjoyable. Filming in Los Angeles meant sacrificing the traditional winter aesthetic that comes with shooting in a more snow-friendly environment, but good use of lighting during the exterior scenes shot after dark helps mitigate this to a certain extent, and when you get down to the nitty gritty there's enough here to warrant a passing grade and a recommendation to fans of the slasher subgenre. Check it out and behold its cheesy, slashie goodness.
Rating: 61%