Bad Ass Birds

In 1942’s Girls In Chains, gangster Johnny Moon is cleared of an unspecified charge by a jury. The judge chastises them harshly, taking away their jury privileges! No!

In a bewildering twist, Johnny’s sister-in-law, Miss Martin, takes a job teaching at a women’s correctional facility. Girls in chains! Well, not exactly. To be honest, there isn’t a single chained woman in this film. Just an assortment of shoplifters and “lady hobos” who are exhausted from doing too much laundry.

Miss Martin fights tirelessly for reform, not knowing that the screws are in Johnny Moon’s back pocket. It’s a tough break, and I’m very sorry to report that I spent over an hour of my life watching it slowly unfold. It’s hard to imagine anything more boring than this film. Do not watch if you are tired or value your will to live.

In 1971, Muriel Spark wrote The Driver’s Seat, a slim marvel of a book examining the reasons why a disturbed young woman seeks to be murdered. In time, the film rights were sold to morons.

The film stars an aging Elizabeth Taylor in the lead role. Her portrayal suggests heavy sedation, with freak periods of screeching unreasonableness.  She is Lise, a nihilistic vaguely European woman looking for a “boyfriend” while on  vacation. Not so unusual, unless you consider that her idea of a boyfriend is a murderous psychopath.

The film retains the basic plot, but unlike the book, it leaves the viewer awash in lurid twists and sleaze.  It serves up realistic scenes of attempted rape with alarming regularity. Unlike the book, it presents these scenes with gritty realism. I wanted to shower after the first one.

In a scene not in the book, Lise is subjected to a cavity search by airline security, terrorists in the concourse and a cameo by Andy Warhol. Can you blame her for wanting to check out?

If this all weren’t bad enough, it features an annoying jazz piano score and has the affrontary of using some of Sparks’ original dialogue. Out of context of its jumpy, idiosyncratic universe it is rendered ridiculous.

The film clumsily juxtaposes scenes of the story in real time with scenes of people being interrogated about her murder. This is not a spoiler- it is spelled out that she will be killed early on. This has shock value in the book, but in this mess of a film, it’s just one more depressing detail.

This is not a film so bad that it’s good. It’s just bad. My advice? Don’t wait for the movie, see the book.

In the first twenty minutes of this 1965 film, the well-endowed female leads go-go dance, drag race, and get into a cat fight. In short, they are women absorbed with what at the time were thought to be exclusively male fantasies: sex, cars and kicking ass.

Considering that the Russ Meyers cast only women with large breasts, it is curious that he would imbue them with such an overload of testosterone. I guess some men just can’t write for chicks. Their tendency towards violence kicks the film into high gear when the bustiest of the trio manages to karate chop a man to death. This is unfortunate, given that the man had a traceable car and a traumatized girlfriend as a witness.

They slip the sweet young thing some sleepers as they work out an escape plan that gets more absurd when they learn about a ranch owned by a disabled, horny millionaire.  To say any more would deprive potential viewers the honor of peering inside the late director’s fantasy life. Suffice to say, this film about badass women does not get a badassbirds endorsement. Exploitation is all well and good, but this is just gross. Two kitty paws down.