If you're looking for a movie to convince yourself that Russ Meyer was a true auteur of the highest order, this is one for you. Three girls who wear very pointy brassieres get their hands on some handguns and go on a crime wave, sometimes netting as much as $14 from a payroll robbery, and selling the loot to high-class fence Timothy Farrell, who's always necking on a couch with some woman, except when he needs to go to the liquor store to get another bottle of Vat 69. He also keeps what seems like half a million dollars in cash in an open trunk in his living room.
Farrell gives the best performance in the movie. He always sounds like he's irritated at having to shout his lies at the deaf morons he's dealing with. After that the quality of line readings collapses to the level of lobotomized semi-literates who need better glasses. You might find the camerawork more interesting; DP William Thompson seems fascinated by a series of ashtrays filled with butts.
After that, I've run out of good things to say about this film, so I'll stop here.
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