I like this movie because it has lots of killing and none of the over-hyped Tarantino and/or Spaghetti Western crap. Find a target; shoot; move on.On the other hand, why does Silva cut out those mocassins using the same kind of carving knife found in my Exacto kit? Why does the screaming prostitute have nipples but Michelle Carey doesn't? Why does that guy take a crap with his longjohns on? (No back flap, in case you are wondering) Why can't the sheriff see the two riders who just shot his prisoner in the open desert? Why does Keenan Wynn have such a heavy beard and hairy chest, but a completely hairless neck? Why did the sheriff forget at the end of the movie that it was white guys who were the bad guys? Why is it that Chatto can't speak English, but can read "powder" on the side of a barrel? For that matter, the word "powder" is printed in large white letters; so why does Chatto even have to point it out to the schoolmarm? Lots of killing. A lot of it is the cool senseless kind.But in the end it is just another schoolteacher going postal.Seen it.Seven stars out of ten. One for the boobies that you see. One for the oddly missing nipples. Three stars for senseless rape, death and destruction. One star for not forcing the love story angle. One star for Keenan's laughing after he is separated from his Wally Wally.

It's silly, unbelievable, and morally reprehensible, but I nonetheless thoroughly enjoyed this low budget western. Michele Carey plays Alice, a virginal schoolteacher whose stage coach is seized by a gang of five thugs (including Keenan Wynn and Joe Turkel) who proceed to stake her to the ground, rape her, and ride off in search of fresher pickings. She's rescued by Apache loner Chatto (ethnic everyman Henry Silva), who nurses her back to health and helps track down and kill the scumbags who deflowered her. Meanwhile, a posse of hapless lawmen under the command of Sheriff Pierce (John Anderson, who's very good and has a bit of the William S. Hart about him) are also on her trail, but are always two or three steps behind our hero and heroine. Dick Bakalyan's screenplay has holes large enough to ride a rodeo bull through, but Keith Smith's cinematography is quite handsome and probably would look even better in its original aspect ratio. And let's not overlook Rupert Holmes ballad, There's So Little Time, as performed by the fabulous harmony group Year 2000! A downbeat ending actually improves the proceedings: if you think I Spit On Your Grave could have been improved with some Old West flavor, here's your film.

Michele Carey, who was quite memorable shooting John Wayne and rolling in the hay with James Caan in El Dorado, plays a pretty schoolteacher abducted from her stagecoach, staked to the ground and raped by Keenan Wynn and his grungy band of desperadoes. Left to die, she's rescued by lone-wolf Apache Henry Silva. (who's great despite few lines) Eventually the two set out for revenge.This starts out okay, but after the first twenty minutes or so it begins to meander and becomes tiresome, leading to some of the worst and least satisfying revenge scenes ever filmed, with quick shots of Carey shooting her tormentors while Silva looks on.In the second half, Michele Carey wears the absolute silliest and fake looking Indian costume ever in a western. The guy from The Village People looks more authentic!Equally silly is Rupert (Mr. Pina Colata Song) Holmes' mostly inappropriate and dated musical score!

This would-be "with-it" revenge story in Western garb is notable only for having a female protagonist thus anticipating the cult item HANNIE CAULDER (1971). Still, Michele Carey's terrible central performance and her squeaky voice basically sink the film entirely as she projects little emotional scars from her ordeal; in fact, she seems to get back into a happy mood way too soon after her rape! The sadistic cast of characters are led by notorious bandit Keenan Wynn and Henry Silva is surprisingly cast as the Apache good guy who helps Carey carry out her retribution (interestingly, he had previously appeared in a similar - and much superior - tale, THE BRAVADOS [1958]). Another nail in the film's coffin is the sheer poverty of the direction which generates no suspense whatsoever as Silva and Carey are merely seen to effortlessly stumble upon each of the rapists' new hideout, kill them off without much ado and exit the scene; add to that the puerile fast-cutting technique employed intermittently which grows tiresome before too long. The trebly ironic ending, then, is a valiant attempt at resurrecting the movie but by then it is too late and only a fairly decent score saves the whole thing from a BOMB rating.