A cohabitating foursome of leggy lipstick lesbians—none of whom could act their way out of a sundress—trek to the mountains for a weekend cabin getaway of truly laughable exhibitionism before a half-dozen horny villains randomly barge in. As tamely unerotic as a straight-to-video Misty Mundae softcore spoof (Play-Mate of the Apes!), director Zach Passero's worthless sexploitation horror is almost pretentious enough in its stilted slo-mo and superimposed fades to gain the same cheese-loving cult audience that drunkenly embraced last year's Lindsay Lohan flop, I Know Who Killed Me (the director of which co-wrote this trash—who knew?). With the nonsensical tagline "Life's a witch and then you die," the film indeed does get worse: At midnight, our heroic sluts gain magical powers and exact revenge on their attackers, who include a trio of incestuous brothers, a crazed World War I–garbed vet in a wheelchair (who thankfully doesn't show his war injury when commanding one of the girls to "Suck the nub!"), and sleazy Texas-chainsaw archetypes from the local gas station. (Former Voice contributor Luke Y. Thompson makes us proud as "Half-Idiot," a publicly masturbating redneck who pisses himself.) So unimaginatively cheapjack that a rapist has to be told of his vivisection in close-up since there wasn't the budget to actually show it, Wicked Lake proves that even Troma can outclass some.
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