Not a slasher movie no matter what the title leads you to believe, Slayground is one of more than half a dozen films based on Richard Stark’s (aka Donald E. Westlake) crime novels featuring professional thief Parker. Like all but one of those, the character’s name has been changed — in this case, to Stone, played by Peter Coyote (Femme Fatale).
Stone has masterminded a three-man job to rob an armored truck of cold, hard cash, but when his driver doesn’t show up on time (understandable, due to murder), he’s forced to hire a hothead punk (Ned Eisenberg, The Burning) to fill the role. That’s a choice Stone soon regrets when, in the post-heist flee, the wheelman gets too cocky and ends up causing a wreck that kills a child. The dead kid’s wealthy father puts out a hit on all those responsible by hiring a shadowy man known as Shadow Man (Philip Sayer, Xtro).
Sounds interesting enough, and it is in setup. Then, maybe 20 minutes in, Terry Bedford, the Monty Python cinematographer trying his hand at directing, and screenwriter Trevor Preston (What the Peeper Saw) manage to take the whole enterprise south — and fast — not unlike the driver who gets Stone into this fine mess. Considering the wreck had no witnesses, how the Shadow Man learns the identities of Stone and company is a mystery — one the filmmakers completely gloss over, just as they do the killer’s ability to know his prey’s location at any given point in time.
Slayground opens with the familiar strains of one of the most overlicensed rock songs in movie history, George Thorogood’s future jock jam “Bad to the Bone,” which immediately establishes a rowdy tone the film just as quickly ditches. No fun is to be found, and I’m not sure Bedford wants you to have any, brushing every scene in bleak coats of oil and dirt and all-around grime. By the time the movie jumps an ocean to take Stone to jolly ol’ England, I was long checked out. Being set in an empty amusement park, the final confrontation is at least visually interesting, but also a case of too little, too late. —Rod Lott