Bikini Island


“Sex, Sun and Murder …”
What happens when a gaggle of bubble-brained bikini models travel to a remote island for a sizzling Swimwear Illustrated photo shoot? Well, they’re either going to write their PhD dissertations OR be stalked by a crazed killer wielding a toilet plunger. You get just one guess as to how is all goes down in this so-called “erotic thriller” that may be neither “erotic” nor “thrilling,” but that surely is a “movie” of some sort. In Bikini Island, optimistically lumped together with the spate of popular soft core “erotic thrillers” of the early ‘90s (a much-beloved-by-horny-video-renters genre whose titles were legally obligated to include some combination of the words “Indecent,” “Obsession” or “Naked” … or star Shannon Tweed), the titular land mass serves as the staging ground for a stupefying celebration of all things brainless, bouncy and occasionally bloody. Less an erotic thriller than an incompetent slasher flick that can’t decide if its characters should be screaming or moaning, Bikini Island follows the misadventures of a brain trust of vapid models who are whisked away to an island for a photo shoot commemorating the 15th anniversary of Swimwear Illustrated. And just to spice things up, one of the girls will be selected as Cover Girl, for which she’ll receive an extra $100,000! Easy breezy, until the models start getting bumped off one by one by an unknown killer who seems to hold both a grudge AND a fetish for offbeat weapons, including a cheap bow-and-arrow set and a nasty old toilet plunger … yes, that’s correct … a toilet plunger. Who’s the killer? Is it one of the photographers? A curious monkey? Or one of the models themselves? Honestly, who really cares when there’s this much posing, pouting and elementary school-level acting going on? Dumb to the extreme and a powerful statement on the social relevance of T-back thong swimwear, Bikini Island will jiggle its way into your heart. (Dir. by Tony Markes, 1991, USA, 85 mins., Rated R) Digital