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NIGHT RIPPER (1986)
Directed by Jeff Hathcock
International Video Presentations
VHS
Reviewed 02.14.08
Review by Joseph A. Ziemba
THE FILM
Do you think her boyfriend will
find out? Do you think his fiancee
will find out? Do you think this
movie will find out?
An odd little man with a mustache,
slight lisp, and burgundy eyeglasses
-- size XXL, of course -- states,
"I was a butcher for five years
and now I'm a photographer. Anything
can happen." Indeed, this statement
is most profound. Anything can happen.
And, in the lexicon of vintage shot
on video (SOV) trash, it often does.
Which is why Night Ripper,
a bewildered slasher which focuses
on the rites of relationships rather
than slashing, remains an anomaly.
Nothing much happens. Still, enthusiasm
cannot be concealed. Glamour shots
of women clad in safari bathing
suits tend to have that effect on
me.
Somewhere south of Synth-Pop Heaven
and west of Convertible Jaguars,
Inc. (a tough place to find!), lies
The Ripper and his shiny knife.
Yet, while The Ripper stabs his
model-victims in the face (fake
freeze frame brilliance) and mutilates
their bodies (we don't see it),
all is not well in Cupid's kingdom.
Since the characters get by without
names, I can only relate the following:
Love at first sight is possible
whilst in the presence of Glamour
Shots. Lesbians are very angry.
Fiancees cannot be trusted. Ever.
Finally, when your mistress yells,
"This isn't love -- this is
two sweaty bodies fucking under
a floodlamp! AND I'M TIRED OF FLOODLAMPS!",
she could benefit from a good slap
or two. All this and a showdown
in a mannequin factory? Night rippin'.
Steering clear of the overt misogyny
found in director Jeff Hatchcock's
other "hits" (Fertilize
The Blaspheming Bombshell,
the SOV Victims!), Night
Ripper makes it out alive.
Of course, as mentioned, the weirdo
aggregation is sorely limited. The
film essentially boils down to a
handful of colorful folks, their
sometimes-amusing dialogues, and
the most hilariously convoluted
slasher motive to drop trough in
some time. Bathtubs are scummy.
Overhead lights buzz. The brief
gore bits reside somewhere between
Blood Cult and 555.
Throw in the killer's silk mask,
about 1.5 seconds of The Beatles'
"If I Fell", and a ton
of driving padding and you'll eventually
fall asleep.
Unless there's a floodlamp in close
proximity.
AUDIO AND VIDEO
I purchased my copy of Night
Ripper at a place called Showtime
Video, which is located somewhere
in Northern California. Upon returning
home to Chicago, I noticed that
the cassette was curiously lacking
tape leaders of any sort. Long story
short, Night Ripper was
sent to the emergency room (my office)
and expertly escorted back to its
jumpy, wavy, one-speaker-soundtrack
health by an expert (me). Special
thanks to Corey Feldman's Voodoo
for the spare parts.
EXTRAS
"Hi, I'd like to have some
pictures taken -- ya know, glamour
shots."
FINAL THOUGHTS
Why not? Big-leaguers will find
the modest Night Ripper
to be an agreeable, effortless journey
on the road to 80s SOV completion.
If you've yet to go "pro"
(translation: you don't own a titty-mug
from Tales
From The Quadead Zone),
then pace yourself. Study Splatter:
Architects Of Fear. Absorb
Fatal Images. Night
Ripper will be waiting. |
Welcome to the jungle
She wants the best, she gots the
best
Night rippin'
Very possible
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