DEFENDOR (2009)

“Guns are for cowards”
-Arthur “Defendor” Poppington

When I first heard about DEFENDOR sometime last year, several of the reviews described it as a straight-up comedy, something I readily bought into thanks to the film’s concept and the ludicrous DVD packaging image of a loony-faced Woody Harrelson decked out from head to toe in a zero budget superhero suit consisting of black tights, drawn-on Lone Ranger-style mask and a huge, crudely applied duct tape “D” emblazoned on his chest. Thinking I’d watch this alleged yuck-fest before seeing the similarly-themed and far more high-profile KICK-ASS, I ordered a used copy from Amazon and popped it into my DVD player, fully expecting to laugh at the antics of some delusional clown running around his city waging an inept one-man war against crime. From its opening sequence, it was readily apparent that DEFENDOR was something entirely other than just a comedy, and what I got from it was an unexpected surprise.

DEFENDOR’s narrative is revealed via a mostly linear series of flashbacks as its protagonist undergoes court-mandated therapy sessions administered by a kindly psychiatrist (the always reliable Sandra Oh), evaluations designed to determine if he is fit to be released back onto the streets after assaulting an apparently innocent store-owner. Arthur Poppington (Woody Harrelson) is a middle-aged mildly-retarded employee of his city’s municipal works department (he holds the reversible “STOP/SLOW” sign at construction traffic areas) who leads a double life as “Defendor,” a low rent, comic book-influenced protector of the innocent who seeks to bring down his mysterious arch-nemesis, “Captain Industry,” armed only with a studded truncheon, strategically thrown marbles, a jar of live wasps and a borderline-obsolete VHS camera with which to record evidence against the thugs he accosts. During the course of one of his nightly patrols as Defendor, Arthur encounters a corrupt drug enforcement cop (Elias Koteas) who is in the process of forcing an underage crack-addicted whore (Kat Dennings), who identifies herself as Angel but is actually named Katerina, to give him head. Arthur comes to the girl’s rescue and beats the shit out of the bent cop, making an enemy in the process and getting busted, thus making him a known entity down at the local precinct and inadvertently making it necessary for the girl to hide out until the crooked cop calms down (he and the young hooker have an unpleasant history).

The girl promptly moves into Arthur’s semi-squalid makeshift apartment (he lives illegally in a municipal works workshop) and, in the course of getting to know and form a touching friendship with the kind-hearted and honest man-child, Kat discovers his mission against Captain Industry and leads Arthur to believe that she knows where Captain Industry is, slowly doling out information at the price of forty dollars per day. The “Captain Industry” that Kat sends the hapless Arthur after is in actuality the bent cop, a guy Kat figures Arthur doesn’t stand a chance in hell of taking out, but she figures it’d be a good and convenient way for her to revenge herself against the bastard while also giving Arthur a living target for his rage. But what Kat does not know is just how corrupt the cop is, specifically that he’s deeply involved with a Serbian crime lord who runs drugs and traffics in sex-slaves, aided by a crew of brutal and heavily-armed bikers. As Arthur discovers more and more of the mobster’s doings, things swiftly rocket way out of his already tenuous control and the sincere and childlike would-be superhero finds himself square in the sights of the gangster, who orders a hit on the city’s protector… But exactly who is the mysterious Captain Industry? Is he merely a figment of Arthur’s developmentally challenged mind? Just what was it that motivated Arthur’s crusade against Captain Industry? And what led Kat to a life of teenage prostitution?

While it certainly has moments of humorous content, don’t let the poster image make you think for an instant that DEFENDOR is a comedy. The film is most definitely a drama and at its heart it’s a character study of a man whose innocence and sincere desire to be a socially helpful “good guy” touches and affects all of those who come within his misguided orbit. I’ve long held Harrelson to be among the most underrated and misunderstood actors of his generation, and the performance he gives as Arthur only adds to my opinion; his work here is deeply moving and rich with nuanced character that broke my heart as I watched Arthur’s largely impotent (to say nothing of physically damaging) struggle against society’s evils. I did not laugh at Arthur, but rather I shared in his frustrations and concerns, and I genuinely wanted to see him win out against odds that were so heavily stacked against him. Kat Dennings is very good as the teenage whore who definitely does not have a heart of gold, and she’s totally believable as her character is caught up in Arthur’s infantile altruism. The rest of the cast turns in fine performances, and the whole film displays a level of realism that I did not expect it to contain; when Arthur gets into set-tos with the creeps he seeks to thwart, he suffers serious injuries that land him in the hospital a few times, and the movie’s violence is not of the usual cinematic fantasy variety, but is instead of the bone-breaking, tooth-dislodging kind that’s all too recognizable from reality. While Arthur’s efforts are noble, they earn him ass-whuppings of the sort that no one in their right mind would wish to incur, but then again Arthur is clearly not mentally competent to fully understand the potential lethality of his mission. A defense of vigilantism this ain’t, and for that writer/director Peter Stebbings deserves to be commended.

Not at all the light diversion I expected to sit through, DEFENDOR is simply a minor gem that will hopefully find its audience on DVD. TRUST YER BUNCHE and give it a look, but keep in mind that while it has some feel-good elements, this is the first film in recent memory to make me cry.

A street artist's display of respect.

BAD LIEUTENANT-PORT OF CALL: NEW ORLEANS (2009)

Abel Ferrara’s infamously gonzo BAD LIEUTENANT (1992) is a classic of extreme bad taste and offensive behavior, as well as being one of the unexpected classics of the 1990’s, so damned near everyone was quite skeptical when German director Werner (NOSFERATU, THE VAMPYRE) Herzog announced that he would be coming up with a film to continue what would be a potentially dubious franchise. But what no one expected was what ended up unleashed onscreen when BAD LIEUTENANT-PORT OF CALL: NEW ORLEANS opened and proved to be a festival of outrage with its own singular flavor, well crafted across the board, and containing one of the best performances in Nicholas Cage’s checkered career.

Cage plays Terence McDonagh, an already somewhat bent workaholic detective in post-Katrina New Orleans whose questionable aspects escalate to the Nth degree once he becomes addicted to painkillers prescribed in the wake of a back injury. Having access to the evidence room, McDonagh regularly supplements his drug intake with whatever illegal pharmaceuticals are available, plus whatever goodies he finds during the course of his daily investigations, plunging himself into depths of altered lunacy that would have turned Hunter S. Thompson green with envy. At its heart the most pitch black of black comedies, the film is an over-the-top and thoroughly compelling narrative of one man’s odyssey of incredibly fucked-up behavior, fueled by copious amounts of coke-snorting, petty theft, compulsive high-stakes gambling, sexual coercion of shaken-down clubgoers, harassment of senior citizens, blunt-smoking and hallucinations guest-starring iguanas.

Just another stakeout with Lieutenant McDonagh.

While this maelstrom of out-of-control madness swirls insanely, our hero investigates the execution-style murder of an African drug dealer’s family while simultaneously dealing with the issues of his loving and equally coked-up hooker girlfriend (Eva Mendes). It’s a complete and utter shitstorm that resolves itself in several moments that had me loudly exclaiming, “This has got to be a dream!” and at no point was I bored. In fact, about the only way I could have been more entertained by this film is if it had been directed by British madman Ken Russell — he of LISZTOMANIA (1975) and THE FALL OF THE LOUSE OF USHER (2002) infamy — as opposed to Werner Herzog.

BAD LIEUTENANT-PORT OF CALL: NEW ORLEANS can’t really be discussed at length without giving away an intricate web of seemingly disparate plot elements that do turn out to go somewhere, so I’ll simply offer a few things to note:

• If Nicholas Cage has turned in a better performance, I would like to know about it. Cage is an actor who is widely despised for reasons that continue to elude me; I like the guy a lot (perhaps because of my natural affinity for Italians?) despite many of his movies being clunkers, but an actor should not be held accountable for a film’s script deficiencies, so I hope people will give this movie a chance.

• Eva Mendes somehow manages to be appealing, despite her character, Frankie, being a majorly drug-addicted whore.

Ah, romance...

• Val Kilmer, though underused to an extent, is fun as McDonagh‘s partner.

• My girl Fairuza Balk turns in a brief appearance as Heidi, a corrupt and kinky highway cop pal of the protagonist, and her look while wearing naught but black undies and her highway-fuzz boots is quite memorable. More prominent roles for her, please!

Ah, the all-natural wonder that is Fairuza Balk. Leave the boots on, baby...

• My favorite actress who serially performs roles of skanky hags, Jennifer Coolidge (best known as the “M.I.L.F.” in AMERICAN PIE), is seen here in fine anti-glamorous form as the protagonist’s father’s beer-swilling girlfriend. I’ve been an avid Coolidge fan since BEST IN SHOW (2000) and welcome any opportunity I get to see her work her singular sleazy magic. This is her most interesting turn since Eugenie the ‘ho in POOTIE TANG (2001).

White trash goddess Jennifer Coolidge gets her drink on.

• Contrary to its packaging’s description, the film is in no way an action movie. It’s a character study. Other than one brief firefight, there is no gunplay whatsoever to be had.

So, long story short, put this very bad boy at the top of your Netflix queue. TRUST YER BUNCHE!!!

COMING SOON!

Portrait of two kickass Asian heroes: the incomparable Ti Lung (L) as Magic Sword and David Chiang (in black) as Young Dragon. Damn, I love those guys!!!

There are a number of movies that just plain put me in a very psyched-up and good mood and the classic Shaw Brothers kung fu flick 7 BLOWS OF THE DRAGON is one of them. Released in China in 1972 and making its way over here in 1974 as part of the avalanche during the mid-1970's "chopsocky" boom, the flick is kind of an all-star Eastern variant on the whole Robin Hood-style heroic outlaws thing, and I just got my hands on a cherry widescreen DVD of it that includes the frequently hilarious English dubbing. Watching it last night, I once more reveled in its story of betrayal and the subsequent righteous vengeance for that lowdown treachery, and ludicrous lines line "The Mountain Bandits are here!!!" and "Watch out! The Double-Kick of Death!" (used to described what is clearly a three-tiered technique) just make me smile.

Anyway, I'll be reviewing 7 BLOWS OF THE DRAGON in all its glory as soon as I make some appropriate screen captures from my DVD. Considering what a classic this one is, there's surprisingly little decent imagery from it available on the Internet, but I'll be taking care of that soon. Oh, and don't ask me what the film's American title means. Nothing relating to it occurs at any point during the movie's running time.

Poster from the American theatrical release. Keep in mind that the tag line about "seven masters with a thousand ways to kill" has absolutely nothing to do with the story.

THE NIGHT OF MORNINGSTAR (1982)

In which Modesty and Willie take on "The Watchmen,"a bunch of ultra-murderous terrorist assholes whose objectives don't make a whole hell of a lot of sense and plan to, among other heinous acts, blow up the Golden Gate Bridge and assassinate the U.S. President (where are these guys now that we really need them?). As Modesty Blaise books go this is one of the weaker entries, but it's still worth reading and the mayhem-filled set-to on an oil rig is like something out of a James Bond movie (I mean that in a good way, reminiscing about the finale to YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE).

BLONDE SAVAGE (1947)

NOTE: this is a revised and updated version of a post from February of 2007.

Ah, the ludicrous pleasures of the jungle adventure, a genre more or less wrestled to extinction by the two-pronged assault of political correctness and the existence of reality. With the Tarzan movies leading the pack in terms of entertainment, budget and basic concept — white person/people run around Africa kicking the shit out of “bad” Negroes and any wildlife that has the balls to attempt protecting itself, and occasionally taking the time to loot indigenous cultures of their ancient treasures or murder their gods — the genre flourished on the big screen from roughly the early 1920’s through the late 1950’s/early 1960’s, thereafter settling into an almost thirty-year rotation on syndicated television as weekend afternoon matinees. More often than not silly as hell, even the most cheapjack of jungle flicks can be a boatload of fun, which brings me to the idiotic charms of BLONDE SAVAGE.

I first encountered footage from BLONDE SAVAGE while stoned out of my mind and watching late night cable in 1987 in a documentary best described as the THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT of bad movies, namely IT CAME FROM HOLLYWOOD (1982), during a segment entitled “Musical Memories." In that segment, highlights from atrocious cinematic musical numbers unspooled to hilariously awful effect, eventually hitting a cross section of offensive blackface and faux African material, smack dab in the middle of which was grainy footage featuring some incongruous blonde bombshell in Tarzan-style drag leading a horde of war-painted “Africans” in a non-rousing pre-battle pep chant.

To quote Richard Pryor, "Sing that song, you bitch!"

As the natives rolled their eyes and furiously pounded drums, the blonde yowled forth in the most White-a-tized voice one could imagine when compared to the earthier charms of the tribe’s “race” music, shouting “Vah-Gah! Vah-Gah! Dah-Koom Vah-Gah! Dah-Koom Vah-Gah!” which apparently means “Kill” or some such thing.

The bruthas get down.

As the bug-eyed Hottentots boogie down, they gaze upon the blonde with obvious reverence of her stilted attempt at being funky, until she let’s out a delighted squeal, picks up a spear, leaps off her throne and joins the throng in the Dark Continent Soul Train road company. The documentary's footage then abruptly cut to even more outrageous pickanninny shenanigans, but I was laughing my ass off since I find few things funnier than old movies depicting the melanin-challenged doing black people shit better than black people do while my dusky brethren stand around admiringly as if to say, “Gaw-DAMN, dat li’l white gal sho’ can dance/eat fried chicken/kill colonials! Yowza!!!” Thus intrigued, I embarked upon a twenty-year quest to find BLONDE SAVAGE, and thanks to the New York Comicon I have successfully obtained my quarry. The DVD release of the film is transferred from a beaten-to-shit print that jumps about thanks to individual seconds missing here and there and sports scratches all over the place, both elements that only add to its squalid glory. The film opens with a title card that evokes the most piss poor of matinee serials, yet somehow instills the viewer with confidence that massive goofiness is about to follow, and trust yer Bunche, it does so in spades.

Gale Sherwood as Meelah.

In a nutshell: two doofy White guys, one a handsome bohunk (Leif Erickson) and the other a guy (Frank Jenks) are paid by a rich asshole (Douglass Dumbrille) who owns a diamond mine to locate the hidden village of a tribe who keep giving him shit, allegedly motivated solely by their innate savagery, and when our bargain basement heroes conveniently crash land right next door to the village, they discover a hot blonde named Meelah (Gale Sherwood) —speaking fluent Hollywood “oogah-boogah” gibberish — who’s sort of a goddess to the tribe, and pretty handy with a poisoned blowgun and spear.

There's always fun when you've got a blowgun!

After convincing the tribe that they aren’t the rich asshole, the heroes take a couple of weeks to fix their prop plane and teach the heathens English, thereby discovering the details of how what would otherwise be a tasty surfer babe came to be situated among a bunch of boogies.

Unlike several other jungle girl movies that are content simply to give us a hot chick in an animal skin, this one also gives our girl a spear and a shield. Sort of the jungle equivalent to Barbie's Camaro.

From that point the story gets even dumber as the hunky hero gets the Tarzan chick’s nethers into a froth (after shooting an anaconda with a pistol, despite the anaconda not being indigenous to the continent) and has to contend with the adulterous intentions of his employer’s horny and miserable wife (Veda Ann Borg) who happens to be one of his innumerable old flames, and…

Aw, you get the idea, and for a flick that’s less than seventy minutes long, it’s got loony to spare; it gets in there, does its stupid business, entertains, and then it’s over. A perfect B-movie confection. RECOMMENDED (and it's dirt-cheap!)

The most important lesson learned from this film is this: never piss off a jungle chick...

...especially when her knife-throwing skills are on par with those of Willie Garvin.

GETTIN' PRIMITIVE WITH JAYNE MANSFIELD

Sweet jumpin' Jesus in a basket of chicken...

Of the many blonde bombshells in 1950's and early 1960's cinema, my hands down favorite is the late Jayne Mansfield, visually an Al Capp cartoon fantasy brought to life and, perhaps somewhat incongruously, a card-carrying Mensa member and polyglot who spoke five languages. I mention this because just last night I indulged my ongoing savage/jungle girl fixation and once again checked out the hula dance sequence from PRIMITIVE LOVE (1964) in which Mansfield wiggles her way onstage in "native" gear and shakes her mighty flesh maracas to the music while driving the drummer into a state of flagrant and undisguised animal lust, and I have to tell you in no uncertain terms that watching her move in that bit makes my higher brain functions come to a complete halt. I have not seen the film that the sequence is from, so I do not know the context in which the scene is presented, but there is much to recommend it.

One of the several things that I find appealing about Mansfield is that she definitely had a sense of humor about her own cartoonish good looks, and that aspect informs the bizarro looniness of the hula sequence in question. After gyrating her way down a flight of stairs to a "native" beat provided on an overturned mop bucket, Mansfield shakes her impressive stuff all over the place as the drummer mugs like a total fucking maniac.

La Jayne channels the Terpsichorean muse.

Folks, this is what happens when testosterone goes into overdrive.

All of this frothing-at-the-mouth horniness and shaking of female flesh gloriously goes on while being observed by a strange fellow seen hanging out in the bushes and he is also clearly a master of rubber-faced emoting, although exactly what emotion he's trying to get across remains somewhat obscure.

As the number wnds down, Mansfield heats up, eventually ending up flat on her back and undulating like a fish freshly pulled from its watery home and dropped unceremoniously upon the dry shore.

All of this proves too much for our drummer to withstand for another moment, so he abandons his drum...

...and scoops up the grimacing voyeur from the bushes.

"Boing!!!" Sure, the drummer quickly drops the other dude, but what the fuck happened here?

MY KUBERT PIECE IS UP AT PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

My piece on comics grandmaster Joe Kubert's exceptional upcoming graphic novel DONG XOAI, VIETNAM 1965 just went up over at PUBLISHERS WEEKLY's site, so click here to check it out.

GOT STUFF GOIN' ON

FIST OF THE NORTH STAR's Raoh: my inspirational figure during times of potential adversity.

So I've been unemployed for a month and beset with the expected financial belt-tightening (not that I was at all flush in the first place), and a portion of today was utterly wasted by me having to attend a Department of Labor-mandated job counseling session that amounted to pretty much naught, but I had to go because my absence could have jeopardized my unemployment benefits (at least that's what it said on the form letter.)

But moss does not grow upon the rock that is Yer Bunche and I have used this latest period of joblessness to enjoy being able to sleep when I feel tired, eat when I'm hungry rather than scheduling meals, and most important of all, I'm feeling totally juiced by the biggest creative upswing I've experienced in ages. I'm hard at work on the book that I've puttered with on and off for the past three years, only now I've twigged to its true focus and have a real handle on it (more on that as things come together). I've also been interviewed for an in-production documentary on comics that is meant to explain the culture to folks who know jack shit about it, plus I got interviewed for the upcoming web (possibly eventually television) series IT'S A SICKNESS, in which assorted loons sit down and speak at length on their obsessions, which in my case was all things MANDINGO and slavesploitation-related (I'll let you know when the footage hits the Internet). By all accounts my segment was a big hit with the show's creators and staff, so who knows where that could lead? And last, but definitely not least, I've assisted the organizers of ComiCONN, Connecticut's first "king-size annual" convention by and for the fans, in getting guests to attend (this humble blog is even listed among the sponsors that one can click on to see their sites, but, as stated, I'm more of a very useful booster with no money). And on top off all that I have some very interesting job nibbles going on that I will tell you about as things begin to gel a bit more, so yeah, it's kind of a full plate.

What else? There are three comics-related interviews in the pipeline for PUBLISHERS WEEKLY COMICS WEEK and I will keep you posted as to when they go up online, and I also have a growing backlog of reviews and the usual drivel you've come to expect, including an overview of Kraut madman Werner Herzog's balls-out crazy BAD LIEUTENANT-PORT OF CALL: NEW ORLEANS (2009), so get ready! I'm trying to resume a daily posting schedule and hope to achieve that within the next few days, so once more I thank you for your patience and support. It really means a lot.

-Yer Bunche

THE SAVAGE GIRL (1932)

A prime example of pre-Hays Code schlock that appears to be a hastily made cash-in on the Johnny Weissmuller TARZAN THE APE MAN (which was released to rousing success some eight months previous), Monarch Film Corporation's (who?) THE SAVAGE GIRL is just about as slapdash as a film can be, but it's a mercifully short 66 minutes in running time and features some major league eye-candy in the toothsome form of actress Rochelle Hudson (who, according to the stats available on the IMDB, was sixteen at the time of the film's release, so I'm now officially a dirty old man).

What does it say when a film opens, as this one does, with a text crawl that pleads its case by imploring the audience to pretty much think, "Aah, we all know this movie is a stupid piece of crap, so who gives a fuck?" Giving not one good goddamn about such things as logic or even basic story structure, the filmmakers take us along for an African expedition funded by eccentric comedic alcoholic millionaire Amos P. Stitch (Harry C. Myers), who, along with generic semi-British-accented great white hunter Jim Franklin (Walter Byron) and drunken German guide Alec Bernouth (Adolph Millar), set off to procure animals for Stitch's personal zoo. Upon arriving in "Africa" — aka an obvious Poverty Row jungle backlot somewhere in California — the cast find themselves among and array of incongruously-situated animals that seem to have been dropped from random points all over the continent into one convenient location, some actually on-set, the rest seen in tons of over-exposed stock footage.

Rochelle Hudson as the unnamed jungle girl.

After about twenty minutes of our intrepid heroes traipsing around the jungle capturing assorted beasts and indulging in hoary comedy, the title character finally — thankfully! — shows up, and she is one stunning animal print-clad critter. A dark-haired beauty with bright eyes and striking features, Rochelle Hudson is certainly easy on the eyes and definitely serves as a possible inspiration for fantasies far less wholesome than those found in the script (well, most of the script, but more on that later). Cribbing liberally from Weissmuller's template for a feral character, the unnamed jungle girl is silent and lives in perfect harmony with her animal companions, although her behavior is just about as sweet and girly as one would expect from a jungle heroine conceived in the Shirley Temple era (Maureen O'Sullivan's cultured but utterly capable Jane Parker being the much more interesting alternative). She engages in no knife or spear-armed throwdowns with wild animals or papier-mâché crocodiles (which the budget could have in no way allowed), instead spending her time merrily swinging on vines or sitting around cuddling with adorable little leopard cubs, and she comes into contact with the expedition when she spies upon them as they capture some of her animal neighbors.

Our nature girl: so sweet and wholesome that her handling of leopard cubs does not arouse their mother's fanged and clawed ire.

When she frees the animals in the middle of the night, the drunken German immediately twigs to the culprit being the local "jungle goddess," but his warnings are laughed off by Franklin and Stitch. Nonetheless, a pit is dug in which to trap the jungle goddess, and when she is caught all are surprised to find a hot white girl in Tarzan-knockoff drag in the middle of the jungle. Oh, and at no point in the story is any explanation given as to exactly who this girl is or how she got there, nor how and why the local requisite "ooga boga" natives came to worship and fear her (the latter aspect of which is especially confusing since she's such a sweetie).

Our heroine, captured by white folks!

Once in the hands of the white folks, the jungle girl puts up a futile fight as the white men imprison her in a crude shack. She quickly figures out that Stitch and Franklin have no intention of harming her — especially not Franklin, whom she realizes is kind after seeing him remove a thorn from a monkey's paw and then gently petting the beast, who does not mind in the least — but the drunken German makes no bones about his intent to rape our nature girl.

Our heroine, about to fall prey to a drunk and lustful Kraut.

Bernouth attempts to violate our heroine in no uncertain terms (in a scene that shocked me, especially considering when the film was made) but her screams attract the attention of Franklin, who arrives just in time to prevent the foul crime and hand the Teutonic turd a thrashing before kicking him out of the expedition and letting the jungle girl go free. Our heroine does not stay gone for long though, because Franklin's act of gallantry ignites the jungle girl's spark of interest into full-on and surprisingly aggressive lust that, thanks to his 1930's-style Britishness, our bland hero stupidly does his (rather ineffectual) best to dissuade.

Portrait of one seriously dumb Brit.

Meanwhile, the pissed-off and rape-denied German fucks off to the local "ooga booga" natives and tells them (via a translator) that the other white guys have captured their white goddess, so he suggests that they not only attack the expedition but also make Franklin into a sacrifice to their voodoo god. (How they'd know which white guy was Franklin is anyone's guess, but I'll let it slide.) The natives attack while Stitch and his servant are off testing the boozy tycoon's theories regarding elephants and their fear response to common pet shop mice (don't ask) and Franklin is captured and promptly tied to a stake in preparation for the religious festivities, and once Franklin's securely trussed up, Bernouth has the unmitigated nerve to gloat to our bland hero's face and admonish him for "not wanting to share her" with him, as well as smugly announcing that he now intends to go back to the camp and finish what he started with the jungle girl.

"Oh, vot I em goink to do to her..."

Leaving Franklin to his fate, the merry would-be sexual assaulter arrives at the camp, claims the other white guys are dead, thus obviously meaning he's now the boss, after which he enters the hut where our heroine is hanging out and once more attempts to get his rape on.

Attempted sexual assault, round 2.

Not that she was any kind of tough in the first place, our heroine is quite clearly overmatched as the laughing Kraut mauls her and throws her around the room (you will get as irate as I did when you witness this atrocity), but our bland hero is rescued by the tipsy tycoon and immediately runs to the rescue since the millionaire's cab has inconveniently run out of gas (don't ask). Upon returning to the camp, our bland hero gets into a lackluster fight to the finish with the German asshole, and when shit gets too thick the vile villain readies himself to draw a gun. That underhanded plan of action is quite decisively thwarted when, alerted by our heroine's chimp pal, a hulking guy in a tatty gorilla suit rips the bars off the window behind the German and drags him to a well-deserved end (which I hope included him getting ass-fucked by the bargain basement Kong).

A noble gorilla takes a stand against "that sort of thing."

At last all is well and our lovers prepare to make the beats with two backs, but the film abruptly comes to screeching halt before we get to the good stuff.

The lovers prepare to get it on...

...and then the movie just comes to a screeching halt. What the fuck? TARZAN AND HIS MATE this ain't!

In fact, the movie ends so fast that you hardly have time to process that it's over, an aspect that prompted me to say aloud, "That's it? Seriously, movie? You're gonna go with that ending? Ooookaaaay..." There's no denouement, no attempt at wrapping things up or possibly explaining what's next for our characters. It just stops as if someone pulled the plug. TARZAN AND HIS MATE (1934) this ain't, that much I can tell you. Nonetheless, THE SAVAGE GIRL is not without its merits and its brief running time doesn't really give viewers the change to grow bored. The chief attraction here is obviously Hudson's gorgeous unnamed jungle ingenue, and when all is said and done that's all that really matters. I would have appreciated it if they'd bothered to give her some copper wrist adornments or a spear, though...

Rochelle Hudson: the #1 reason to sit through this time-waster.

STAY TUNED

Dear Vaulties-

Over the next few days I will be hitting the Mocca Festival and attending to a number of things that need taking care of — including enduring an annoying and pointless job seminar that I absolutely have to attend in order to ensure my unemployment benefits — so I doubt there will be any new posts until Monday. Please stay tuned until then.