Killer Workout (1987) – Review

I was kind of hoping this film would be about Jane Fonda going on a killing spree or maybe Suzanne Summers knocking people off with her killer thighs, but that, unfortunately, is not the case. Instead, we’re treated to over a dozen deaths, most of them committed with a giant safety pin. Yes, you heard that right. No chainsaws, no axes, no gardening implements dripping in blood, not even a sensible kitchen knife with ambition. The makers of this film went for the most original weapon they could think of, and somehow forgot to give the writers a reason for it to exist beyond “wouldn’t this be quirky.”

The film opens with Valerie (Marcia Karr), a young model whose life peaks early when she receives a dream modelling offer in Paris that requires only one thing: a tan. Because nothing says international fashion career like vitamin D desperation, she rushes to a tanning salon and promptly gets cooked alive when the machine malfunctions. It’s a brutal enough sequence in theory, though the execution feels like the film is discovering horror filmmaking in real time, one melted scream at a time.

So, this thing had a “well done” setting?

Five years later, the movie remembers it has to continue, so we’re dumped into Rhonda Johnson’s (Marcia Karr) aerobics empire in Los Angeles. Rhonda runs a fitness club filled with relentlessly cheerful workout devotees who behave like they’ve been hypnotized by protein shakes. She is also permanently furious, snapping at employees like Jaimy (Teresa Van der Woude) while dealing with the gym’s resident human red flag, Jimmy (Fritz Matthews), who treats misogyny like a full-time hobby. Everything is bright, sweaty, and aggressively upbeat in a way that feels deeply suspicious given the murder rate.

Can we move this guy to the top of the Kill List?

Then the killings begin. Rachael (Teresa Truesdale), a client who makes the classic slasher mistake of showering alone, is stabbed to death by a masked figure wielding that absurd oversized safety pin. It’s the film’s signature move, though “signature” implies intention rather than accident. Jaimy later discovers the body stuffed in a locker alongside a blood-soaked knitting needle that turns out to be irrelevant, because this film introduces clues the way a toddler drops toys: constantly and without purpose.

Let’s just say that Hitchcock has nothing to worry about from this thing.

Detective Morgan (David Campbell) arrives to investigate, bringing a level of urgency best described as decorative. He questions Rhonda and Jaimy, while Chuck Dawson (Ted Prior), an undercover investigator hired by the gym’s mysterious senior management, inserts himself into the story like a subplot that forgot to knock. Meanwhile, the gym continues operating at full capacity, because apparently serial killings are just part of the wellness package.

Death is the ultimate exercise routine.

More deaths follow with impressive enthusiasm and minimal clarity. A group of vandalizing teenagers are slaughtered after spray-painting the gym, Tom (Richard Bravo) is killed in the locker room, and Jaimy herself is found hanging inside the club. The film’s solution to rising tension is simply to keep adding bodies while refusing to change tone, structure, or logic. The gym remains open throughout, as if corporate wellness policy includes “ignore homicide unless it affects attendance.”

If you are murdered, do you get a membership refund?

Eventually, Morgan stumbles onto the big reveal: Rhonda is actually Valerie, the tanning accident survivor who faked a twin sister, changed her identity, and then concealed her extensive burns beneath wigs and Lycra. The implication is that she is killing out of jealousy toward the beautiful bodies she can never have again, a potentially strong idea that the film treats with all the depth of a discarded gym towel. Unfortunately, Jimmy kills Chuck, and then confesses to murders he didn’t quite commit, so that kind of puts Rhonda in the clear and everything collapses into a confused attempt at resolution where guilt is more of a suggestion than a conclusion.

And Rhonda blows good ole Jimmy away.

The ending goes full existential shrug. Morgan drags Rhonda into the woods for a philosophical monologue about his vigilante father, then immediately turns his back on her like he’s trying to speedrun his own demise. She obliges by killing him with a shovel, because at this point the film is just checking boxes on a list labelled “things that happen in slasher movies.” Rhonda returns to the gym, is celebrated as a hero, and fondles her beloved safety pin like it’s the world’s most dangerous charm bracelet.

Coming Soon…Killer Workout 2: Aerobic Boogaloo!

Stray Observations:

• A woman is brutally stabbed to death with a giant safety pin, and somehow the film manages to generate an impressive blood supply without ever actually showing where any of it is coming from, which is either innovation or anatomical chaos.
• The killer’s signature weapon is, in fact, a giant safety pin, but for some reason the script never bothers to justify it.
• Detective Morgan finds what might be the murder weapon and immediately picks it up with his bare hands. Nothing says “elite homicide investigation” quite like contaminating the evidence before the opening credits have finished settling.
• One male customer wonders whether Rachael was raped before being murdered, adding that he certainly would have raped her himself. Can we just forget the ’80s ever happened?
• The gym is packed with people who look like they escaped from Olivia Newton-John’s Physical video and never got the memo that it was meant to be a music video, not a lifestyle. They smile constantly while exercising, a level of joy that becomes deeply suspicious once the body count starts rising.
• Characters repeatedly split up and wander into danger like it’s part of their cardio routine. Have they never watched a slasher film before?
• The detectives investigate with all the effectiveness of the Titanic’s watertight doors, technically present, aesthetically reassuring, and completely useless when anything remotely serious happens.
• The music includes inspirational aerobics chants like “She’s a knockout, you better watch out, she’ll take you out!” Not much in the way of subtlety, are they?
• The killer’s identity is obvious from roughly the first ten minutes, which is generous. Yeah, it’s not quite an M. Night Shyamalan level twist.

But it is quite the reveal.

David A. Prior’s direction feels less like control and more like observation. Scenes are staged, filmed, and left to their own devices without much in the way of pacing or suspense. Aerobic sequences are lingered on with a kind of fascinated detachment, as if the film genuinely believes the real horror is cardio endurance. The result is a thriller that forgets to thrill, opting instead for repetition, awkward framing, and edits that occasionally feel like they were assembled during a power outage.

I hope you like scenes of women working out, because we get lots.

The cast do what they can, which is mostly sweat, shout, and occasionally deliver dialogue like they’ve only just been handed it. Marcia Karr anchors the film with a double role that demands more coherence than the script is willing to provide. Ted Prior drifts through the story as Chuck with the energy of someone who knows he’s not surviving the edit. Frank Birney’s Detective Morgan is less a character than a narrative obligation. Everyone else functions as either gym décor or future body count, depending on the scene’s needs.

“Tell me, do we look ridiculous?”

The kills themselves should be the film’s saving grace, but they’re staged with such reluctance and obscurity that they rarely land. There’s variety, sure, but little impact. Stabbings, hangings, and blunt trauma are all present, yet none of them feel designed for tension or payoff. Even the safety pin, theoretically the film’s defining gimmick, never achieves icon status because the movie refuses to commit to showcasing it properly.

Somehow, a film with a dozen kills still manages to be boring.

In conclusion, Killer Workout is a slasher built from neon lighting, aerobic repetition, and a baffling commitment to the least interesting version of every idea it introduces. It has bodies, it has kills, it has music that sounds like it was composed inside a malfunctioning smoothie blender, but it never finds rhythm or purpose. What remains is a strangely inert experience that keeps moving without ever going anywhere worth the effort.