Let’s talk for a moment about Russ Meyer. Though his IMDB page lists only 28 director credits, Meyer is widely credited as a pioneer of B-grade cinema. He directed a string of successful exploitation films, all of them made with a flair for camp and a keen eye for busty actresses. You may not be surprised to hear that his works were a huge influence on John Waters, but the great John Landis is also a known fanatic of Meyer.

So here’s Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!, the movie that is widely regarded as the best of Meyer’s ouvre. It’s certainly the most famous, if nothing else: Even those who’ve never heard of Russ Meyer are at least familiar with that goofy title. Though the title might sound like total nonsense — a random jumble of words implying speed, sexism, and violence — it actually turns out to be a surprisingly fair representation of the film itself.

I’m not remotely exaggerating when I say that this film has no plot. Zip, zero, nada. Cause and effect both went on holiday with pacing while this picture was getting made. Additionally, the dialogue is so inept that I never would have guessed it was written by two native English speakers. The acting is laughably over-the-top, the camerawork tends to recycle shots, the driving scenes look terribly fake, the editing is a joke in very possible way, and the score outright sucks. Oh, and also: I’ve seen outdoor Shakespeare productions that had better fight choreography.

I understand that Meyer is often promoted as a feminist filmmaker, but I’m not having it. Yes, the three main characters are kick-ass women who get to kill some sexist douchebags. On the other hand, the three main characters are a blonde bimbo, an outrageously fake Italian stereotype, and the bitch in charge. Additionally, all three of them are thieving go-go dancers that somehow have an insatiable lust for violence. These women may be strong and dominant, but their stupidity, villainy, and overtly sexual presentation bring them right back around to being mysogynistic.

Yet in spite of all that, the film somehow works on a base level. Think about it; the film has fast cars, big boobs, a ton of action, and no plot. It’s like everything we’ve come to expect in a Michael Bay-era blockbuster, stripped down to its bare essence. Also (much like your standard Bay-era spectacle) this film earns some goodwill for being self-aware. This picture knows exactly what it is and never has any pretense otherwise. As a result, the film takes on a charming kind of humor that may or may not be intentional.

There isn’t really a whole lot to say about Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!, as the film speaks quite loudly for itself. On its own merit, the film is wonderfully campy and full of unintentional hilarity, which makes it mandatory viewing for film geeks who enjoy that sort of thing (see also: Plan 9 from Outer Space, Manos: The Hands of Fate, or any other movie that I saw as part of my birthday series this year). With five decades of hindsight, however, the film becomes an interesting sort of proto-blockbuster. I’ve heard people say that brainless action spectaculars are ruining modern Hollywood, and I’d be interested to hear that viewpoint with regard to this 50-year-old movie.

It may be an objectively bad movie that gets just about everything wrong, but there’s still a weird sort of charm that makes it work. If nothing else, certain film buffs — specifically, those who love enjoyably bad cinema and those with an interest in the evolution of the blockbuster — owe this movie a good hard look.

P.S. Special thanks go out to Miles and his wife, who made this review possible.