STUDIO 666 (2022)- Review

This weekend’s big film release might just remind you of a classic TV candy commercial: “Hey, you got rock ‘n’ roll in my horror!” “Well, you got horror in my rock ‘n’ roll!”. But the big question is whether they taste great together. Maybe it’s “delish” or perhaps it’s a big loud gooey mess. It’s not like the two haven’t mixed in the past. Countless monster chillers have used pounding metal music in their soundtracks, while many a “head-bangin'” band have lifted imagery from several classic and modern terror flicks (I think versions of Freddy and Jason have popped up, if not the real “things”) for their video shorts on MTV. Now, this flick goes several steps further by having a very popular group playing themselves and confronting the “forces of darkness”. Sure the Monkees were chased around by clones of Frank, Wolfie, and Drac in their 60s TV series, but nothing like this! They may be because they wisely opted against recording in STUDIO 666.

All the monster mayhem begins in that title space, actually a dingy, once opulent Encino mansion, way back in 1993. We’re placed right at the end of the massacre of the heavy metal band Dream Widow as its lead singer/drummer (Jenna Ortega) struggles to survive. Jumpcut to the modern-day music biz as label exec Jeremy Shill (Jeff Garlin), maybe that last name is a bit “on the nose”, implores Dave Grohl and his Foo Fighters (yes, the real guys playing themselves) to finish their big tenth album. Dave insists that the music is all in his head, but needs the right recording venue for the proper sound and…ambiance. Aha, Jeremy and his eager real estate agent Barb (Leslie Grossman) have just the perfect spot…you know where. After she gives a quick tour of the place, Dave agrees (though the guys need a bit more persuading). Soon the band’s road crew is setting up their equipment as the guys are picking their rooms (they’ll stay there while recording). Then tragedy strikes their electrical guy (you can guess) and the fellas wanna’ bolt. Despite this, and the overly friendly, overly chatty next-door neighbor Samantha (Whitney Cummings) Dave convinces them to “stick it out”. But things get even weirder as he sees a mysterious “caretaker” skulking about with a pair of very sharp shears (nobody else spots him). Then later that night strange noises lure David to the basement where shadowy smoky black figures with glowing red eyes and teeth surround him and…Well, maybe number ten could be the final Foo Fighters work. Or will it?

Perhaps after Lady Gaga’s dazzling turn in A STAR IS BORN, followed by her great work in HOUSE OF GUCCI (Oscar got it very wrong), many might think that singers would be natural thespians. And with this film…they’ll rethink that. Grohl is probably the most natural actor of the band, though he often swallows his words, then leaps to the other extreme with contorted histrionics to convey his metamorphosis. That’s when he’s not manically bobbing his head up and down for comic effect, perhaps (Wayne, Garth, and the gang did it the best thirty years ago…yikes). The other bandmates stiffly recite their lines, mug as though they’re a revamped Little Rascals cast, or merely offer a blank stare until they can drop an “F-bomb”. They might have thought the addition of comic actors would “up the ante”, but they merely have us wishing them to be more prominent in a worthy script. Garlin tempers her usual affable exasperation with unnerving aggression. Cummings is a welcome relief with her take on the next-door wacko who loves to “spill the tea” while getting her “Fatale/groupie” vibe going. Grossman does a nice spin on the whole straight-laced real estate super-agent cliche. And SNL vet Will Forte scores some laughs as the rock star-wannabe’ food delivery guy who really wants to hand over a demo CD with the “extra ranch”. The most offbeat casting may be that of Ortega who’s almost redoing her big scene from a horror franchise reboot from just last month.

So were the filmmakers hoping for sort of a romp similar to the Beatles follow-up feature HELP? Well, this isn’t even KISS MEETS THE PHANTOM OF THE PARK. Horror film vet (HATCHET III) B.J. McDonnell tries to straddle the line between show biz satire and a sort-of greatest hits (like many music acts) of horror. Many hard-core “gore-hounds” could almost tick off a list of “tributes’ from their Fangoria-festooned clip-boards: EVIL DEAD-check, HELLRAISER-check, TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE-double check. They might have intended this to be a loving parody/nod to the VHS slasher “nasties” of the 1980s but it just becomes repetitive and tiresome as the entrails ooze and the body count rises. Yes, fans of the old latex Savini-esque disembowelings will enjoy how CGI helps to sell some of the tricks and stunts, but it’s in service of a plot that spins its wheels until a truly dopey-dumb denouncement (and it’s based on a story by Dave himself). Couple that with the awkward acting and you’ve got an hour or so better spent listening to the group’s infectious rock anthems. And that’s the foul 411 on STUDIO 666. Forsake the cameras and keep fighting Foo, fellers’!!

1 Out of 4

STUDIO 666 is now playing in theatres everywhere