The one thing you have to know about the misunderstood masterpiece that is Bitch Slap is that you shouldn’t go into it expecting to see a whole lotta nipples. You will see at least two (by my count), but since they don’t belong to any of the three scorchingly hot protagonists, many confused genre enthusiasts have chosen to denounce the film as a failure.
They are morons. Do not listen to them. Instead, do what I did and listen only to the rock-hard, throbbing critic in your pants. Seriously, if you can make it through Bitch Slap without having to adjust yourself in order to accommodate a prolonged and painful tightness, you’re either a eunuch, a girl, a homosexual or so incredibly and specifically jaded in your perversions, the only chance of finding what you need can be found at www.balloonpoppingplushymilfsquirters.com. It’s the purest form of cinematic Viagra I’ve ever seen, and the fact that it achieves this distinction without overdosing on nips and pubes should be praised, not derided.
A joyous pastiche of all that is great about genre cinema, Bitch Slap essentially plays like a greatest-hits collection of all your favorite movies from Memento and The Usual Suspects to Kill Bill and Sin City, ad infinitum. But most of all, the film is a celebration of the badass femme fatales best epitomized by Russ Meyer’s Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!
The plot is essentially unimportant — a slender thread upon which to hang its vast collection of references and homages — but the cast is key to the flick’s success. As its trio of dangerous vixens, Julia Voth, Erin Cummings and America Olivo will sear themselves permanently into your consciousness, each one representing a different kind of archetypal hotness. Voth plays the doe-eyed innocent, trapped in the body of the world’s sexiest stripper; Cummings is the calm, voluptuous professional, dressed to kill in a pencil skirt and fishnets; and Olivo is the psychotic hothead in the tight leather pants with the killer abs. Whatever your personal kink, one of them is guaranteed to linger in your dreams.
Unless you only get off on blondes. In which case, you can go fuck yourself. —Allan Mott
Agreed on every front. Particularly Julia Voth’s front. That woman does it for me.
It’s probably because she’s Canadian.