Women! They let 'em vote, smoke and drive - even put 'em in pants!

One of my favourite movies of all time is the 1965 Russ Meyer pulp classic Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill!  There's not an awful lot you can say about it cinematically... I mean, the plot is paper thin, the characters are flat in every way except one and the actors are worse than that kid with glasses in Troll 2.  The direction isn't even particularly well executed.

So why does Faster Pussycat! occupy the same hallowed ground in my mind as The Godfather or The Shawshank Redemption does for others?

Partly because it is so "bad" when measured by the usual standards.  As probably became apparent in my last article, about Beefheart and the role of outsider music, I'm kind of interested in art that doesn't look like art.

Especially if that art happens to look an awful lot like the ridiculous fantasy world of a 15 year old boy.

But I actually do think that Faster Pussycat! is art.  In fact, I think it's the same kind of destined-for-relative-obscurity art that Beeheart made...  Faster Pussycat! sits between worlds, parodying both feminism and the men that deride its necessity.

I would like to suggest that Faster Pussycat! embodies the exploitation film industry's curious little contribution to the second wave of the feminist movement.

The man-hating, beer drinking, murderous Varla is an obvious caricature of feminism as understood by the 1960s American male.  Even still, as much Varla is an unrealistic caricature, you can't help but sympathize with her for most the film.

Come on... The first time we see her, she's being ogled by drunk, lecherous jerks in a Go-Go club.

And after all, when she's murdering All-American college boy Tommy, isn't she murdering a symbol of white male cultural dominance?  The same cultural dominance that real-life women were beginning to identify as the main reason they earned lower wages than men in every industry except the sex trade?

Likewise, when she snaps at the clueless service station attendant for trying to look down her top, she's also snapping at the harassment and catcalls leveled at women everywhere.

But when Varla and her cronies think about robbing the old rancher, a particularly kind-hearted viewer might feel a twinge of disapproval.  However, it soon becomes clear that the old man and his son have been raping and murdering women all over town. So any vestige of concern for their well-being flies out the window and we're back on Team Varla.

In some ways, Faster Pussycat! says to a male audience, "Even if your fears of the most vicious, man-hating Feminist imaginable are totally warranted... Can you really blame 'em?"

I think it's this sentiment that makes Faster Pussycat! a prototype for what would eventually be called "men doing feminism" or "Pro-Feminist Art."  And perhaps even more impressively, this sentiment also has the power to turn 1960s boob-fest into a reputable contribution to our artistic commons.