Lower than low-budget jungle adventure that calls upon the 1950s exploitation filmmaker’s two best friends: piles of stock footage and lots of girls who look good in skimpy animal-skin costumes. The stock footage is there to make this movie easier on the producer; the girls are there to make this movie easier on US.
SO, there are these guys out on safari in Africa (which looks suspiciously like Southern California) who learn about an elusive tribe of savage white women in the vicinity. From there, they try to find them. Can’t blame ’em. I’d be curious, too. At the very least, I’d want to find out why they all have hairdos that look straight from a Hollywood parlor.
I bet this was quite the tent-pitcher in 1953, when a man might glimpse a strange woman’s thigh once every twelve years. In 2017 though, I’ve had trips to the dentist that are more sexy than this. The camera hangs back with artless efficiency. It thinks the flesh is enough (and in ’53, it probably was). It treats the seductive swing of a woman’s backside as no different than the wind blowing through some tree branches. We see it, but the movie doesn’t seem to see it. It cuts away too fast. It doesn’t notice anything. Or at least it can’t afford to notice anything.
Strictly for fans of stale cheesecake.