Wasp Woman (1995)

The Wasp Woman is one of those gloriously misguided remakes that somehow manages to make the original Roger Corman classic look even more impressive by comparison.

And that takes some doing.

The original The Wasp Woman was hardly sophisticated cinema, but it possessed a certain pulpy charm, speed, and drive characteristic of Corman’s best low-budget efforts. This 1995 remake, by contrast, lumbers about like a wounded insect trapped inside a fluorescent office building desperately searching for dignity it never remotely possessed.

The story follows ageing supermodel and cosmetics empire owner Janice Starlin, whose glamorous world is visibly collapsing beneath the unspeakable horror of middle age.

Wrinkles have begun appearing.
Soft-focus lenses are working overtime.
The company photographers are practically filming through curtains at this stage.

There is little doubt that poor Ms Starlin is no longer the radiant goddess she once was, and both her business empire and personal life appear headed toward catastrophic decline.

Fortunately, salvation arrives in the form of the mysterious Dr Xinthrop, who offers Starlin a miraculous experimental serum derived from wasps that supposedly restores youth and beauty.

Naturally, accepting unidentified insect serum injections from suspicious scientists never ends well in these films.

At first, however, the treatment appears miraculous.

Starlin regains her confidence, her beauty blossoms anew, lucrative contracts begin flooding back into the company, and even her wandering boyfriend suddenly rediscovers passionate interest in her existence.

Amazing what smoother skin can apparently achieve.

Unfortunately, side effects soon emerge.

Rather serious side effects.

Before long, Ms Starlin begins transforming into a gigantic murderous wasp creature consumed by violent bloodlust and an overwhelming desire to kill.

And what a creature it is.

The wasp costume itself is genuinely magnificent in its own dreadful way — an enormous rubber monstrosity that looks as though it consumed approximately seventy-five percent of the entire production budget. One suspects the filmmakers simply spent every available dollar on the suit before realising they still required actors, lighting, sets, dialogue, and perhaps a functioning screenplay.

The results are extraordinary.

The opening attack scene alone deserves preservation in some sort of museum dedicated to catastrophic special effects. The “killer wasps” resemble random dirt specks floating on damaged videotape rather than living insects, though the soundtrack kindly assists by adding thunderous droning noises to reassure viewers that these tiny blotches are indeed terrifying African death wasps.

The transformation scenes that follow are no less spectacularly awful.

And yet there is something oddly admirable about the film’s complete lack of shame.

The acting throughout is catastrophically bad — the sort of acting that immediately prompts one to understand why most of the performers seem to have quietly vanished from cinema altogether afterward. Better judgement probably intervened.

Dialogue is delivered with all the conviction of exhausted department-store employees reading appliance warranties aloud. Emotional scenes collapse into accidental comedy almost instantly, while the direction possesses all the visual sophistication of a late-night cable commercial.

Still, for devotees of genuine Z-grade schlock, this very ineptitude becomes the film’s saving grace.

Because The Wasp Woman is never boring.

Terrible, certainly.
Embarrassing, frequently.
Cheap beyond belief, absolutely.

But dull?
Never quite.

The film ultimately succeeds as one of those magnificently tacky B-movie disasters whose sheer audacity and rank incompetence somehow become perversely entertaining. Fans of gloriously awful creature features, bargain-bin horror, and late-night cable monstrosities will likely find plenty to chuckle at here, especially with the obligatory doses of Cormanesque nudity scattered throughout proceedings to maintain audience morale.

What it absolutely does not do is approach the pulpy efficiency or strange charm of the original film.

And perhaps most importantly of all:

Jennifer Rubin is most definitely no Susan Cabot.

Not even remotely.

Still, for scholars and dedicated connoisseurs of cinematic rubbish, this remains an enjoyably atrocious little curio — the kind of wonderfully misguided remake best appreciated late at night with extremely low expectations and perhaps a strong drink nearby.