It says a lot about Mexican spy films from the 60s that S.O.S. Conspiracion Bikini is one of the more sober examples. In the case of most such films, the makers might as well have just made a movie featuring a guy in a sharp suit go-go dancing with a bunch of bikini girls on the roof of a Ferrari for ninety minutes. I mean, it’s not like anyone was demanding that any of them actually have a plot, right? Pero no, says S.O.S. Conspiracion Bikini, and goes on to deliver what, to my trained eye, appears very much to be an actual story, complete with characters and a series of causally related events and stuff like that.
S.O.S. Conspiracion Bikini is positively riddled with familiar faces from 1960s Mexican genre cinema. Chief among these is our star, Julio Aleman, here taking his first of two turns in the role of Mexican super-spy Alex Dinamo. (This film’s sequel, Peligro…! Mujeres en Accion, would arrive two years later.) Aleman was a handsome fixture in the Mexican B movies of the day, being a regularly featured player in both the Neutron and Nostradamus series, as well as the star of the awesomely ridiculous Rocambole costumed hero capers. (One of Rocambole’s super powers is ventriloquism.) As our bad guys, we have lucha movie staples Noe Murayama and Carlos Agosti, a screen villain so reliable that the mere presence of his name in the opening credits counts as a kind of spoiler. And finally, we have the ever-welcome Maura Monti in the role of Henchwoman Most Frequently In A State of Near Complete Undress.
Another way that S.O.S. Conspiracion Bikini compensates for its lack of kinetic thrills is by featuring a lot of things that are absolutely as red as they could possibly be.
The world’s reddest car.
The world’s reddest jacket.
And finally, the world’s reddest jacket vs. the world’s reddest cardigan.
To be fair, S.O.S. Conspiracion Bikini had the misfortune of being yet another spy movie in a month when I’d already watched quite a few. It’s really not bad. It’s just not novel enough to stand out above the accumulated noise of so many bullet-firing cameras, morse code blaring wrist watches, and exploding old junkers. It does have a great scene of sexy ladies dancing to a gringo garage band called “The Surfers” in a classy nightclub, which is exactly the kind of thing that will make it shine more brightly in my memory than it deserves to. At least I’ll have this review to refer to before I make the decision to watch it again.