Prehistoric Women (1950)


Savage struggle! Primitive passions! Deadly jealousy!



Year of Release: 1950
Also Known As: The Virgin Goddess
Genre: Fantasy/Adventure
Rated: Approved
Running Time: 74 minutes (1:14)
Director: Gregg G. Tallas


Cast:

Laurette Luez ... Tigri
Allan Nixon ... Engor
Joan Shawlee ... Lotee
Judy Landon ... Eras
Mara Lynn ... Arva
Jo-Carroll Dennison ... Nika
Kerry Vaughn ... Tulle
Tony Devlin ... Ruig
James Summers ... Adh
Dennis Dengate ... Kama
Jeanne Sorel ... Tana
Johann Petursson ... Guadi
John Frederick ... Tribe Leader
Janet Scott ... Wise Old Lady
David Vaile ... Narrator (voice)



Summary:

Tigri, a stone-age beauty, teams up with her friends to kidnap some hated male specimens to be husbands and slaves. One, named Engor, makes his escape and in his journeys learns to make fire. When he is recaptured by the women, he uses flames to drive away a dragon that threatens the tribe. This apparently makes the women believe that men are not so bad after all. Tigri and Engor subsequently wed and set off to get a start on civilized living.


Review:

Prehistoric Women, remindin' us that in the beginnin' God created cleavage. An ever since, man's been tryin' to figure out how to break that fixation so he can finally get around to fixin' the carburetor in his truck.

An speakin' of things bustin' loose, we came within about a gnat's turd of Chickawalka County lookin' like an anti-Trump rally over at Pioneer Courthouse Square on Friday night after a minor technical problem. An while we're on the subject, I wanna make it perfectly clear that I'm done takin' the heat for what happened in the middle of Hyper Sapien: People from Another Star at the Grime Time. I mean, how was I supposed to know that moron was gonna use... oh, right. I forget about you foreigners out there that weren't on hand to see what happened, I should prolly back up a little. See, what happened was, Edgar Mastrude an Bambi Pankins showed up at the drive-in in that '82 Firebird he drives (an I use the term "drives" loosely, since that implies he has control of it) around town without any snow tires, an basically *slid* his way into a parkin' spot, backwards, after overcompensatin' tryin' to avoid a trash barrel. Edgar's the only guy I know with a full set of donut tires, an by the time he finally stopped he wasn't goin' anywhere for awhile. I'm thinkin' somewhere around May if we hadn't gotten 'im outta there. Anyway, the novelty of his predicament eventually wore off an everybody headed back to their rigs to watch the flick, only somewhere around the time Keenan Wynn started cusin' the furry 3-legged cartwheel monster of cheatin' at cards, Edgar an Bambi musta gotten tired of watchin' the movie through the heat conductin' strips in their back window, cause next thing ya know he's in the driver's seat with the gas pedal to the floor. Didn't move the car an inch, but he belched out enough smoke to move the Doomsday Clock 30 seconds closer to midnight, an pretty quick everybody in the lot is P.O.'d about the cloud of blue exhaust blockin' the picture an so they start hasslin' Skunky Hernandez about it until he agrees to get Edgar's car outta there.

Only problem was, nobody had any spare chains, so I told Skunky we might be able to get it movin' with kitty litter under the tires an Bambi drivin' (it's hard enough to get goin' when you're parked on ice, an havin' a 300lb walrus in the front seat just makes it harder), so Skunky saunters off to his barn to grab some while Billy Hilliard an I jack the car up. About three minutes later Skunky comes back with this onion sack fulla litter, an I wanted to ask 'im why it wasn't in the regular bag (but not nearly as much as I wanted Edgar an Bambi outta there, so I let it go), an so Skunky dumps it out under the tires an within seconds the Firebird's free... an half the movie screen's covered with cat shit. We're talkin' Poopocalypse Now, it was fuggin' NASTY. Now you're prolly thinkin' "what kinda douche trough saves USED kitty litter?", cause I know I was thinkin' that too - or rather, yellin' it. Apparently, Skunky's so cheap that he'd save the litter after Gnarl (rest his soul) used it durin' the months where there's three feet of snow outside, an reuse it the next year once it dried out over the summer. Hadn't gotten around to scoopin' it out yet, evidently. I know it sounds stupid, but this's actually one of the least asinine things to happen durin' my dealins with Skunky. Unfortunately, the audience wasn't real sympathetic, an we hadda stop the movie while Billy Hilliard an I spent an hour cleanin' off the screen with squeegees. I'll tell ya somethin' else too, the fact that the concession stand was packed durin' the scrubbin' process says a lotta things I didn't wanna know about the patronage. We got a new rule now, though, sayin' whatever the department of transportation is requirin' for the highway is also required to get past the Grime Time's spike strip, so from now on I suggest everybody either come prepared for the weather, or dress appropriately for the snowbank you're gonna be sittin' in.

The real downside is the second movie stunk almost as bad as the scent of burnt rubber an dook that hung in the air for the next two hours, but I guess if we're bein' honest with ourselves, it's not like we had anything better to do than watch a buncha liberated cave ladies club their subjugated man slaves until they all get homoerectile dysfunction. I think all those Meninist guys who're too afraid of girls to ask 'em out screen this thing for the new recruits, so as you can imagine, it's a pretty educational flick that every guy should check out before gettin' too serious with a woman. This ain't my first rodeo though, so I tended to focus on some of the less obvious facts, like, for instance: first thing I noticed is that if you film through a steam room window from 30 yards distance, the censors can't tell if your actresses are nekkid. Unfortunately, the second thing I learned is neither can the audience. But the third thing was, an this's a pretty important one: there was a point in our prehistory where we were one exploratory use of a cucumber from goin' extinct as a species.

But the thing that really makes this flick mandatory viewin' material for men everywhere is that it actually solves the riddle of what women want. This is fairly complicated, though, so let's start at the beginnin'. Now, you can only reach an understandin' of what women want by askin' the right questions, an the first question you should be askin' is "how come women emasculate men, but men never defeminate women?" Seriously, think about it, have you ever seen a man go up to his wife an say: "Ya know honey, while you were takin' Timmy to soccer practice I figured out why your lemon chicken always ends up tastin' like cat piss pate. Here, let me show you what you're doin' wrong"? But if a MAN forgets to replace the gas cap on the mower an accidentally sets the lawn on fire, he's not only a complete moron, but also needs to be told as much, at an increasingly high volume. So why does this contentment discrepancy exist between the sexes? Well, I have a theory; an guys, it ain't pretty. See, we don't want our women to change in any major sense. I mean, sure, it'd be nice if they'd take up yoga or somethin' to keep 'em occupied while we watch wrestling, but it's somethin' we can deal with without pausin' over our jugulars with the straight razor every mornin'. Women, on the other hand, nag us CONSTANTLY, an I postulate that they wouldn't do this were they not *very* unhappy with us. Not just as individuals, but as a gender. See, we never ask why they think gettin' a hair styling that requires the beautician to wear a welder's mask looks good, yet our judgement seems to come into question anytime we plop a toolbox down next to the toaster, or under the kitchen sink. "Are you SURE you know what you're doing? Maybe we should call a 'professional'?", they'll say. Even though what they really mean is "I seem to remember you flunking out of trade school, so either put that screwdriver away and get someone *intelligent* in here this instant, or I'm gonna make your life a living Hell." This ain't the kinda behavior you see from somebody who likes you for you, an what she don't like is that you ain't like *her*, guys. See what I'm gettin' at? She'd *probably* get along better with you if you had silky soft skin, a nice smell, an shoes suited for every occasion. You followin' me now? Course you are. Women don't actually wanna be married to us, they wanna be married to other WOMEN. Most of 'em just don't realize it in time to do it without feelin' awkward around their conservative relatives, an so they hafta take it out on us for the rest of our lives. Trust me, I've seen enough porno movies to know that the happiest people on Earth all appear in movies like Lesbo-a-go-go, so it might be a good idea to eke out what little pleasure you can while there's still time, cause it's become clear just exactly what it is a woman wants, an it turns out they make rubber versions of 'em now.

The movie begins with this narrator who sounds like he's destined to find his calling in the upcoming social guidance film explosion of the 1950s, explainin' how everything we know about the stone age comes from cave paintins an fossils an what not, an that he's gonna tell us one such story.... effectively makin' the movie an episode of CSI: Pangaea, an settin' the bar for the rest of the flick. An just so we're clear, Herve Villechaize couldn't limbo under this bar. But anyway, next thing we got a buncha sexually frustrated cavebabes shakin' their prehistoric halter tops in the moonlight like they're workin' the crowd at the Bedrock: After Dark strip club, until they collapse into a horny heap an listen to the old crone tell 'em about the olden days before cavewomen's lib. It was a dark time for the softer sex; men kept 'em enslaved, barefoot, an zug-zugged in the kitchen, forced to lick the dishes clean after every meal an scrub loin cloths with alligator scale brillo pads, until one day on a hunt when the women were luggin' a mastodon on a pole as the men pridefully scratched their hairy hinders with their spears. Suddenly, one brave broad, Tana, got so P.O.'d that when the chief started hasslin' 'er about the skidmarks in his buffalo hide briefs, she grabbed up a rock an initiated some literal male bashin' an ultimately lead the other women an children to safety because, you see, in that moment she'd gone full on Twisted Sister, an declared to the patriarchy that she was not gonna take it anymore. Then, as time passed, the women learned how to plunge pointy sticks into the hearts of cute little animals an take care of themselves, until one day when this 9' tall hillbilly named Guadi showed up at their fishin' hole an mashed their savior's head into fresh squeezed Tropitana pulp. The old crone escaped with the kids, but Betty an Wilma got carried off an prolly ended up hummin' a few bars of "la-di da-di, forced love with Guadi." I don't mean to get grim this early in the movie, but it doesn't look good. Then again, he is a giant, so maybe he's just gonna grind their bones to make his bread or somethin'. Anyway, back in the present, the old crone says they gotta give up their male hatin' ways an kidnap some men for their captive breedin' program before everybody starts cuttin' their hair short an drivin' Jeep Wranglers.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the jungle, Engor an his fellow Bro-Magnons have a confused, half-drugged tiger by the tail, only by the time they're able to lure it into their trap, the gals (lead by Tigri, daughter of Tana) show up with their trackin' panther an sic it on Engor an watch 'im wrestle with it while leanin' over at a perfect 90-degree cleavage-enhancing angle. Unfortunately, Engor eventually gets the upper hand an bashes the cat's brain in, an by that point the cavedames're so P.O.'d that they pull out their emergency g-strings an start slingin' ping pong balls at the men an clubbin' 'em with shillelaghs until they curl up on the ground like little sobbing dog turds. Then the ladies tie 'em up (except Engor, who manages to escape) an take 'em back to camp so the old hag can grope the frightened prisoners like disposable beefcake in a Mae West movie, an once she's committed several Class C felonies against their persons she nods her approval an the young women make 'em climb rope ladders up to their tree forts an play 50 Shades of Cave. Elsewhere, Engor's Clan of the Cave Brahs eventually notice the buzzards circlin' nearby an decide to send out a rescue party for 'im, even though he tends to get smashed on marula fruit cocktails pretty regular an often goes missin' for weeks on end, an by the time they finally find 'im he's startin' to look like the inside of the dumpster behind Tijuana Tom's Mexican Cuisine and Custom Pinata Palace. This means he's gotta wait a coupla weeks while the medicine ma'am gets 'im patched up, an all the while he's gettin' more'n more P.O.'d about gettin' his cave-can kicked by a buncha girls, so by the time he finally gets a clean bill of health he charges back into the jungle to free his buds from the Troglodykes. Then he gets chased around by the GOP mascot an accidentally discovers fire tryin' to chip 'imself a new axe blade, while our Cretacian cuties strip down to their cavemammaries an frolic in a pond. Only when they climb out an start dryin' off their Neanderthighs, Guadi shows up an scares the crap out of 'em an hits the Rock Bottom on their tiger while they're hustlin' their drippin' hinies outta there. This is bad news for Engor, cause by the time mornin' comes the women're all on guy alert for any y chromosomal incursions, an when he tries sneakin' into their camp one of 'em lays down in the trail like a wounded gazelle until he attacks, an pretty quick the broad squad bludgeons 'im into submission with their clubs an their unharnessed hooters.

Talk about embarrassing, now Engor's gettin' dragged back to the land that gravity forgot an gettin' his tenderloin fondled by this blonde skank, until Tigri gets in 'er face an tells 'er to get 'er syphilips off her Neanderthrall. The next day, little Suzie homewrecker still can't seem to keep 'er mits off Engor, an when Tigri sees what's goin' on she grabs the bimbo by the hair an next thing you know we got a Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling grudge match that ends with Tigri sockin' 'er right in 'er floozified face an whirlin' on the rest of the tribe with 'er Nicholas Cage crazy eyes an challengin' any other would-be bawds. Pretty scary stuff, an you just know that two minutes after the director yelled "cut" Tigri was back up in the tree pissin' on Engor to keep this kinda misunderstandin' from happenin' again. Course, now Tigri's P.O.'d about the "I feel pretty" smirk Engor had on his face watchin' the two chicks fight over 'im, so she brings 'im down outta the tree an makes 'im try to move a styrofoam boulder until the vein in his forehead explodes an he hasta give up, at which point she grabs a branch an makes 'im feel like a complete idiot by demonstratin' the concept of leverage. This relationship ain't healthy at all. Engor's gonna need a battered men's shelter by the time it's over, there's just no two ways about it. Anyway, later that night, the babes all shake their stone-age assets around the bonfire as part of a prenuptial ceremony, an Engor can see the smearins on the wall an he don't like where this's goin' one bit cause he just put a down payment on a cherry red Irock Z that Tigri's no doubt gonna make 'im trade in on a Kia Sorento to hold the 14 kids she's got in store for 'im. So when mornin' comes an Engor starts feelin' the wedding shackles slowly closin' in around his ankles, he realizes the only way he's gonna see his swingin' bachelor pad again is to start that fire Billy Joel was singin' about an make his escape in the confusion. Only before he can do that, this Thunderbird shows up an starts dive bombin' the bombshells, an Engor hasta cook its goose with a torch to make all the women swoon so he can turn the tables on 'em an force 'em to work for 78 cents on the dollar. Then Engor invents the flame broiled Whopper an demands the women return to his village so he can tell the guys at the bar that he made it with all of 'em, but unfortunately, en route Guadi shows up lookin' for some Chick-fillets an Engor hasta lead everybody into a cave an pray for Ken Ham to come save 'em. This is prolly a good place to cut the summary, but if you're mesmerized by the great love/hate affair between Engor an Tigri, the flick's in the public domain, an you can check it out at the link below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3lcPKGv9h8

Alrighty, there ya have it, Prehistoric Women. Sounds like a documentary on The Golden Girls, only with less titillation. People really were starved for anything even resemblin' nudity in 1950 weren't they? I don't wanna imply that this flick fails on its premise or anything, but these gals couldn't scrub the sweat stains outta Raquel Welch's bunny bikini. Ya know what this flick IS good for though? Helpin' ugly gals score at the drive-in. It's got the perfect combination of moderate flesh exposure and absolutely nothing else to keep a person interested, so maybe, just maybe, this flick managed to rev a few engines up *just* enough to provide a night's entertainment for some future toll booth operators. Ya know what's missin' in this thing though? That thing *every* good caveman movie has that this flick don't? Right, DINOSAURS. Or at least a saber-toothed stop motion Ray Harryhausen critter with a bad attitude tryin' to use our cavefolk for toothpicks. This flick has nothin' but a coupla zoo cats that're too domesticated to overpower Roy Horn and a "flying dragon" that looks like somebody duct taped a chunka turkey waddle to a pelican. We're talkin' a movie so bereft of action that if you showed this thing in a nursin' home everybody'd actually wake up after its snail-esque pacing got so slow that it lapped itself in reverse and caused a time travel paradox. I turned this sucker on and six minutes into it Shankles got off my lap and left the room outta fear of lapsing into a coma, it's really that pitiful. And the thing that really confuses me is that it's in COLOR. To put that in perspective, in 1947 only 12% of all movies were made in color because it was a lot more expensive, so obviously, somebody either thought this flick was good enough to warrant the added cost, or, more likely, realized that it had nothing to offer and needed a hook to bring in an audience. Of course, it's got all the usual caveman anachronisms like Vidal Sassoon caveladies in full makeup, but anybody complaining about that is doing their opinion a disservice, because all these flicks do that. I mean, the producers are pairing up humans with creatures that were extinct long before people existed, and you wanna complain about some gal's mascara? That kinda whining detracts from the movie's real problems. There really ain't much else to be said about this thing, because nothing happens. There is technically a plot, but when you get right down to it, the movie is basically 74 minutes of one gender oppressing the other until the conclusion where our newly enlightened cavepeople learn the value of each other before ending with a touching social message about why it's okay for women to work and how you're no less of a man if you do the dishes. Lemme just spell it out for ya here: B-O-R-I-N-G.

Okay then, now that I got that outta my system, let's see how many points those bouncing bazooms count for in the face of overwhelming inaction. The plot, while technically existent, offers no thrills, or entertainment value of any kind. And the worst part is that the whole movie is little more than a sappy PSA on gender equality. Now, it's not that I disagree with gender equality, but that's not why people watch caveman movies, alright? We wanna see beefy cavemen slug it out with Tyranosauri to score points with bodacious cavebabes, and we don't wanna hafta endure any socially redeeming bullstuff while it's happening, understand? Good. And why the heck was Tigri so perplexed by Engor's attempt to build a fire right before the Turkeydactyl attack, when they had a bonfire the night before? I realize the writers've been dead for 20 years, but it bugs me. The acting is okay, in the sense that the movie isn't really taking itself that seriously, and because... well, nobody speaks English. Which works out pretty well, since the movie has a built in failsafe device to prevent a lot of bad acting from seeping in. And like most of these flicks, you've got the occasional modern expression or foible, like a guy shrugging when being given an accusing glare, or feigning innocence when he's clearly up to something; but these things are to be expected, and despite not being a very good movie, it doesn't take itself seriously enough for these things to be considered damaging anachronisms. Still, other than the two main characters, they all run together, and you couldn't give a damn less if any of them were to be eaten by a rampaging snapping turtle. Here's who matters and why: Allan Nixon (Mesa of Lost Women), Joan Shawlee (Willard, Conquest of Space, House of Horrors), John Frederick (Killers from Space, The Alligator People), David Vaile (Simon King of the Witches, Conquest of Space). Surprisingly, two of the actresses did go on to have fleeting moments of mainstream recognition, with Laurette Luez going on to play Marla Rakubian in D.O.A. that same year, and Joan Shawlee, who later played Sweet Sue in Some Like it Hot, Sylvia in The Apartment, and Amazon Annie in Irma la Douce.

The special effects are, of course, minimal, with the "flying dragon" being the most "spectacular" of the lot as it flies menacingly through the air and eventually joins the characters on the screen for a brief composite shot. I suppose the composite shot is okay for its time, but is not likely to be looked upon favorably by a modern audience. Beyond that you've got a pathetic dead tiger (which looks like a tiger skin blanket or some other two-dimensional representation), and an elephant in fast forward to hide the fact that it's as bored as everyone watching the flick. That's pretty much it. The shooting locations are acceptable, and consisted of a sound stage at the Motion Picture Center Studios, with some exterior scenes shot at the Ray Corrigan Ranch in California, home to virtually every TV series Western known to man. You've got the occasional shot of a leashed panther pacing the boundaries of its restraints, whose surroundings look nothing like what's behind the cavepeople's subsequent reaction shot, but that's something they did pretty regularly in the '50s, so chastising it for this might be a little nitpicky. The soundtrack is standard 1950s cheese with a generic, light-hearted sound intended to liven up the goings-on. Normally this kind of music serves to set the tone for the movie, except this movie *has* no goings-on, and thus, the music tends to play a bigger part than it might otherwise. At least when the narrator's not talking. And speaking of the narrator, he's probably the single cheesiest thing about the movie, because he's got this very classically trained "boring guy" voice that you're used to hearing in those hilarious social guidance films and old TV commercials. Sometimes he's good for a chuckle, others he's simply describing something really obvious that's happening before your eyes, which could prove helpful if you spill your beer in the middle of the movie and don't care enough to pause during the clean-up process, but otherwise, just comes across as condescending. Overall, to anybody born after 1960, this movie is completely unwatchable. No action, not enough skin to compensate for the lack of action, no real monsters; it's stinko, forget it. The Mystery Science Theater writers couldn't make this thing enjoyable.


Rating: 18%