Every decade deserves its own terrible slasher movie. The 1980s had Sleepaway Camp and The Mutilator, the 1990s had Urban Legend, and the 2010s gave us Babysitter Massacre — a film so unapologetically cheap and tasteless it could double as a dare. Written and directed by Henrique Couto, this 2013 direct-to-video carnage fest opens with a babysitter getting her fingernails ripped out and ends with a house fire fueled by stupidity, misogyny, and lighter fluid. You’d think a movie called Babysitter Massacre would deliver sleazy fun, self-aware gore, and maybe a few ironic laughs. Instead, it’s a 98-minute cry for help — the cinematic equivalent of finding out your Uber driver has a trunk full of clown masks and regrets. Our “heroine” is Angela, played by Erin R. Ryan, who looks like she’s trying her hardest to stay awake through her own movie. Angela’s a former member of the babysitters’ club — not the wholesome kind from your childhood, but the kind where everyone ends up traumatized, dead, or emotionally crippled. Years ago, a girl named April was kidnapped on their watch. Seven years later, the rest of the club is still acting like high school never ended, blaming one another between bouts of passive-aggressive trauma. Angela, ever the optimist, decides that the best way to cheer everyone up is by throwing a Halloween party. Because nothing helps people move on from the murder of a child like punch, cheap beer, and slutty costumes. Meanwhile, out in the woods, a man in a white mask is busy turning babysitters into modern art. He’s your typical slasher villain — faceless, silent, and armed with the kind of tools you’d find in a Dollar Tree torture kit. He duct tapes his victims, rips off fingernails, and slits throats with all the enthusiasm of a bored retail employee on their fifth shift of the week. Then there’s Mr. Walker, Angela’s neighbor — a middle-aged man with bad hair, worse intentions, and a personality that screams “This guy definitely owns a freezer full of secrets.” His daughter April was the one kidnapped years ago, but he’s not exactly coping well. He skulks around, stares too long, and gives off the energy of a man who spends his evenings Googling “DIY chloroform recipes.” By the time he’s revealed as the killer, you’re not surprised. You’re just relieved something finally happened. It’s like waiting for a pizza that’s two hours late — it arrives cold and disappointing, but at least it arrived. The middle hour of Babysitter Massacre is a marathon of bad choices. Characters wander alone into dark rooms. They ignore obvious warning signs. They spend an alarming amount of time talking about feelings right before being dismembered. One victim gets cornered in an office by the masked killer, who attacks her with a straight razor. Another scene features the murderer duct-taping a girl and forcing her friends to kill each other with a hammer. It’s brutal, sure — but not in a good way. It’s the kind of brutality that feels designed by someone who thought Saw was a documentary about interior decorating. Couto’s direction is equal parts grindhouse homage and unintentional comedy. The kills are drawn out, the lighting’s so harsh it could double as an interrogation room, and the dialogue feels like it was written by a group chat. Every line sounds like a first draft typed on a cracked iPhone screen. The cast of Babysitter Massacre deserves medals — not for performance, but for endurance. Erin R. Ryan (Angela) delivers her lines as if she’s been hypnotized. Marylee Osborne (Bianca), the outcast of the group, alternates between crying and glaring, like a goth Disney princess who just found out her eyeliner is cursed. The men, meanwhile, look like they were recruited from a regional insurance seminar. Tyler, Bianca’s ex-boyfriend, spends most of his screen time being useless. Mr. Walker, played by Geoff Burkman, does his best Norman Bates impression, but with the menace of a guy who might ask you to join his pyramid scheme. If there’s one consistent emotion in this movie, it’s confusion. Everyone seems unsure of why they’re there — including the camera. The screenplay feels like it was written by a teenager who just discovered both feminism and the concept of murder. It desperately wants to say something about trauma, guilt, and female friendship — but instead, it just says, “Boobs first, logic later.” There’s a long stretch where the babysitters discuss their feelings over a Ouija board. It’s meant to be symbolic, but it plays like a bad improv class: “I summon… our collective trauma!” Every conversation ends with someone storming off or being stabbed. The movie treats emotional depth the way its killer treats babysitters — with complete disregard and a blunt object. Let’s be fair: Babysitter Massacre does deliver blood. Gallons of it. Fake, sticky, cherry-red blood that coats every available surface like an exploding Kool-Aid packet. The practical effects are cheap but enthusiastic, the kind of work you’d expect from a passionate community college makeup student. Unfortunately, gore alone can’t save a movie that feels twice as long as it is. The pacing drags like a corpse in a gravel driveway, and even the nudity — a slasher staple — feels more obligatory than titillating. The film tries to balance sleaze and sincerity but ends up with the aesthetic of a horror movie filmed in a basement by horny ghosts. In the finale, Mr. Walker captures Angela and her friends, forces them into a basement, and insists they murder each other to earn freedom. It’s part Saw, part lifetime trauma drama, and entirely ridiculous. Eventually, he confesses his love for Angela in a monologue that sounds like it was written by ChatGPT after a lobotomy: “You will come to love me, in time.” Sir, she just watched you commit serial murder. That’s not romance; that’s a restraining order waiting to happen. When Angela stabs him and he retaliates, they both collapse in a puddle of gasoline, and he declares, “The only thing more romantic than running away together, is dying together.” Then the house goes up in flames — possibly symbolizing hell, or maybe just relief. Here’s the truly terrifying part — this movie spawned three sequels and a spinoff book series. Apparently, Babysitter Massacre became a cult hit, proving that horror fans have both a high tolerance for pain and no sense of self-preservation. Titles like Slay Belles and Family Splatters promise the same brand of grindhouse chaos, meaning the cinematic babysitting industry has suffered more fatalities than actual childcare work. Babysitter Massacre isn’t scary, funny, or even particularly sleazy. It’s just loud, mean-spirited, and exhausting — like being trapped at a frat party hosted by serial killers. It tries to blend 80s nostalgia with modern gore but ends up feeling like a bootleg VHS found at a garage sale titled “Do Not Watch.” If you’re looking for horror with heart, look elsewhere. If you’re looking for horror with competence, look much further. But if you’ve ever wondered what would happen if Halloween and Toddlers & Tiaras had an illegitimate child filmed on a flip phone — congratulations, your nightmare has arrived. Final Verdict: ★☆☆☆☆A Bloodbath in Search of a Point
The Babysitters Club: Trauma Edition
Mr. Walker: Creepy Neighbor, Discount Hannibal
Death by Dumb Decisions
The Acting: Or, The Real Horror
A Script Written in Fake Blood and Desperation
Gore and Glitter
The Climax: Gasoline, Love, and Terrible Dialogue
The Aftermath: Sequels and Regrets
Final Thoughts: Leave the Kids, Take the Vodka
The only massacre here is what happens to your brain cells.
