DANCE MACABRE (1992)
On its face, this is a utilitarian, barely-there slasher, but writer/director Greydon Clark (did I learn nothing from Uninvited?) and star Robert Englund (especially Robert Englund) want you to think it's something a little more upscale, a little more epicurean, a little more "art house." Synopsis mode...engage! A spunky girl is accepted at a plush ballet academy. The school is run by two people, ostensibly a couple. One of them is Robert Englund; the other...goddamn it. The other is Robert Englund in a dress (and wheelchair), but we aren't supposed to know that it's Robert Englund. She looks like Freddy in drag, but we aren't supposed to know that it's Robert Englund. His features couldn't be more distinct, but we aren't supposed...
...I wish I could type this entire audit in all caps. Folks, Dance Macabre hinges on its laughable twist ending. It doesn't offer anything else, apart from liberal measures of bawdy nudity. The death sequences are dry. Acting-wise, everyone is theatrical, though I suppose that's appropriate. The pacing is rheumatoid-arthritic, which I cannot forgive. And the fucking ending! We. Aren't. Supposed. To. Know. It's. Robert. Englund. I swear to Papa Smurf, this movie made my cholesterol go up.
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