Gorman Bechard thought he was making Assault of the Killer Bimbos (1988). After viewing the footage, Charles Band told him otherwise. Dave recounts the sorry saga of ‘Teenage Slasher Sluts’, and wonders if there’s some wheat among the chaff after all.

“Thankfully he went out of business, so my desire to slice the asshole’s face up with a broken beer bottle finally subsided.” [1]

Of all the fractious working relationships that Charles Band has had over the course of his fifty year career, none have reached the level of hatred fostered by director Gorman Bechard. As the opening quote attests, if there was one person popping the champagne over the demise of Band’s Empire Pictures, it was this Connecticut born filmmaker. That enthusiasm, though, was matched only by the viewing public’s overwhelming sense of relief when they learned Bechard was no longer in a position to make another movie.

During the mid-‘80s, Bechard garnered some good notices for his regional slasher, Disconnected (1984), and his sophomore feature, the Bartelian Psychos in Love (1987), attracted Band’s attention. Determined to acquire the film for his Wizard Video imprint, Band lured in Bechard with a healthy advance and the promise of a four picture deal.

The first of the mooted quartet was ‘Club Earth’, which was swiftly retitled Galactic Gigolo (1987) by Empire. Believing it a tweak too many, Bechard sounded off in the pages of Cinefantastique, claiming that the film had been sodomised and dragged screaming from the editing room without its luxurious colour scheme and relentless comedy. If you’ve endured Galactic Gigolo – or at least part thereof – the notion that such a humourless abomination could have ever been something to cherish is unquestionably a tall tale.

Nevertheless, the second movie in Bechard’s Band foursome, Assault of the Killer Bimbos, came with great potential, helped immeasurably by a huge amount of interest for the then-unmade flick at the 1986 American Film Market. As Schlock Pit pal and all-round cinema icon, David DeCoteau, explained:

“That title pre-sold so well at the AFM. It actually scored better than the movies in Empire’s bigger budgeted division. Gorman completed the movie and set up a screening for Empire. It turned out to be a disappointment. Let’s just say that Gorman’s movie did not justify all of the enthusiasm.” [2]

Indeed, upon surveying the Bechard’s finished iteration of Assault of the Killer Bimbos himself, Band was furious. Bechard’s film – originally pitched as ‘Teenage Slasher Sluts’ – was not the goofy lark that he was hoping for. Instead it centred on a gun-toting killing spree led by a group of besmirched women… In Connecticut. Never one to shirk a big decision, Band swiped the Assault of the Killer Bimbos title and handed it and producer duties to DeCoteau, with the Creepozoids (1987) filmmaker postponing prep on ‘Space Sluts in the Slammer’ (which sadly never materialised) in order to develop a better version. DeCoteau found his salvation in Anita Rosenberg, a screenwriter who’d recently experienced success with Modern Girls (1986). Rosenberg was desperate to direct her own script [3]. So when cameras rolled on take two of Assault of the Killer Bimbos – barely two months after Bechard’s stab wrapped – order was momentarily restored in the Empire universe.

There’s irony in Rosenberg’s Assault of the Killer Bimbos debuting in all good video stores during the week Empire got seized by the bank. The whole debacle epitomised the studio’s principle weakness, a self-destructive trait best summarised by the idiom ‘closing the stable door after the horse has bolted’.

As for poor old Bechard, his movie was given a third title, ‘Hack ‘Em High’, before the name CEMETERY HIGH (1988) was finally settled on. The moniker has stuck since its VHS release via Unicorn Video in August ’89 [4].

Did Cemetery High deserve the disrespect?

The contrarian in me says ‘no’.

I’m far from a Bechard acolyte, but there are elements of Cemetery High that shine. As with most things, most of it is circumstantial. If Bechard had been able to retain the original ‘Teenage Slasher Sluts’ concept, and if he had the freedom to wheel the finished footage into the office of Lloyd Kaufman, I’ve no doubt that Cemetery High‘s reputation today would have been elevated by a lavish Blu-ray and an audio commentary featuring a pair of esteemed critics who praise its overtly pro-feminist nature. Bechard works well alongside his usual troupe of actors. Debi Thibeault and Ruth Collins stand out, particularly during their occasional – and very effective – monologues to camera. Alas, it’s the male members of the cast who contribute to the film’s undoing. Each gives a performance so devoid of ability that you wonder if the casting director happened to be pulling a sickie when they were added to the ensemble.

Perversely, it’s the aspect that Charles Band found most unpalatable that serves as the film’s strongest asset. The dark and moody nature of Cemetery High layers the movie with the same sort of rough and ready quality that always seems to flourish in the weird world of regional filmmaking. Bogged down with cringing inserts (like the Gore Gang and the Hooter Honk) engineered by Kenneth J. Hall at Band’s insistence, I’d be genuinely curious to see what Bechard’s original cut was like. Based on the glimmers of rawness here, I’d wager it’d be fascinating.

I used to think of Bechard as a deluded wannabe auteur who fell into bed with the wrong man at the wrong time. We’ve all been there. But, lately, I’ve come to suspect that if we scratch beneath the façade of crayon drawn characters and purported ‘badness’, Cemetery High hints at a talented filmmaker bursting to get out.

[1] Empire of the Bs: The Mad Movie World of Charles Band by Dave Jay, Nathan Shumate and Torsten Dewi, Hemlock Books, 2013.
[2] The Rise and Fall of the Video Empire by Bill George, Cinefantastique Vol. 19, No. 3, March 1989.
[3] Of note: Ted Nicolaou did a polish to get the film in shooting shape.
[4] The film was released as ‘Scumbusters’ in the U.K. by Colourbox.