My dear readers, though my years spent at the old alma mater are now far behind me, I have no trouble recalling the strange appeal of exclusive social clubs. With their promise of access to elite individuals and non-inclusive gatherings, they more or less assured one’s position in the tumultuous world of campus life. I used to covet most seriously the attentions of one such organization, The Brotherhood of Nergal, whose devotion to the Babylonian god of death and annual formal galas made quite an impression on my young mind. Sadly, admission into this group eluded me throughout my academic career but even though I never officially joined the Brotherhood, I still get a whiff of whimsy whenever the red planet is in opposition or any time a really good plague pops up.

Riley (Lala Kent) is another young soul who finds herself under the spell of curated membership. She is taking that first bold step towards independence, slipping from her father’s protective grasp by attending college and pledging a sorority. Cole (Randy Couture), the proud papa in question, is a detective who makes little effort to moderate his drinking, preferring to wash down a plate of spaghetti with a dozen lagers before moving on to stronger spirits. Being both a widower and a police officer, he is somewhat reluctant to let his only daughter out of his boozy but watchful eye. Yet off Riley goes and much to the chagrin of both father and daughter, a masked killer begins targeting the women of the very sorority she’s pledging, deepening their collective reservations about higher learning.

This enemy of sisterhood drags coeds off to a gruesome workshop where their bodies are transformed into crude, large-scale simulacra of dolls. Ordinarily such a twisted criminal mind would be a tough nut to crack but the unusually savvy psychological profilers are able to determine that the perpetrator thinks of his victims as dolls. This and other clues lead all involved to discover, as often seems to be the case in these Greek life whodunnits, that the culprit is holding a grudge about a hazing incident gone wrong some years ago. The killer feels that women attending the same sorority a generation later are fitting subjects for a bloody brand of punitive justice and seems to have selected Rilely has his ultimate victim, endangering both her educational experience and her budding romance with an overly-familiar cretin.

Though there is certainly some merit to be found in employing practiced actors who have devoted their careers to the craft, there is also much to be said for turning the lens on people with a little less polish. The Italian neorealists of post-war Italy found great success with untrained performers and director Matty Beckerman was likely thinking of Umberto D. or Bicycle Thieves when he made his casting decisions, hoping as they did to inject a profound authenticity into his work. And who better to capture reality than a star of “reality television,” a format with which I have no personal experience but my reading indicates it is some sort of long-form documentary. Combining the raw authenticity of a professional real person with Randy Couture, a mixed martial artist who came to movies later in life, Mr. Beckerman is able to conjure more verisimilitude than is typically seen in doll-themed collegiate slashers. Though this murder-minded subgenre is traditionally not used to hold a mirror to reality, it is always a fine thing to see an artist stretching the boundaries of audience expectation.

The Row runs 85 minutes and is rated Rated R for bloody violence, language, drug and alcohol abuse and some sexual content.