Today I once again noticed that Jenna Jameson, whose undead corpse turned 34 today, appears on a poster for a "mainstream" movie. These posters are pasted to the temporary fencing at construction sites over the new Rambo film posters.




I think that Jenna will be fine in this role since neither skill should require her to stretch her painfully limited range. She's experienced as a stripper, and has been a zombie for years.

The question: Can she do both AT THE SAME TIME?!?!?

I think: YES!




And, I only hope Freddie Kruger rips the shit out of her!

The ones I've seen were on 9th in the 50s.

A couple of early reviews:


Zombie Strippers, a Joe Bob Briggs-worthy piece of nudie-horror camp opening this weekend, is in no danger of being accused of false advertising. Director Jay Lee clearly viewed the film's title as a challenge to be risen to, delivering not just another zombie-splatter pic but something that occasionally plays like the wet dream of a necrophiliac. The picture flaunts extended Skinemax-style stripper shows in which the dancers happen to be visibly, progressively rotting and the strip club patrons don't seem to mind at all. Whatever planet these dance sequences are happening on, their cuckoo surrealism is the movie's saving grace; watch in embarrassed fascination as the dramatic gears of the inept, schlocky plot grind to a halt and give way to these unapologetic ghoul-porn reels, with the camera doting on every curve of the softly swaying dead while their customers, all big bellies mashed against the stage and fists full of dirty money, cheer for their favorite high-heeled corpses. A perfect 100 on the vomit meter.

34 year-old Jenna Jameson, recently seen on Broadway in Uncle Vanya, (okay, no), plays Kat, the queen bee of the stripper hive, naturally hated and envied by all; nipping at her six-inch heels are Jessy (Jennifer Holland) a standard-issue "survivor girl" type, Lillith (goth rocker Roxy Saint), a tattooed wastoid whose gag is that she seems like a zombie at the outset, and another half-dozen interchangeable pairs of breasts. They operate under the supervision of the club's manager, Robert "Freddy" Englund's Ian Essko (he's absurd, get it? Cue cricket sounds). As the main villain, Essko's character flaws include unbridled racism — ordering his Mexican handyman around with a sarcastic hat dance and threatening to replace him with "another one from out in front of Home Depot." He also claims the movie's only good line: after Kat is attacked by a zombie who kicks things off by slipping into the club, leaping at her and tearing her throat out, Essko calmly appraises the situation and then instructs one of his bouncers to "get that asshole out of here."

The attacking zombie is set up in a prologue worth mentioning only for its breathtaking shot-on-video ugliness, which could never be confused for "so bad it's good." Having escaped from a secret corporate lab that looks suspiciously like a grade-school hallway, the zombie is pursued across town by a handful of mercenaries who haven't been provided with real-looking guns, squibs for those guns or even vaguely appropriate attire — somewhere along the way the hot blonde in their unit even changes into a bikini top — why not? Before you know it, Kat has been jumped by the rogue flesh-eater, at which point the movie finds a way forward by grafting certain tenets of movie vampirism — the post-bite transformation into an enlightened, beautiful being, the sense of superiority over the living — onto the ill-fitting zombie template. When Kat rises again, she may be blood-soaked, disfigured and rapidly decaying, but hey, she's still Kat — being dead must be the new cool thing! "I wish I were dead" is the general, pouty reaction from the stripper peanut gallery.

Jameson's body, arguably the movie's central subject judging by screen-time devoted, is lithe but lived-in and noticeably diminished by a plastic surgery indulgence that ends up paying dividends for the movie; taking the stage for her first dance after reawakening as a zombie, the strobe lights hit her frozen, vaguely feline face in just such a way as to sell a visualization of fresh death that's better than Jay Lee could have possibly anticipated. Locked into an authentic-looking rigor mortis grin, she hugs the pole, tosses her hair with abandon, shows what her doctor gave her and begins to select eager dopes from the crowd for private room lap dances they'll never return from. That last bit is mildly intriguing — is it possible that this "boobs and blood" fiesta of a movie has something to say about the uneasy relationship between a sex star and her inevitably creepy fanbase? Did Jameson warm to this particular project for cathartic reasons — a chance to bite down and tear out a few pounds of flesh for indignities suffered on her long march to the top?

— Ryan Stewart
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ZOMBIE STRIPPERS

Reviewed by ALLAN DART

Allan sez…

Many years ago, when I was a wilder, full-of-vim-and-vigor young man and unrefined writer, I was given the job of reviewing a movie (which shall remain nameless) about a homicidal, monstrous turd. (I hope that description doesn’t give too much away.) After looking at the film’s title and reading up on its plot, I immediately knew that I had to gather up some friends, pick up some beer and spend a Friday night watching a serial-killing shit literally kick the crap out of people. Sorry for all the fecal references, but I’m penning this late at night and am rather pooped.

Anyway, the filmmakers sent me an angry e-mail response to the resulting negative review, chastising me for viewing the movie while under the influence of a few cold ones. Well, years later, I still stand by my opinion of that movie, and believe that imbibing a couple of brewskis is the only way you can watch that feculent flick. However, when I was asked by Fango if I wanted to review ZOMBIE STRIPPERS moments before stepping into the screening room, it brought back memories of my killer-crap review. You see, I had just had a couple of drinks during the pre-show cocktail hour with my pal Willie, and although I was far from inebriated, now that I’m an older, wiser and more respectable man, I contemplated the sagacity of accepting the job…

…and then I slugged the rest of the Shiraz from my plastic cup and gave the thumbs-up sign. And that, folks, is my point. Movies about evil excrement and undead go-go girls are best viewed with a crowd, several buddies and, if it’s your cup of tea, some brews or booze. So as I entered the screening room, I was hoping for the best (good, trashy fun), but fearing the worst (bad, unfunny trash).

Well, ZOMBIE STRIPPERS (opening in limited engagements next Friday, April 18; click here for details) is more the former than the latter—and most assuredly lives up to its title: there are zombies and strippers aplenty. The movie starts with a startling news update: George Bush is serving his fourth term (!). Oh, and the Army has also developed a virus that reanimates corpses, so that soldiers can continue to fight after they’ve died. But a little problem occurs when one of Uncle Sam’s undead escapes and makes his way to a small-town Nebraska strip club run by Ian (Robert Englund).

Robert Englund in a zombie-stripper movie? Yes! And guess who plays his star dancer Kat, who is bitten by the infected Army man? Jenna Jameson! Wait…Jenna Jameson? Who’s that? I’ve never heard of her before…and I’ve definitely never seen any of her movies. Oh, wait, she’s the star of such genre fare as THE DEVIL IN MISS JONES, I DREAM OF JENNA and PHANTASM (not the Don Coscarelli film, although both movies feature flying balls). So you’ve got Englund and Jameson in a flick called ZOMBIE STRIPPERS? Hey, that’s three for three in my book.

In true walking-dead tradition, Kat develops a desire for human flesh, and starts to dine on the clientele. Not quite in the classic tradition, the other, living strippers grow jealous of Kat, whose popularity and stage time increase along with her decomposition and decay. Most of the girls actually want to become undead, and even though he’s a germophobe, money talks to Ian as well, and he sees a future in the Zombie Stripper business. Only two things stand in their way: 1) the dancers who want to remain human, led by Berengé (Jeannette Sousa) and newcomer Jessy (Jennifer Holland); and 2) the arriving Army.

Chock full of nudity, ZOMBIE STRIPPERS is good, trashy fun—up to a point. Jameson is game, knows how to dance and holds her own (anyone who can fake an orgasm that many times is the Meryl Streep of porn), and Englund enjoys and really plays up his sleazy, greedy club owner. There’s a bit too much bare flesh and not enough eating of it, though, and most of the bloodshed and carnage doesn’t come about until the conclusion. But when it does arrive, makeup FX creator Patrick Magee does an admirable job with the red stuff and zombie killings, augmented by head-shattering CGI. And the production values on the hi-def-lensed movie are above the norm for this sort of picture. Writer/director Jay Lee also litters political and social-commentary jabs throughout the stripping, story and slayings, but the jokes could be wittier and funnier—although a silly series of stereotypical visual and sound gags involving Paco the janitor (Joey Medina) hiding in a closet got the biggest laughs from me, turning a sophomoric bit into sublime ridiculousness.

ZOMBIE STRIPPERS is unrefined fun, though it’s no SHAUN OF THE DEAD. Where and when you see a movie—as well as your state of mind—are undeniably crucial elements of the subjective experience of watching it, and if I had been home alone checking out this flick, eating a sandwich and drinking a soda at 3 in the afternoon, I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed ZOMBIE STRIPPERS as much. But with some beers, a buddy and a decent crowd, the film almost lives up to its fabulous schlock-cinema moniker. So grab some drinks and some friends and make a Friday night of it. I just hope the filmmakers don’t send me an angry response; maybe I’ll get lucky and receive an impassioned salutation from Ms. Jameson. Now there’s something I could post on my cubicle wall…

This film reminds me of Vamps. They've just changed the vampire whores to zombies.

I can't stand Misty Mundae. I get her films are supposed to be stupid TNA flicks but there is a limit to the stupidity. Lord of the G-Strings, Spiderbabe and Erotic Survivor were just beyond retarded. I much prefer the early 90s made-for-cable sleaze fests.

Even plotless crap like Sex on the Strip is more entertaining than anything with Musty Mundae. BTW DaBurg: I think you'd love this video.

As embrassing as that is to admit, don't feel bad homie. I'm a big fan of Jim Wynorski's creative genius especially in the films Virtual Desire and Chopping Mall. I also love the film The Lost Empire but this is only because I'm a fan of Melanie Vincz. Without her mindless blonde attitude and big tits that film was going nowhere. I've just never understood the appeal of Misty Mundae. She looks like any Scottish tart and the ideas are bad- even for bad film standards.

When I was growing up, every girl from either Liverpool or Scotland looked like Misty Mundae and was a whore.

Why do you faggots even care?.
Nice fucken TMZ thread queers. How bout one of you cunts spills on Britneys shoe size or Mary Kates fave Hors D'ouvres this week.

Britney wears a size 6 shoe.

Little know fact: Mary Kate likes to binge on cum and then get throat fucked to gag it up again.