One Paragraph Movie Review: Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!

One hundred and forty-first film: Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! Now that I’ve seen both this and Thelma & Louise, I realise what a killer movie combination gutsy women, whiskey, cars, the desert, and avoiding arrest for murder is, and how rare it is to get almost to the end of a long sentence like this without using the word ‘empowerment’. The plot of this movie is simple: three go-go-girls commit crimes in the desert, with the additional bonuses of shouted lines, a Batman-esque soundtrack, and some of the most impressive bras ever seen on screen. To call it a 60s B movie would be drastically understating its cup size, but to call it merely a cheese-cakey skin flick would be drastically understating its power and ability to appeal to both feminists and pervs alike. Even the genuinely terrible acting and the fact that nobody looks like they’re actually driving don’t do it too much harm, and are absolutely what’s expected from the genre. I want to wear every outfit but I’d have to have ribs removed. I want to drive every car but I’d have to be interested in cars. And I want to eat all the fried chicken and drink all the whiskey, which admittedly I’m well on my way to doing. This is, probably without realistically being anyone’s kind of movie, my kind of movie. Four cash-packed wheelchairs out of five.