A Killer Workout Nobody Asked For
If you ever wondered what would happen if Flashdance and Poltergeist had a love child during a cocaine binge, the answer is Death Spa. This film is living proof that the 1980s were a dangerous time — not because of nuclear war or Reaganomics, but because health clubs apparently doubled as gateways to Hell.
The story unfolds at the Starbody Health Spa in Los Angeles, a futuristic gym with more flashing lights than a Vegas slot machine. It’s owned by Michael Evans, who has the charm of a damp sponge and the charisma of an accountant explaining tax deductions. Michael is haunted by his late wife Catherine, who killed herself after a tragic childbirth. She also had a flair for melodrama and apparently decided that eternal rest was boring, so she stuck around as a vengeful ghost — and naturally chose to haunt… a spa. Because why torment your husband in the afterlife when you can haunt exercise bikes and tanning beds?
Brenda Bakke, Radiant Amidst the Rubble
Let’s pause before diving into the chaos and state the obvious: Brenda Bakke, who plays Michael’s girlfriend Laura, is stunning. She has the kind of screen presence that makes you think, “Why on Earth did she sign up for this movie?” She’s beautiful, magnetic, and does her best to make Laura seem like a real person instead of a human prop waiting to be attacked by malfunctioning Nautilus machines. Every time she’s on screen, the movie briefly feels like it could be good — before immediately reminding you that it isn’t.
The Plot (Such As It Is)
The mayhem starts when Laura gets trapped in the spa’s sauna. But instead of just sweating it out like the rest of us mortals, the room fills with chlorine gas that burns her eyes. She barely survives, though she ends up bandaged like an off-brand Invisible Woman. Michael rushes to her side, more concerned about his gym membership revenue than the fact his girlfriend almost died in a steam room booby trap.
From there, the spa becomes a carnival of death by fitness equipment. A diving board collapses. A weight machine rips a guy’s limbs apart. A locker room spear attack happens because… reasons. Someone gets acid dumped on them in the basement. The moral of the story: if the ’80s hadn’t killed you with leg warmers and cocaine, Death Spa wanted to finish the job with gym equipment.
The Police: Clueless as Always
Detectives Stone and Fletcher show up to investigate, which is like sending mall cops to fight Freddy Krueger. Their big theory? That Michael’s creepy brother-in-law David, Catherine’s twin, is cross-dressing as Catherine and sabotaging the gym. This theory is both offensive and absurd, which makes it perfect for this movie. They ignore every logical explanation (ghosts, demons, angry aerobics instructors) in favor of, “Eh, must be a guy in drag.”
The Mardi Gras Massacre
The film builds to its pièce de résistance: a Mardi Gras party at the spa, because nothing says “festive” like celebrating with free weights and chlorine gas. Catherine’s ghost possesses David’s body and goes on a killing spree while everyone is in masks, neon, and feather boas. It’s basically Eyes Wide Shut if Kubrick had a lobotomy and shot it in a Bally Total Fitness.
Highlights include:
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A woman losing her hand in a blender, proving smoothies really are dangerous.
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A detective being murdered by… a fish in a freezer. Not piranhas. Not sharks. Just a regular dead fish.
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A woman spontaneously combusting because ghosts apparently hate polyester.
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Partygoers running around in terror while the club’s computer system locks them inside like a demonic Fitbit gone rogue.
By the time the party’s over, half the spa is dead and the survivors are probably wishing they’d just gone jogging in Griffith Park instead.
Michael vs. Catherine: Death by Technology
Michael eventually confronts Catherine, who is now a shape-shifting apparition hell-bent on killing Brenda Bakke (how dare she move on). Catherine looks like she’s auditioning for a low-rent Hellraiser spin-off, cackling in front of computers and using telekinesis to fling weights around. Michael finally saves the day by frying the entire spa’s electrical system, which also cooks David alive. Apparently, when in doubt, just short-circuit the whole building — ghost problem solved.
The Acting: A Workout in Futility
William Bumiller as Michael has all the emotional range of a treadmill. Merritt Butrick (in his final role before his tragic death) looks like he wants to ask the director, “Are we really doing this?” Ken Foree shows up as a gym instructor, because every horror film in the ’80s needed Ken Foree to pop in and remind us of better movies. And Brenda Bakke — again, gorgeous, glowing, trying desperately to act like this script isn’t beneath her — deserves combat pay for pretending to be terrified of a tanning bed.
The Ghost Logic (Or Lack Thereof)
Catherine’s ghost is supposedly controlling the spa’s computer system, which raises several questions:
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Why does a health spa need HAL 9000 in the first place?
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How exactly does a ghost hack a computer? Did she die with coding experience?
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Why not haunt something more dignified than stationary bikes and lockers?
But this is Death Spa. Logic isn’t invited. What is invited? Chlorine gas attacks, spear murders, and enough gratuitous nudity to remind you this was marketed as “erotic horror.” Because nothing says sexy like being boiled in acid.
Why It’s Still Weirdly Fun
As bad as Death Spa is, it’s the kind of cinematic junk food that entertains precisely because it’s terrible. The neon lights, the absurd death scenes, the over-the-top performances — it all adds up to something that’s less “scary horror film” and more “fitness-themed fever dream.” You don’t watch Death Spa to be scared. You watch it to laugh, roll your eyes, and maybe marvel at Brenda Bakke looking gorgeous while everything else around her collapses into campy chaos.
Final Verdict: Cancel Your Membership
Death Spa is a terrible movie. The plot is incoherent, the deaths are ridiculous, and the acting is about as convincing as a Bowflex infomercial. And yet, it’s oddly hypnotic — like watching a VHS tape you found in the back of a thrift store labeled “Cursed Jazzercise.”
Would I recommend it? Yes, but only to people who enjoy cinematic masochism, bad horror marathons, or Brenda Bakke completists. Otherwise, stay away. You’re more likely to get in shape running from this movie than watching it.
