At some point someone should compile a survey of the 1970s “Injun Atrocity” sub-genre of adult themed Western exploitation films. A nasty lot, they can usually be traced back to the unprecedented popularity of 1970s SOLDIER BLUE. Which in itself is a pretty tepid film save for the infamous scenes where the US cavalry massacres an entire Native American village in a Technicolor display of gore that probably made Sam Peckinpah blush.

While that film’s mixture of graphic gore and Western themes may have scandalized audiences at the time it nonetheless created an idiom unto itself where sleazebag white cowboy types would slaughter innocent, unarmed and topically fashionable Native Americans … then have their inhumanity paid back in kind, usually with Injun killing tricks or some other aspect of having the battleground turned against you. While SOLDIER BLUE’s inspiration was no doubt the clamor of dismay from reports Vietnam era atrocities by American soldiers, the subsequent knock-off films only looked to reap the vicarious sadistic urges that SOLDIER BLUE brought to the surface.

APACHE WOMAN is one such film, a later era Spaghetti Western filmed on the ultra-cheap without any (as yet then) big named stars, the central focus of which is a shapely Injun Squaw played by Yara Kewa, the stage name for a German actress named Clara Hopf who’s dusky appearance loaned itself to the role of a foxy Native American hottie who’s rather smallish tribe is murdered for no apparent reason by US soldiers at the very beginning of the film. In true proprietary spirit of SOLDIER BLUE, one of the soldiers (future zombie/exploitation specialist Al Cliver) becomes disillusioned with the carnage, breaks ranks, and later helps the squaw to find safety while pursued by a gang of even scummier cracker hicks, who’s sole motivation to exist in the film is to rape and murder attractive young Native American women. Beats working for a living, I guess.

So this is another entry in the “There Are No Good Guys Anymore” kind of Western that predominated after the brilliant success of THE WILD BUNCH. Every character in the movie is a murderer, a thief, a rapist, or just a sadistic cretin, up to and including the family of a traveling minister who predictably turns out to be the most sadistic monster in the whole film. There quite simply is no safe haven for the two as they fight off all comers together, saving each other’s lives or virtues again and again before eventually becoming lovers. And if you have seen any pessimistic dystopian existentialist genre films that can only lead to one possible conclusion.

The film is violent, sleazy, voyeuristic, cheaply made, mean spirited, somewhat unpleasant, and reeks of simply a chance to send audience members heart rates pumping by either the thought of the squaw being animalistically raped OR putting out voluntarily, depending on the needs of the plot, and for better or worse the plot does not disappoint. Though none of it is very original: It’s actually almost identical in plotting to a superior 1972 depression years western called APACHE MASSACRE (or CRY FOR ME BILLY) which at least has the distinction of a Harry Dean Stanton performance. Or Bruno Mattei’s SCALPS, which has the distinction of boasting the actual gore quotient that SOLDIER BLUE suggests.

But it’s not a “bad” film, the locations are all gorgeously photographed in a mountainous region that doesn’t look familiar. Part of my low rating may have to do with missing whatever philosophical message the film might try and weave into it’s tale: I have only seen it by way of a Spanish language DVD that had a great picture but no English language translation, whatever nuances the plot may have are not understood by this Gringo. Not that what was going on is too hard to figure out: If the film has one fault it’s that it’s rather simple minded, which in this case is a plus. You don’t need to understand what anyone is saying, just be repulsed by the sleaze, violence, degradation and nihilism. On that level of consideration this might be a minor masterpiece of the later years of the Western craze, when it apparently wasn’t supposed to be fun anymore to suggest some sort of social weightiness or message. And here the message is that Injun squaws could be foxy as hell under them deerskins. How charming.