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They take refuge at an isolated ranch where an eccentric old man (Stuart Lancaster) lives with his sons Kirk (Paul Trinka) and Vegetable (Dennis Busch). The old man has some serious issues with women, and the script implies that he and Vegetable have been luring young girls to the ranch and killing them. Kirk is a standup guy and the odd man out, but he remains loyal to his family. So when the girls show up, there’s no doubt trouble is coming with them. Linda is freaked out, Kirk is suspicious, the Old Man can’t decide who he wants to chop up first, and when Varla finds out there’s a stash of cash somewhere on the ranch, it’s only a matter of time before someone else ends up sprawled in the desert with their chest caved in.

Everyone here is lost or damaged in their own uniquely calamitous way, and even the redeemable characters find themselves hopelessly swept along by the devastation. In another life, Billie might have been a flight attendant, and Rosie might have had a nail salon. Vegetable is a muscle bound man-child with a heart of gold but his father is a cancer, and the ranch itself seems infected with his decay. Watching these people circle each other is such an irresistible joy that you won’t care about the corny script or the bargain basement production values. It’s all intentional, and it’s all part of the fun. But the best part is - and you can probably tell by all the virtual ink I’ve spilled so far - is that this deliberately cheesy film genuinely attempts to deliver a fun story full of memorable characters and endlessly quotable lines.

And it succeeds brilliantly. Meyer goes all in on this, and gets his cast to do the same. Tura Satana never made another film with him again, but she made herself a legend with this role, lustfully shouting her lines like a runaway train pumping its whistle as it flies over the cliff. She’s enough ham for Christmas and Easter, and she’s literally the lifeblood of this film. Lancaster’s lecherous, sexist, proto-Red State hermit serves as her opposite number, and the sparks that fly off them are beyond entertaining. The cleverly improvised dialogue, the winking, smirking camera work, and the hep-cat soundtrack let you in on the joke whether you want to or not. It’s impossible not to have a good time with this movie, unless you’re the kind of person who just finds it impossible to have a good time.

Sometimes, upon closer inspection, a so-called seminal classic turns out to be less memorable than advertised. But in this case, the goods are there. Quentin Tarantino, Robert Rodriguez, Rob Zombie....me...we can’t all be wrong. “Faster Pussycat” is a crass, violent, sexist, corny, dusty, brain-degenerating 55-gallon drum of rip roaring destruction and fun. It’s worth every penny and every minute of your money and time that it costs you to see it. And even if you don’t care for it, know that something or someone else you like was probably influenced by it. Get yourself a cheeseburger - or two - settle in, and remind yourself that sometimes exploitation feels so good because it’s so bad.

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