Many of the really great movies in history seem to have a phantom director (CHARLIE THE LONESOME COUGAR, THE OUTER LIMITS' "Controlled Experiment" episode, etc). This here anonymous gem is an anarchist, unhinged, rip-roaring home-grown wonderment which belies its rot-gut origins by creating an entirely integral, albeit
seedy universe, full of real atmosphere, scorching intensity, and insane yet somehow coherent characters, all within a totally shaky framework.
It's like "Idiot Noir," with its spooky, under-exposed fotog and creepy low-rent locales. It looks largely unlike any other exploitation film in history, no mean feat in itself. The plot and style are utterly innocent, incredible, depraved, the product of a very focused yet disturbed mind who wished to remain nameless, thus immortal.
The depiction of the "She Mob" as omniscient, insatiable sexual carnivores was stunningly radical for the mid 60s. Some scenes are virtually hard-core at times, yet at other times soft as a kitten. The complete lack of poise and continuity makes this a cross between Warhol and alcoholic home movies.
Marni Castle is the one of the sexiest/butchiest/ugliest bitches in screen history: her sheer gut-chomping, face-screwing arrogance could give a corpse a coronary. The other girls are strictly psycho-chicks from hell, laughable mutations of familiar 60s archetypes. (My favorite is Teeny, the Go-Go bolemic, who talks like a Japanese cartoon.)
There is a bizarre, yet welcome, fixation on breasts in this flick (and some of the ugliest, weirdest breasts ever caught on film too), and a subtextual fixation on the strange and perverse holders of said breasts, metal monster breastholders, wacky peekaboo nipple pushers, goofy tank tops with fringe, and skin-hugging silky straps.
Girl detective Sweety East, a stupid take-off on TV's Honey West, is a scary, retarded, buck-toothed piece of gutter-slime from the lowest brothel in perdition. I fell in love with her immediately!
Add to all of this a great car chase and an absurdly eclectic (some might say schizo) soundtrack, full of nuttily divergent music cues, and you have a heart-pumping, eye-popping case of screen euphoria.
The idyllic, prosaic epilogue, in which detective and victim make it together, takes place with a book of Shakespeare in the foreground, a precious clue from our invisible director to the audience, a subliminal symbol that confesses that he is aware of his great achievement, in effect saying, "We both know this is a masterpiece, so shut up and enjoy the ride!" A sick, twisted, retarded masterpiece all the way.
June 29, 2008
