Members Club (Frightfest 2024) Review

Genre Film Festivals are a wide parish, and some movies appear at certain events to play the field – either to find the highest bidder to launch something onto the unsuspecting masses, or they’ve already got distribution and want to build up hype before their eventual release. Other titles aren’t necessarily there to make up the numbers, but to make the most out of the relaxed, fun atmosphere full of people who’ve probably had a few too many. They’re often movies that play to the vibes of an event but tend to struggle more outside and away from the festivities, and one example of this is Members Club – written and directed by Marc Coleman (Manfish & The Hobbyhorse).

Alan (Dean Kilbey, also in Derelict at this year’s Frightfest), is part of a middle-aged all-male stripper group called Wet Dreams, whose other members (pardon the pun), are Neil (Perry Benson), Ratboy (Mark Manero), and Carly (David Alexander). They’ve hit rock bottom, and after one disastrous gig too many, manager Deano (Liam Noble), decides to disband the group. Alan isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, lacks basic business acumen, and has a problematic relationship with his daughter Daisy (Barbara Smith), and her best friend Trish (Jade Johnson). He decides that he can manage the group in Deano’s stead – which seems to pay off when the group are booked for a lucrative and mysterious gig in remote Essex. Met by a sketchy, one-eyed receptionist played by an almost unrecognisable Steve Oram, things get weird when they become embroiled in a plot to raise a murderous 16th-century witch from the dead – one who ekes out her centuries old revenge by tearing off the “members” from the stripper troupe.

Okay it doesn’t make much sense but just go with it.

We’re dealing with a British comedy horror, and that isn’t in its best form outside of the mainstream space – even though there are some very high profile exceptions to the rule. Reviewing comedy or deciding what is or isn’t funny is like trying to trap the wind with your hands – impossible and a waste of time. The humour has a working men’s club vibe, the dick and masturbation jokes so common that numerous prosthetic penises become integral keys to the ancient witches’ resurrection. There’s also a visual reference to channels like Babestation that might get a giggle out of a few people, but it wasn’t for me.

Along with all the cocks and jokes about them being flung about, there’s one elephant in the room that will surely get eyes on the movie beyond the festival circuit, and it’s a cameo that was hard to watch. We aren’t talking about an incredible moment like Bill Murray in the original Zombieland, we’re talking about daytime TV stalwart and middle-aged mum’s favourite Peter Andre, with a bad wig and an even worse Mediterranean accent. As much as you can talk about good and bad horror, comedy isn’t the same as, along with music, it’s probably the most subjective art form, and as awful as I found this there will be some people who’ll pick up everything Coleman lays down.

Now I didn’t enjoy my time with Member’s Club, but I wouldn’t say that there’s nothing positive about watching this without the crowd accompaniment.

While the core cast is strong, and elevates the material (just), above the lowest-hanging fruit, the major success of Member’s Club is the production values that trick you into thinking this has a way higher budget than it does. The location scouting goes from good to great, as the production team and set designers turn a boring old working men’s club into a horrible abandoned little corner of hell in Essex. The same sentiment extends to the lighting department as any British independent movie would kill to have a technical staff as strong as the one Coleman has in his employ. Speaking of whom, there’s also Coleman himself, who’s garnered a reputation for weird props and set pieces – the prosthetics worn by Oram, a sentient tongue cut out of its owner’s mouth (in the cold open), and a talking cheese and pineapple hedgehog (voiced by Alan Ford). There’s undeniably a strong imagination at play here, and it’s one with an impressive visual style.

With a good script, Coleman has the talent to make a name for himself in British Horror and beyond, but therein lies the problem. Members Club‘s script drags everything down into the realms of British comedy best left in the ’70s and ’80s, or even worse, the early ’00s, and the crossover between fans of those types of film and the crowds you get at places like Frightfest is minimal at best. For me, Members Club was a slog because I’m not a fan of that type of humour, but to the right people it’s probably a lot more enjoyable – after all, comedy is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe if I watched this at Frightfest with a crowd I’d have a slightly different opinion, but you can’t talk about a movie with ifs and buts.

Rob’s Archive – Members Club (2024)