Rambles uncredited narrator Kenne Duncan (The Astounding She-Monster) at the beginning of Revenge of the Virgins, not all Old West tales were born from truth. Some of them were “conceived in the minds of grizzled old prospectors … consumed by their one dream … convinced that he’d one day hit the biggest bonanza of all.”
Doesn’t that description sound like good ol’ Ed Wood? It should not surprise you that a picture this boring was written by the wrong-reasons legendary Wood, under the pen name of Pete La Roche; after all, when you hear that the black-and-white Western has a running time of 53 minutes, you automatically assume someone of suspect talents had a hand in its making … because the other hand was busy, as Revenge of the Virgins exists so the members of its all-female Indian tribe can parade around topless. Although led by a blonde Caucasian (Nona Carver, 1963’s Terrified), the tribe of “ornery redskins” hates the white man and his dadgum Christianity.
Thus, when prospector Pan Taggart (Stanton Pritchard, Like Wow!) guides the greedy Melvin (Charles Veltmann Jr., 1960’s The Alamo) and his harpy wife (Jodean Russo, Airport) into tribal land in hopes of finding gold, the lady Indians stop dancing naked in circles long enough to fling some arrows their way. Incidentally, the girls don’t wear quivers, so where are they keeping those arrows?
And that’s all there is to this quick-buck pic of buck-naked chicks. Directed by sexploitationist Peter Perry Jr. (Kiss Me Quick!), the whole thing looks to have been shot along a neighborhood greenbelt. An attack by a fake rattlesnake stands as the sexless film’s most engaging moment, but that’s because you’re busy seeing if you can spot the wire. You can. —Rod Lott