2014 - 88 minutes
Directed by: Paul Tarnopol
Written by: Paul Tarnopol, Goldeneye
Starring: Danielle Dallacco, Angelica Boccella, Ron Jeremy, Bigfoot, Brett Azar
Jersey Shore Massacre is as enjoyable as the reality TV show that introduced the masses to Snooki and The Situation, which is to say it’s excruciatingly terrible. It is a horror-comedy that is neither scary nor funny in the slightest. If you’re looking for an ironically entertaining ripsnorter, talk yourself out of giving this one a chance. Check the SyFy Channel listings. Or any listings. Watch your grass grow for 90 minutes. If you have no grass, paint something and watch it dry. However you waste the hour-and-a-half this movie would steal from your life, it would be time better spent.
A group of stereotypically annoying New Jersey bimbos head to the shore for a girls’ weekend. The least annoying one is Teresa (Danielle Dallacco), the rest are interchangeable mixtures of thick accents and promiscuity. When they arrive at their beach house accommodations, it has already been rented to another group. After getting no sympathy from the pot-smoking landlord (porn star Ron Jeremy, displaying the comedic timing of a porn star), the crew heads to the home of Teresa’s mobster uncle, who lives deep in the wooded Pine Barrens. Inexplicably, the one potentially fun thing offered by the premise – the beachy Seaside Heights setting – is removed to head to the more familiar horror environs.
There’s one scene at the beach, only so the girls can meet an equally irritating group of guys to bring back to the house to drink and have sex (excuse me, I believe the preferred Jersey term is “smush”). And, of course, to become victims of a crazed killer. The acting is predictably terrible all around, but you can’t really expect much from actors playing caricatures of caricatures. A triumvirate of personalities from The Howard Stern Show – “Bigfoot,” Sal Governale, and Richard Christy – prove they have nothing to offer when removed from the inspired lunacy of Stern’s show.
Inspired is one thing Jersey Shore Massacre definitely is not. Though it’s wholly derivative, both by definition and by including myriad tropes and clichés, the movie makes an unpleasant mess that’s all its own. First-time writer/director Paul Tarnopol and his co-scripter – someone or something called Goldeneye, fail to display the slightest hint they understand what makes the genre work. I mean, sure a psycho killer can get stabbed in the eyeball with vibrator, but if we don’t care about the killer or the vibrator what’s the point, amirite?
Tarnopol’s movie is not only off-putting in its lack of craft, but in its racism, sexism, and mean-spirited brutality. There is a shower scene (cliché check) so grisly and distasteful it makes us long for more of the jokes aimed at immature 9-year-olds, including a dog peeing on someone’s foot and a woman pooping in the ocean. None of the graphic depravity makes us wish for more of the film’s ill-conceived date rape humor, though. Hopefully we’ve sunk so low that nothing Jersey Shore is ever allowed to pollute the pop culture mainstream again.