Summary
Neon arteries pulse beneath asphalt skin as the film’s prologue drags us through a sleepless metropolis where electric billboards sneer at passers-by; then, like a magician yanking the tablecloth, the screen rips us across latitudes and drops us onto an island that cartographers forgot. Volcanic sand hisses under the weight of moonlight while drumbeats detonate inside a jungle cathedral of banyan and balsa. Here, a coterie of young women—skin glazed with turmeric and crushed shell—gyrate in spirals that mock every Parisian ballet academy. Our two urban stowaways, decked in tattered tuxedo remnants, watch from the shadows: one a wiry charmer whose grin could pick a lock, the other a stoic slab of cynicism nursing a hangover from the civilised world. The tribal court, presided over by a chieftain whose headdress of starfish and shark teeth radiates deranged sovereignty, decrees that the glibber of the pair must wed the princess—an apple-shaped force of nature with a laugh like a cracked tuba. Repulsed yet gallant, he chooses pyro-matrimony over connubial doom, only to wriggle free as flames lick his boots. Reunited with his brooding companion, the duo hatch an aquatic exodus: they will shepherd the island’s loveliest back to Manhattan by strolling along the ocean floor, pearl-laden lungs and coral crowns their only luggage. The curtain falls on a hallucinatory procession of silhouettes vanishing into turquoise dusk, bubbles rising like champagne gossip behind them.
Synopsis
After starting off in the city, the scene switches to a far away island inhabited by a wild tribe. Here a number of girls dance about, and one of our pair of heroes is threatened with death at the stake unless he marries the chief's daughter. The lady in question is not particularly attractive and our hero prefers to be burned to death. He escapes at the last minute and he and his pal decided to take all of the pretty little savages back to their home. A ship being lacking, they agree to walk back along the bottom of the ocean.
Review Excerpt
"A century ago, when the world was busy inventing both bubble gum and fascism, Wampum Hunters crash-landed into nickelodeons like a gin-soaked firecracker. Today, its nitrate ghosts survive on a fragile 35 mm print that smells faintly of coconut and doom—an artefact begging for reappraisal.Director-screenwriter Charlie Joy—equal parts Buster Keaton and carnival barker—never again enjoyed such unfettered lunacy. The film’s budget, reportedly the price of a Manhattan townhouse, evaporated into palm..."
