An old geezer recalls some of the antics of the men and women of his western town, more wild and woolly than Tombstone or Dodge City. In this town no one is a good shot, the women are hungry for new meat, and practical jokers abound. A stranger strolls into town, proving resistant to the mayhem, and after donning some cowboy duds begins cleaning up that town.
Wild Gals Of The Naked West was Russ Meyer's third feature-length film as well as his third feature-length nudie cutie (he also shot a handful of shorts in the genre), and it's about as over-the-top as you could get away with in 1961 without incurring the wrath of the censor. Blending an array of topless girls with humor that often verges on Keystone Cop-like slapstick, it's plain to see how this movie (if not the entire genre) was a direct influence on Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In only a few years later. Only thing is, this movie is a LOT funnier than an episode of Laugh-In.
The story, threadbare as it is, concerns an unnamed town in the old West. As we learn from a grizzled prospector type recalling everything for us in flashback form, this town was so bad (not in the evil sense, but bad in the sense of complete depravity), it not only had no sheriff - it didn't even have a name! It's a town where horny women lasso men and haul 'em in for sex; a town where the same two guys have a daily shootout that degrades into a fistfight because they're such lousy shots; a town where strangers last three minutes or less before being bounced out on their asses if they're lucky, or on a last ride to Boot Hill if they aren't. Enter a mysterious stranger, all five-foot-nothing of him, riding a distinctly un-wild west like mule. Once he gets himself settled at the hotel - in the only room NOT featuring corseted companionship - he ventures over to the local saloon. He's so meek no one notices him and he doesn't seem to pay particular mind to anyone, especially the ladies. He just sips his rotgut and stares at the spectacle unfolding in front of him. This apparently offends the saloon owner, who tosses him right out the swinging doors. No sooner is he ejected, than he retreats to his hotel room and re-emerges seconds later clad in full cowboy regalia. (Albeit a bit garish because he's in bright red from head to toe except for a white hat and brown boots.) He then sets to cleanin' the town up with the aid of his outrageous giant pistol; seriously, the barrel is two or three feet long.
That's all you need as far as "intimate" details go, but the plot is almost secondary to Meyer's wild sets, costumes, shots and - especially - editing. Keeping in mind Meyer made lots of dough as a pinup photographer in the golden age of men's magazines (approximately 1956-65), half of the sets in this movie look like they've jumped straight outta the pages of Adam, Nugget, The Dude or countless other skin mags. (And I could swear I've seen at least a third of the Wild Gals in the pages of those very same mags.) Meyer, who was then still in his 30s, makes an appearance in the never-ending bar / barfight scene and he bears an eerie facial resemblance to the dude who plays drums in Red Hot Chili Peppers. Not that that's important, it's just kinda weird. Wild Gals is more than worthy of repeat viewing.
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