Drinking With The Dread: DUDE BRO PARTY MASSACRE III Is The Ultimate Horror-Comedy Binge
This month, Dread Central’s theme is all about sequels. Am I cheating if my Drinking With The Dread spotlights a fake sequel? Ask me if I care. I’ve been praying to the glistening Greek gods for a reason to use Dude Bro Party Massacre III, and that time has come. Put your puppies to bed. Get your keychains ready for easy shotgun-puncture access. Lather up your muscliest bros in oily substances and kick the womenfolk out. IT’S BRO TIME.
The boys of Delta Bi Theta drink hard, play harder, and have survived years of attacks from slasher villain Motherface. New legacy pledge Brent Chirino (Alec Owen) isn’t there for the suggestive handshakes, though. Brent’s brother, Brock, was recently slain by none other than Motherface, who might be coming back for thirds. Could it be, even though Brock killed Motherface in plain sight? It’ll take a whole lot of bicep curls and Bud Lites to uncover the truth, but if there’s one thing the Delta Bi Thetas know, it’s danger – and blatant homoerotic overtones.
From the minds of 5 Second Films’ collective comes one of my favorite horror-comedies of the decade. Every aspect of Dude Bro Party Massacre III skewers 80s slasher cinema, from the idea that you don’t need to see I or II to fake commercials and tracking fuzziness for a “recorded from television” aesthetic. Nonsense plotlines like a sunken city and paranoia over fuzzy dog genitalia (seriously) touch but the tip of conceptual absurdity, sold with macho bravado of the most repressed sexual distress. Satire runs deeper than horror, deeper than toxic masculinity, and deeper than anyone could imagine from such a title.
Enter a cast of tanktop-tearing, uber aggressive “brothers” who all characterize their own signatures. Todd (Joey Scoma), whose girlfriend Samantha (played by the hilarious Kelsey Gunn) tries to “steal” his virginity when he just wants to pound brewskies with the boys. Turbeaux (Paul Prado), the paddle-happy hazer whose language is insecurity and piercing insults. Spike (Michael Rousselet), who’s always seen slugging cans of lager because no one parties harder. Who could forget Turtleneck Bro and Flannel Bro? Everyone is in on the obvious joke and never lets it die. Rarely does an intentionally overselling cast link together with such aware chemistry, all professionals when it comes to bastardizing everything we know about misogyny and fraternity overcompensation.
But wait, that’s not all!
5 Second Films runs deep within the comedic community and enlists a host of familiar cameos worth quick demises (Larry King) to full-length supporting characters (Patton Oswalt as “Chief” aka, yes, a police chief). Andrew W.K. plays the ever-important role of Rip Stick, Party Master General with a handshake that’d shatter any bro’s hardened exterior. Greg Sestero rocks a midriff as the Delta’s heartthrob leader, Nina Hartley buttons up as Dean Pepperstone – even John Francis Daley gets in on the lotion-rubbing action. Never upstaging main characters, but their inclusion is a vote of confidence well deserved.
Practical effects elevate Dude Bro Party Massacre III, starting out with a gushing river of blood during an introductory highlight reel of deaths spanning the first two “lost” films. From hurled circular saws to slit throats ejecting a vile mixture of vomit and red juices, kill sequences consistently work to top the last. Torsos detached from abdomens, decapitations galore, geysers of repugnant liquids that could fill Lake Havasu – Delta Bi’s morbid deconstructions are a most giving tribute to 80s goreification with glorious enthusiasm. Homages to all the greats in slasher cinema from Jason to Michael. Splatterhounds will be elated within minutes and continually rewarded, making this critic wonder maybe it *is* possible to purposely craft a cult classic.
All this and I haven’t even gotten to the virgin sacrifice, coke-snorting Officer Sminkle (Brian Firenzi) with his poorly-worded dream of “banging” children (unfortunate phrasing intended, of course). The importance of a “bag of fucking oranges.” The curious death of Jimmy Galoshes (Jon Brence). Motherface’s ties to Ronald Reagan, a pizza goblin (umm, years before Mandy by the way), Nedry Headcheese’s tamed animal attack squad – I promise you, there’s SO MUCH to discover beyond dude-bros thrusting solo cups in the air at the very mention of “titties.”
Highlight moments include but are not limited to:
- Sminkle’s mission to “boop” every Delta Bi on the nose.
- Spontaneous combustion.
- Snack Food Knight.
- Banana Hammock Man.
- So. Many. Suggestively. Sensual. Handshakes.
- Every time a Delta rips their shirt off in a fit of agony.
- “PUT YOUR DELTA BI SEED IN ME, TODD.”
- Motherface’s one-liners.
- “Sizzler?!”
- Turbeaux’s pranks.
- Songs with lyrics pertaining to whatever actions are on screen.
Is it a day that ends in “Y?” Then it’s a good day to split a 30-rack between your bestest bro, look at each other deep in the eyes, and commit to the marriage of broship that could only be achieved by the unification of Dude Bro Party Massacre III and Drinking With The Dread. Rules are as follows:
- Take a drink when you hear the word “Dude!”
- Take a drink when you hear the word “Brother.”
- Take a drink when you hear the word “Bro!:
- Take a drink when you hear the word “Party!”
- Take TWO drinks when you hear the word “Massacre!”
- Take TWO drinks when a frat dude tears their shirt off.
- Rip a SHOT the first time you meet Rip Stick, the rockinest frat dude who ever did bro.
A toast, my jabroni faithful. To a movie that understands satirical comedy and takes every risk in the book. To drunkenly telling your bros how much you love them before death comes knocking. To all the horror-comedy fans out there who can get down with an astoundingly batshit rager of dudes, bros, parties, and massacres. As I always say, any dudebro who isn’t down with Dude Bro Party Massacre III is no dudebro of mine. [Smashes empty beer can against head, screams indistinctly, hugs closest bro.]
Categorized:Drinking With the Dread Editorials
