Misunderstood Masterpieces: Stripped to Kill 2

Posted by Will Helm on 09.18.2007

…or, Because Stripped to Kill Is Actually Pretty Dull

For filmmakers and their related ilk, especially of the B-movie persuasion, there is one tried and true way to get some cheap nudity into a movie. From comedies, to horror flicks, to "erotic thrillers," one element guarantees that there will be some easy nudity with little to no bearing on the plot: the ecdysiast . . . commonly known as the "stripper." From the "Bada-Bing" from The Sopranos to scores of cop flicks and buddy comedies, the exotic dancer and associated "gentlemen's club" are perhaps the simplest method for including a bit of a prurient thrill into a work of film (or even television).

On occasion, a film is set largely within the confines of said "gentlemen's club," making the exotic dancers the center of attention. Though I have already tread down this path before, years ago, with one of the most famous examples of the genre, there are more than a few other films continuing this fine tradition and, in the next two weeks, I bring two of the more famous examples. Well, one famous example and one obscure sequel to a not-so-famous example . . . which is Stripped to Kill 2, from 1989. Why not the original Stripped to Kill? Admittedly, it's pretty dull; I can pretty much make it a one-sentence Misunderstood Masterpiece: "A female cop (Kay Lenz) poses as a dancer to catch a killer." Yawn. Stripped to Kill 2, however, throws out all the conventions of its predecessor and replaces them with B-movie acting, a contrived plot, and unnecessarily "artsy" visuals . . . and that may very well add up to a Misunderstood Masterpiece! Let's find out!

In a grim, gritty, post-industrial/New Wave gentlemen's club, someone does shadow puppets against the back wall of the stage. Ooh . . . sexy. Apparently, it's the beginnings of a number by a (mostly) female dance troupe led by a transsexual. While the transsexual gesticulates, his/her courtiers, dressed as depressed mummies, skulk around the periphery. Moments later, the star of the show, some chick with big hair (Maria Ford) shows up while topless chicks and the transsexual dance. While other chicks have seizures on stripper poles, big hair chick freaks out. The depressed mummies then begin peeling tin foil from the walls – and I am not making ANY of this up – while big hair chick makes out with the transsexual and they bleed from the mouth together. Umm . . . OK.

This is probably some sort of public service announcement about sexually-transmitted diseases.

Anyway, obviously, it was all the dream of the big hair chick, a.k.a. Shady, who wakes up in a startled daze and a panic. Luckily for Shady, her strangely British roommate (Karen Mayo-Chandler) is on hand to console her. Thankfully, she doesn't call Shady a "tasty bit of crumpet" or anything else terribly stereotypical. Later, at a local film studio made to look like a grim, gritty, post-industrial/New Wave strip club, Shady goes to work as a professional ecdysiast. The wacky DJ (Tommy Ruben), because he's wacky, gives Shady a set of chattering teeth as a token of his infatuation. So he's in fourth grade? Shady isn't terribly grateful, however, as she freaks out for no particular reason . . . and then she stares at some chick dancing on the floor. Hmm . . . is that implied lesbianism I smell?

Backstage, a bevy of multicultural dancers gossip and complain about each other. Meanwhile, Shady chats with the blonde transsexual from her dreams and, as it turns out, it's actually a fellow dancer AND a woman. Oops. Sorry about that. Perhaps to quell her jitters, Shady makes a date with the non-tranny for later that evening. OK; the lesbianism isn't implied anymore. How modern! That night, at the British dancer's apartment, Shady waits patiently for her fellow stripper and the British dancer, who's running around aimlessly for no particular reason, gives Shady some mysterious PMS drugs. Dum-dum-DUM! After the British dancer leaves, Shady realizes she's a bit too slightly wound, so she takes the pills and mixes it with a bit of coke . . . Diet Coke.

Overnight, Shady has another nightmare and, after she awakens, she finds that she's bleeding from the mouth. Somehow, this impels her to walk the streets of whatever grim, gritty city this film takes place in and over to the club. Inside the remarkably unlocked club, Shady finds her blonde colleague – who apparently stood Shady up the night before – dead and tied to one of the chain-link fences on hand for "ambience." Some time later, an enigmatic cop (Eb Lottimer) arrives on the scene and brings a cynical world view to the investigation as he patronizes the sassy dancers. Shady, who somehow discovered the body, reported it, and then left, shows up again and passes out . . . into the grizzled cop's arms. The cop, being instantly enamored with Shady just to keep the plot moving, takes her outside and becomes a gentleman. Well, it is a "gentlemen's club," after all. After Shady recovers and takes her leave, the cop finds blood on his hand . . . which is either evidence of the crime or that Shady's friend is in town this week.

While Shady mopes due to the murder and her, ahem, "shady" past, the cop builds strange inventions back at the station because he's some sort of "hippie cop." His buddy, the hilarious coroner, shows up with a bit of exposition, specifically that the blood the cop found on Shady was, indeed, the dead blonde dancer's blood. Presumably, the cop is relieved, mainly because now he knows Shady is "available." Back at the club, the dancers mourn for a bit and then proceed to the anger stage of grieving by yelling at each other. Shady, being the protagonist of the film, presses for peace, but then she freaks out and goes outside. A few of her fellow dancers try to console her and then the DJ shows up with a present, which Shady rejects. The DJ goes back inside, only to overhear one of the dancers calling him a "Greek" . . . which makes him freak out! Maybe he hates souvlaki or something.

The cop, who's sort-of lackadaisically investigating the dancer's murder, limps to the club, where he finds a rose outside in an alley . . . the same rose the DJ gave to Shady! Dum-dum-DUM? Coincidentally, inside the club, Shady tries to apologize to the DJ, but she's interrupted by one dancer's performance as a trash-covered ferret. Meanwhile, the British chick gives a table dance for a guy and his mullet; the guy attempts a "sensitive" shtick in an attempt to hook up with the dancer, but it doesn't work, unsurprisingly. Maybe his mullet wasn't lustrous and luxurious enough. Elsewhere in the club, the cop corners Shady and, in order to interrogate her, he buys a dance from her. During the course of Shady's performance, the cop questions her, but, rather than answer his questions, she takes offense and storms off.

Later that night, the cop finds Shady outside and he plies her good graces with a hand-rolled cigarette. So he's the mysterious, hip, hippie cop, then? Shady appreciates the gesture . . . until he shows her a razor blade and she freaks out. The cop, curiously, doesn't bring her down to the station, but, instead, he takes her to dinner. Umm . . . OK. Once at the roadside restaurant, cop tells Shady, whether truthfully or as a ruse to gain her trust, that he thinks she's innocent. He calls it his instinct, which is probably another way of saying he's interested in some nookie. Over their meal, the cop and Shady bond and she's, rightfully, suspicious of his intentions. The cop, perhaps sick of hearing Shady talk, makes out with her for a bit, but when the DJ spies them together, Shady flips out and leaves once again.

Shady returns back to her British friend's apartment and, once there, her roommate confronts her like a jealous spouse. Ooh . . . TENSION! The next day, back at the station, the cop plays with a recalcitrant computer and then his homely colleagues show up to mock him and provide exposition. According to their accounts, Shady has post-traumatic-stress disorder, the British chick doesn't even exist in their files, and the rest of the girls have mostly minor transgressions. That evening, the DJ breaks into the British dancer's apartment and he leaves a red rose in Shady's bathrobe. Dum-dum-DUM!

At the club, the dancers gossip a bit more backstage while Shady whines and smokes outside. The cop, being cool and mysterious, shows up and drops in from an above catwalk, literally. Perhaps to gain Shady's prurient interests, the cop has traded in his ratty trenchcoat for a terribly ‘80s jacket; in addition, the cop apologizes for his unannounced appearance . . . before interrogating Shady again. This time, perhaps through the awesome power of the ‘80s jacket, Shady spills the beans about her troubled background, all the while petting her pussy . . . cat. Seriously, a stray cat just happened to show up in Shady's arms for this scene. No. I'm not lying this time. The cop, obviously impressed by Shady's pussy . . . cat, divulges the origins of his mysterious limp: some time before, the cop was shot by a twelve-year-old kid who he couldn't shoot first. Shady, sympathetic to the cop's plight, feels bad, so she and the cop get it on in the midst of an impromptu thunderstorm. OK, whatever, movie.

Inside the club, some older dancer (Jeannine Bisignano) – the type that just can't let go of the business, even though she's just slightly past her prime – performs onstage. In an attempt to show that her maturity makes her classier than the average dancer, the older dancer does pretend ballet as part of her routine. Meanwhile, another, vaguely Asian dancer (Debra Lamb) argues with the DJ over a pizza, which she smashes into his face. After disposing of the pizza, the Asian dancer finds Shady and the cop together in the now rain-free alley. While she and most of the other dancers celebrate the fact that Shady got it on – and perhaps loosened up a bit in the process . . . figuratively, perverts, the older dancer interrupts to yell at the congregation outside.

That night, Shady has yet another overused, artsy plot device – I mean "nightmare." This time, it features the vaguely Asian dancer, who eats and breathes fire while stripping. I'm sure there's some sort of Freudian element to all this, but I just can't put my finger on it. And, if I did, I'd just get forcibly thrown out of the club by the bouncers anyway. Meanwhile, in real life, the vaguely Asian dancer argues with a fellow dancer at an ATM and, in the dream and in reality, she ends up dead. The Asian dancer, not the other dancer with whom she was arguing.

The next morning, Shady wakes up in an alley, covered in blood. Whoa . . . the cop must have REALLY loosened her up. Literally now, perverts. Shady stumbles back to the apartment and, once there, she freaks out again! Wow . . . she's almost as bad as Giggly Tits. Her British roommate is coolly concerned about Shady's activities the night before and then she calls the vaguely Asian dancer and . . . gets her answering machine! The British dancer, being cold and emotionless, badmouths the vaguely Asian dancer. Doesn't she know it's bad form to speak ill of the dead?

Meanwhile, at the crime scene, the hilarious coroner pressures the cop – who's a bit in too deep, in more ways than one – to find a suspect to frame in the murders. Ah, this must be Los Angeles. Back at the apartment, Shady mopes and then she finds the mysterious red rose in her bathrobe! Dum-dum-DUM . . . again! At the club that night, Shady and the British dancer do a duo show onstage together . . . as an animal trainer and a pussy . . . cat. Backstage, the rest of the dancers find out, through the help of a very convenient phone call from the police, that the vaguely Asian dancer is indeed dead. The dumb dancer (Birke Tan) gives the DJ a note to that fact – which he absent-mindedly announces to the crowd – and Shady freaks out so badly that she actually forgets her tips onstage! Now that's serious!

At the station, the cop measures his brainwaves with one of his wacky inventions and he has weird dreams about various people murdering the vaguely Asian dancer. His homely colleague shows up on the scene to hassle him and reveal that all the girls – and even the DJ – at the club have impressive rap sheets. The cop, emboldened by the latest bit of exposition, goes investigating once more. He finds the club closed due to the murders, so he breaks in and, inside, he finds a collection of lizards and arachnids. Huh? Oh, wait, it's actually the DJ's place – thanks for that segue, Mr. Editor, and the cop discovers more than just creepy bugs when the DJ's mom calls to reveal that the DJ is supposedly marrying – and stalking – Shady! Thanks for the exposition, DJ's mom!

After learning some IMPORTANT PLOT POINTS at the DJ's place, the cop goes to the British dancer's apartment to investigate further . . . and maybe investigate Shady further as well. Instead of knocking on the front door, the cop breaks into the place, only to be attacked by NINJA DANCERS! Whoa . . . it's the revenge of Bambi and Thumper! Or not, as it's just two of Shady's colleagues, hiding out in a safe place. After the slightly brutal attack, the dancers make up with the cop because he's looking for Shady . . . and probably also because he's a cop. The dancers tell him that they don't know where she is, so the cop just waits outside until Shady and the British dancer arrive. Though the other dancer left earlier, the dumb dancer is busy inside vacuuming, but the British Dancer, rather than being grateful for the unwarranted housekeeping, confronts her instead. The British dancer is a bit ticked off by the dumb dancer's presence, so she puts some drugs into Shady's tea for no particular reason.

That night, Shady dreams of the dumb dancer and, unsurprisingly, she ends up dead too. In the morning, while the DJ runs from rooftop to rooftop for no apparent reason, the British dancer awakens to find the carnage in her apartment. She slaps around Shady a bit – probably because it's going to be so hard to clean the blood out of the carpeting – and volunteers to take the blame for the crime. Um . . . OK? The DJ, an eyewitness to the aftermath of the murder, breaks into the apartment and he and the British dancer argue over Shady . . . because they both love her! It's a prime suspect showdown! Or not, as the British dancer kills the DJ hastily and she even takes the time to feed his blood to a barely conscious Shady. Whoa . . . BITCHES . . . BE . . . CRAZY!

Over at the station, the cop's colleagues visit his office bearing IMPORTANT PLOT POINTS, specifically that the British dancer has a background in experimental neuropharmacology and she's also psychotic. No, really. There's nothing like revealing the background of the plot twist after the plot twist has already been revealed. If that makes any sense. Apparently, the British dancer is also really into Shady, as she – with the help of the drugs she was providing to Shady – implants a dream into Shady's subconscious featuring equal parts schizophrenia and daddy issues. Now THIS is Freudian!

Before Shady can unleash any more somnambulistic carnage, the cop shows up to save the day . . . and the British dancer responds by attacking him with razor blades and broken glass . . . and dead bodies, as a slew of them drop from a skylight above and onto the cop. OK; that's just weird. Conveniently, Shady chooses this moment to snap out of her drug-induced haze and she shoots the British dancer in the uterus a couple times. If that's supposed to be symbolic, I don't want to know what it symbolizes . . . unless it means that Shady, through the cop's lovemaking, is a full-blown heterosexual now. I may be on the right track as, with the British dancer and Shady's lesbianism vanquished, she and the cop celebrate together.

As with Showgirls after it, Stripped to Kill 2 falls into the category of films lovingly referred to as "so bad they're good." I can't, in good conscience, call Stripped to Kill 2 a good film by any stretch of the imagination. The acting is either grotesquely melodramatic or woefully passionless. The plot, if it even really exists, is a convoluted noir-ish paint-by-numbers affair, with some lesbianism thrown in for a touch of spice. Nothing in this film really connects, either. The cop nearly instantaneously trusts and falls for Shady, which is either a very counterintuitive interrogation technique or just an excuse to set up a sex scene later in the film. The British dancer, though portrayed by a British actress, is revealed to be from the United States during the final spell of exposition. Even the beginning of the film is apparently flawed, as Shady has one of her trademark nightmares long before the British dancer's drugs come into play. That being said, the film as a whole is nothing but strangely entertaining and a guilty pleasure – and not just because of the not-as-rampant-as-expected nudity. It's one of those films that has to be seen to be believed, unintentionally funny and terribly low budget . . . and a Misunderstood Masterpiece as well.

Join me next week as I ramp up the budget and the star power for a more recent stripper flick . . . with pretty much the same results. See you then!