I wrapped up my three-fer of reviewing Patryk Vega movies with Mafia Women 2 at Attack from Planet B:
Olga Boladz, who played the protagonist from the first film, probably didn’t want to have her name attached to this monstrosity because her character was murdered, off-camera, in the first minute of Women of Mafia 2. Says rather a lot, doesn’t it. Other surviving characters from Mafia Women, however, do continue their stories here, even if they don’t intersect or affect each other. The overarching plot, such as it is, involves a drug deal between Nanny’s drug gang and a Colombian cartel that goes terribly wrong, and the fallout that results from it.
I really need you to click to read the whole review to make me feel better about watching this film. Please.
The title says it all, and that’s where this movie shines. It doesn’t pretend to be anything other than an homage to films like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Deliverance. The plot is admirably uncomplicated: a pair of beautiful models, their photographer, and a makeup artist go into the wilderness to take pictures; they meet up with some seriously inbred primitives; death and horror ensue. You don’t go to see a film like Killbillies for the existential angst.
Who doesn’t like mob movies? Not me. That is, I do like them. Yes. I hope I’ve made myself clear. Anyway, I reviewed the Polish mob movie Mafia Women for 
The clumsy, shrill feminist message running throughout the film is undercut by the plot. A female urologist’s husband tells her that he wants a divorce because he finds her vagina hideous to look at. He even uses the term “beef curtains.” (I don’t know if that’s an exact translation; all I can do is read the subtitles.) Later that day, the understandably unsettled doctor with the unappealing genitals insists that a male patient provide a semen sample by masturbating in front of her. After she gets fired for this piece of questionable professional behavior, she becomes a pioneer in vaginal plastic surgery, and even has her own female parts prettified. Today’s woke feminism would, no doubt, have her shouting her pride in her, ah, “beef curtains” instead of having them adjusted according to sexist male standards of attractiveness.
The best thing about Strip Club Massacre is the title, because it perfectly sets up exploitative expectations. Where things sort of fell apart was in all aspects of the execution: the substandard B.P.M. (Boobs Per Minute) and the actual massacre itself, which may set a record for the slowest, most tedious mass murder in cinematic history. The poor B.P.M. rating isn’t a crushing disappointment, as at last count there are more websites devoted to the exposition of bare bosoms than there are stars in the sky, but what I found odd was the casting choice: none of the strippers with speaking parts actually, well, stripped. Or danced very much. In any other genre this wouldn’t be an issue, but this is an exploitation movie with Strip Club in the title, so it’s a problem.
Loqueesha’s low budget makes itself known early on: the lighting is drab, most of the scenes are shot close up, and the few bits of green screen are so terrible that they should have been left on the hard drive. (It’s the 21st century, so I can’t say “cutting room floor” anymore.) None of the actors looked happy to be there, and delivered their lines with an awkward kind of affect that accurately reflected the script’s leaden dialogue. Unnecessary, expository scenes involving radio execs took the viewer out of the story, and montages of average people listening to Loqueesha’s sage advice on the radio fell flat. Sometimes you have to decide that the baby is ugly early on so you can stop putting it in front of the camera. Nobody in production had the wit to do that.
