Rule 34 dictates that for everything that exists, there is a pornographic version of it; a rule I have sadly found to be entirely accurate. From Death Stars to cacti, nothing is safe. As “research” for this review, I searched Google for examples of zombie porn, and six therapists later I returned to my work.
So, Zombie Strippers. Not a porn, but an “erotic comedy” with the emphasis very much on rot in erotic. The only thing getting penetrated here is the cast via what appears to be John Rambo’s entire ammunition stockpile. Still, it has found a place in the safe deposit box of the Wank-Bank of England, a bank in which I bring a whole new meaning to Fred the Shred.
Well, it’s not even really an erotic comedy. That would imply it was, at some point, erotic. It’s more of a spoof. A very, very strange spoof.
Directed by Jay Lee – responsible for such cinematic landmarks as The Slaughter (2006), The Affairs of God (2004), and other films you absolutely haven’t seen – this is actually, on paper, a genius idea. Zombies. Strippers. Black comedy. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a big red button guarded by a clown holding a sign that reads: “Do not press—will unleash an army of breakdancing Schwarzenegger nuns.”
The story is ridiculous, with more holes than Sonny Corleone at the toll booth, but that’s forgivable for a comedy. It’s 2012 (because of course it is), and a secret experiment to create undead super-soldiers goes wrong. Shockingly. The world’s least professional military unit arrives to contain it – seriously, these lads make the A-Team look like the Federation from Starship Troopers.
One infected soldier escapes and makes his way to Rhino’s, an illegal strip club run by Ian (Robert Englund), who looks like the Honey Monster midway through a very public breakdown. At the same time, Jessy (Jennifer Holland), a sweet, Christian girl-next-door type, joins the club to pay for her grandma’s colostomy—apparently unaware that CVs and supermarkets exist.
She’s followed by Davis (Johnny D. Hawkes), a walking religious pamphlet who speaks exclusively in Bible quotes and general unease.
Eventually, an infected soldier bites Kat (Jenna Jameson), a Nietzsche-reading, alpha-stripper who is described on the DVD cover as a “worldwide media sensation” – which is a polite way of saying “porn star.” The virus affects women differently, turning Kat into a super-stripper zombie hybrid, which the audience absolutely loves despite watching her die about five minutes earlier.
After a performance, Kat gives a customer a private dance which ends, predictably, with him being eaten. Ian, seeing the profits roll in, decides that murder is a small price to pay for success. A bold business model.
The other dancers, unable to compete, start going full zombie. First up is Lilith (Roxy Saint), a goth whose original act involves pretending to shoot herself in the head. Realising this isn’t pulling crowds, she opts for literal death instead. Fun fact: Roxy Saint was actually in a band who provided some of the soundtrack. You’ll know which tracks are theirs because they sound like something played at a satanic office Christmas party.
Then we’ve got Madame Blavatski (Carmit Levite), the Eastern European manager who exists purely to shout and fail at her job. Paco (Joey Medina), the Mexican janitor who seems to live in the building and eventually goes full tequila-fuelled bandito. It’s less subtle commentary and more “they really went for it, didn’t they?”
As things escalate, more dancers join Team Undead. Sox (Penny Drake), Jeannie (Shamron Moore), and eventually everyone else realise that the only way to succeed is to literally rot on stage. The audience, now apparently only attracted to decomposing flesh, lap it up.
Jeannie eventually challenges Kat to what can only be described as a Street Fighter-style strip-off, because at this point why not.
Meanwhile, the corpses in the basement – because of course there are corpses in the basement – reanimate and escape, thanks to Gaia (Whitney Anderson), whose IQ appears to be measured in single digits. Chaos ensues. People die. Ian locks everyone in to protect his profits, which is both on-brand and incredibly stupid.
Eventually, most of the cast are killed, including Ian, whose death feels like long-overdue karma for crimes both in this film and A Nightmare on Elm Street. The military returns, shoots the wrong people, lets the actual villain escape, and the film ends with a vague jab at the Bush administration.
Because nothing says biting political satire like zombie lap dances. Despite all of this – and I cannot stress this enough – Zombie Strippers somehow works. Sort of.
It’s stupid, but knowingly so. It doesn’t take itself seriously, and that’s its biggest strength. The script is surprisingly decent in places, occasionally funny, and even flirts with actual ideas. The strippers talk philosophy. There’s mention of fatalism. It’s like someone tried to sneak a university lecture into a softcore fever dream.
That said, the “erotic” side of things completely fails. Despite the constant nudity, pole dancing, and general thrusting you never feel anything remotely resembling arousal. When the zombies start stripping, it’s about as sexy as a bucket of frogspawn. If anything, it makes open-heart surgery look appealing.
Some people will argue that films like this objectify women. I’d argue the opposite. This isn’t about exploiting women – it’s about exploiting men’s stupidity. Men are predictable creatures. If you stuck a picture of a pair of breasts on an old rug, someone, somewhere, would try to chat it up.
Try as I might, I can’t hate Zombie Strippers. For all its faults – and there are many – it’s still more entertaining than a lot of films I’ve covered. It has a weird, retro charm, like an exploitation relic that refuses to die.
That said, it occasionally tries to be clever. It throws in political satire, commentary on war, the economy… and it doesn’t work. It’s like hiring a prostitute who insists on lecturing you about climate change. Admirable, but completely missing the point.
It should have just stuck to what it does best: being ridiculous.
The moral of the story? If you’re into lap dances from decomposing women but would rather not be eaten, you’re better off visiting your local cemetery. More variety, less risk, and chances are there’ll be more crust there than on a cheap pizza.
Bon appétit.
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