Cheerleader Camp
Review from a Former Cheerleader, by Rhonda BaughmanShove that Spirit Stick Right Up Yer-
Imagine my surprise when friends accompanying me to see Bring It On back in the day asked me if, and I literally quote, “is that spirit stick shit for real?”
Um, hello? Like, for sure it is, you total loser.
Now that the Valley Spirit Speak has been purged, (and that is the only purging I have ever done, just to take care of any stereotyping that may occur – trust me, I liked my food way too much for that – and I still do), I will indicate that yes the stick is real, as real as we are, as real as anyone. And it’s not so much a stick as it is a weapon of cheerful and animated proportion, a staff of liberty and leadership, and wand of will power.
Alright, fine. It’s just a stupid stick – but when you’re a cheerleader, as with any cult, you are indoctrinated into a world of symbols, rules, command, order, and intrigue. The spirit stick is one of many highly revered cryptograms the outside world may never comprehend.
Which is how I can tell Cheerleader Camp was created by a virtual horde of non-cheerleaders. I can see the real cheerleaders as extras, but that’s apparently where the research ended. In 1988, the spirit stick was a necessity, more so than in the 2000 era of Bring It On, and in the banner year of 1996 which was banner because of well, me. That’s right. Before she was Dr. Rhonda Baughman, she was Co-Captain Rhonda Baughman. And then she quit because she was bored to fucking tears and had already mastered the aerial and sitting back walk-over. And for the record, at 31, she can still straddle and split. And this is not a metaphor.
While reviewing this film, I have to admit only three things intrigued me: Teri Weigel, Leif Garrett, and the people running around in furry animal costumes. Weigel’s appeal is obvious, anyone who knows me understands the infatuation with furries, and I don’t talk about the crush I have on Leif Garrett, because it’s, well … unprofessional. Even though I am talking about the Thunder Alley era Garrett, I would still bow to the man with the golden voice, or at least take him to dinner if he would let me. And stop looking at me as if I am some kind of stalker. Don’t judge me – because YOU DON’T KNOW. YOU JUST … DON’T KNOW! And speaking of stalking, we’ll see what happens to that interview request I sent to Leif Garrett. My fingers, as well as other parts of my anatomy, are crossed.
Now that reason has returned, the film is one big jumble of 80’s fun: it’s silly, random, and at two points, kinda hot (see: Weigel, Teri and Benson, Vickie). A pal let me borrow the film under the promise I never return it again. How she could just give away a DVD with such a cool cover: skull cheerleader in mid-jump (some hybrid C Jump-pretzel stunt). (Again, unless you’re on some sort of young pep squad, this jump is actually not a featured jump and rarely performed, and certainly not executed in competition and when/if it is you better do it like a goddamn gymnast). Furthermore, if you squint, this cover has what appears to be Kraa!
Neat cover aside, the film has several highlights, chief among them: Leif Garrett raps in the film. Had those in charge of production been a wee bit wiser, they would have known the obvious thing to do would be to let him sing for god’s sake. And I don’t mean the pube pop, I MEAN THE GOOD STUFF – like the Thunder Alley tunes or even the album he has recently released. Additionally, keep watch for the cheer along the lines of: Do it again! Do it again! Harder! Harder! (I only wish we had that cheer available back in my day) and the dubious alligator mascot break-dancing scene from well, the woman known for her in Breakin' 2 - Electric Boogaloo
But I will.
And last thing for the record: I know it was to be campy, but what fucking cheer camp did the production folks ever attend? My god, I was forced to attend those dismal camps for years and I have deep, deep psychic scarring as a result. Remnant, rogue memories of shrill 6am competitions and practices, evil sunburns, unnecessary heatstroke, no decent food, and rhymes, rhymes everywhere, and not a drop to drink, were all very military boot camp without the honor, the glory, nor the damn paycheck. I won’t disclose the whodunit ending for you, but I do believe if forced to go to said cheer camps, one could indeed become a homicidal maniac. Don’t believe me? Ask my old cheer coach … if you can find her. But somehow … I know you won’t.
