Horror review: The House on Sorority Row


It’s no surprise that Hollywood has spawned remakes of classic slasher flicks like Friday the 13th and Halloween, but why would it bother with 1983’s barely remembered The House on Sorority Row? Maybe a forensic accountant toiling in some studio basement discovered that upon its theatrical release at the height of the slasher craze the film grossed more than four million bucks in its first month—a tidy profit, considering its budget of $425,000.


At a wild babes ’n’ beer sorority bash choreographed like the Coors Light marketing team’s wet dream, a prank to teach a two-timing geek a lesson unfolds. Out near an abandoned mine shaft, the elaborate joke goes horribly wrong when a lingerie-clad bimbo has her chest fatally punctured.

Worried how the death’s fallout might affect their privileged futures, the five bimbos responsible pledge to keep it a secret, but someone in a hooded graduation gown wielding a pimped-out version of the murder weapon comes seeking revenge. Could it be the victim’s look-alike sister? Or how about the sorority’s shotgun-toting house mother (Carrie Fisher), who warns an adversary: “Please don’t think that I’m afraid of you. I run a houseful of 40 bitches!”

By the time the killer’s identity is finally revealed, you’ll be appalled by the rancid attempts at campy humour, and you will be amazed at how screenwriters make big bucks penning lines like, “Who the hell lit the house on fire? Shit!”

If you must see a remake of an ’80s slasher flick, try Rob Zombie’s Halloween II, which, while no screaming hell—hold on, that’s exactly what it is!—far outweighs this wretched cash grab.

Leave a Reply