Memorial

Retro-View: Alien (1979)

If the release of STAR WARS on May 25, 1977 altered the esthetic course of my life, filling my impressionable mind with a sense of universal myth, action, wonder and destiny, the release of ALIEN on May 25 in 1979 transmogrified my vision to include the dark underbelly of the universe. I first heard about the film in 21^st CENTURY FOSS, an incredible monograph of science fiction illustrator, Chris Foss. He was one of the original artists hired for the film and the book presented some of his unused pre-production designs. Then I read about ALIEN in the pages of STARLOG and CINEFANTASTIQUE as the buzz started to build. The teaser ads were genuinely scary and unnerving in an age where nobody knew nothin’ about the film. I was aware the script, originally titled STAR BEAST, had been written by Dan O’Bannon, who I was already a fan of after seeing DARK STAR (1974) on a fantastic double-bill with THE SEVENTH VOYAGE OF SINBAD (1958) not to mention his stoned letters to “Heavy Metal” magazine along with his story, “Soft Landing,” after Jodorowsky’s ill-fated DUNE project. I knew ALIEN was supposed to contain shocking images and a well-hidden monster in the days when movie secrets could be well-hidden, so of course I was excited. When finally released in the spring, the film had a “must-see” publicity campaign buoyed by possibly the greatest marketing tag-line in motion picture history: “In space no one can hear you scream.” After STAR WARS had turned space into a playground of grand operatic adventure, ALIEN brought sexual-subconscious horror into the cold cosmos. I was intrigued by ALIEN more than any movie of my youth, perhaps even more than STAR WARS, because of its visceral tragedy disguised as a monster movie. After my brother saw the film, he briefly told me about a scene with the creature bursting from somebody’s chest, which I misinterpreted as the Alien bursting through the floor, into the body and out of said chest. I had to see this thing. Although I was too young to viddy ALIEN by myself, I was never shielded from R-rated fare so I excitedly ended up at the Sacramento Century Domes one night to finally witness the acclaimed, controversial hit of the last summer of the 1970’s.

I was sold instantly by the dark, stark 70mm cosmos and Jerry Goldsmith’s quiet, unsettling soundtrack in six-track Dolby. You could feel the tenseness in the packed theater as the film unspooled in the flickering dark, the title creating a sense of unease when fully revealed. Our first glimpse of the commercial towing vehicle “Nostromo” is a perfect SF image, a vast, gothic industrial spacecraft followed by a long tracking shot into the ship’s multi-leveled, labyrinth corridors. It’s hard to imagine a major motion picture today opening with that level of sustained expectant mood that ends with the lovely montage of Kane slowly waking from hyper-sleep. But it’s that slow build-up that allows the horror to be that much more powerful by the time the creepy, spidery Facehugger springs from its repulsive egg. When the infamous “Chest Burster” made its bloody debut, I was practically aboard the Nostromo, claustrophobic as the poor crew was picked off one by one. I felt profoundly sad for the characters and their fate, particularly Captain Dallas in his nerve-wracking hunt through the air shafts (and those iris doors with their scabbard sonics — like a promise of doom); then anger as we discover Ash is actually an android sent by “The Company” to protect the Alien. This was a smart contribution from Walter Hill and David Giler, layering a 70′s paranoid, anti-corporate meme into the proto-typical monster narrative. The film’s central theme, inherent in O’Bannon/Ronald Shusett’s draft, is made explicit in the film version with the addition of Ash’s statement: “There is an elegant solution: only one of you will survive.” This makes Ripley’s sign-off so powerful. Even the final sleeping beauty image left me with visual relief yet tainted by the malevolence of all that had come before. I left the theater dazed, electrified by the force of those defining images and sounds. I saw ALIEN three more times that summer. Let’s face it, I also wanted to catch a better view of that star beast.

As we all know, H.R. Giger’s bio-mechanical Alien is the greatest, most influential monster in film history. The titular creature would have to be unique and believable if it were to frighten, and when Dan O’Bannon presented Ridley Scott with a copy of Giger’s artbook, “The Necronomicon,” the director knew he had found his lead. Hiring the genius Swiss surrealist to design the Alien as well as the space jockey and his ship was a bold stroke of vision, and Giger delivered so much more than a committee of artists could; the dark heart of his work can’t be duplicated and his fingerprints stand out in the film’s visual design — compare his utterly organic egg with the plastic nature of the sequels. Even though Stan Winston’s ALIENS are awesome in their own right, they lack Giger’s personal touch and disturbing quality. He received a deserved Academy Award for his work in ALIEN and Giger should be receiving checks for all that’s been stolen from his art over the years; it’s astounding that his presence in films has been so rare. He was not well-treated on ALIEN 3, remarking, “Filmmakers are always afraid to collaborate with artists like me, because they think we will cause them trouble. Where as I just want to be creative.” 

One of the most important elements to the success of ALIEN is the amazing cast, one of the finest ensembles in genre history. I’ve had a paternal affection for each of these actors ever since my first screening of the film.  From the cult characterizations of Harry Dean Stanton to the Shakespearean background of Ian Holm, few actors have left such an indelible whole impression on a single film, with even their perfect names carved in our memories: Ripley, Ash, Dallas, Kane, Lambert, Brett and Parker. Although the script was sketchy in terms of character depth, the starkness allowed each actor to fill the role out with his/her own style. Yaphet Kotto’s brazen blue-collar gruff slams against chilly, reserved Ian Holm while Tom Skerritt’s low-key jocular weariness plays off John Hurt’s school-boy curiosity. Veronica Cartwright acts out the most honest responses in her skittish hysteria — she’s also correct given her horrible end, manifest in her violated gasps. Of course, Harry Dean Stanton quietly steals scenes with his amiable nature, right? And then there’s Sigourney Weaver in her stunning film debut (minus a cameo in ANNIE HALL) who veers from supporting role to action lead by the climax. Although John Carpenter complained that the characters were too cold (an odd critique from the director of THE THING) there’s a familiarity within the crew that breeds contempt — and ultimately concern when it counts. You can feel the bond between Brett and Parker, the mistrust of Ash by Parker (“Don’t follow me, Ash,” he warns him) with Ripley trying to keep the dwindling crew together. All the actors have their moments, including their memorable death scenes, with each constructed like a mini-ballet of horror and suspense; the difference is that you genuinely like the characters, saddened to see our human ranks picked off one by one. At the time, a strong female survivor was novel to most any film and Ripley’s arc from eager officer to resourceful survivor is beautifully realized by Weaver, who would be rewarded for her own journey with a Best Actress nomination for ALIENS (1986). Man, I am still in love with her.

In a flux of cinematic synchronicity, ALIEN was turned down by a host of directors, until Ridley Scott, fresh off the critical success of his first feature, THE DUELLISTS (1977), latched onto the lean script with a vengeance. Instinctively he knew the most important element of the film would be the title character and it couldn’t resemble any known screen monster. Once Scott saw Giger’s visionary art, he said he was never so certain of anything in his life. His beautiful storyboards encouraged Fox to increase the budget and all systems were go. Scott’s studio and production travails are well-documented in the comprehensive DVD documentary and it’s credit to his skill and determination that ALIEN ended up becoming so much more than a standard exploitation film. His style is remarkable here, a hybrid of rhythmic tension, attention to detail, and the remnants of 70′s naturalism, grounding the SF horror in verisimilitude — which is one of its achievements, to make audiences believe enough so that they’re scared. Oddly, the director’s biggest influence was “Heavy Metal” magazine and Tobe Hooper’s THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE in terms of dread and detail. Scott’s touch is so deft, he knows exactly when to use a smooth gliding camera, as in the opening through the Nostromo; a documentary style when the ship roughly lands on the planet; geometric compositions of actors and effects; and rapid movement for the alien attacks. Even the live broadcast from the crew as they trudge towards the derelict ship creates a chilling video intimacy that’s still in vogue today. His mastery is summed up in arguably the film’s most ominous moment, when Brett leans in to placate the skitty kitty Jones as an out-of-focus appendage swings into the background frame. You know that the Alien is a primal cosmic force and that Brett is fucked. Ridley Scott certainly deserved a Best Director nomination; if ALIEN were his only credit, he’d still have a permanent wing in my Film Pantheon.

Much has been written about the nature of Dan O’Bannon and Ron Shusett’s original script versus Walter Hill and David Giler’s rewrite. The screenplays are available and easily comparable. Obviously, Hill and Giler altered the style, stripping it down to Hill’s lean, mean prose. In fact, the very first script excerpts I ever read were from both versions in the pages of CINEFANTASTIQUE (planting a screenwriting egg in me). Certainly, ALIEN reflects Hill’s draft in terms of its terse, tough, contemporary style, while the basic story retains the ingenious, frightening narrative of the original. The Chest Burster is unarguably O’Bannon and Shusett’s singular stroke of evil inspiration; without them, there would be no ALIEN — without Walter Hill and David Giler, there would be no ALIEN as we know it today. Despite the acrimony, the four screenwriters contributed their myriad talents that resulted in an instant classic. Like all great films, the work of many contributes to the whole. The late Derek Vanlint’s cinematography is striking and evocative while Brian Johnson”s majestic SPFX work stands up beautifully, as does Ron Cobb’s technically accurate designs for the Nostromo, beautifully adapted for the screen by Art Directors Michael Seymour and others, rightfully nominated for an Academy Award. Master illustrators like Chris Foss and comic artist Mobieus also added their flourishes. Roger Dickens created and operated the Chest Burster while editors Terry Rawlings and Peter Weatherley provided the apropos cuts and rhythm to make it all flow together. Maestro Jerry Goldsmith was very unhappy the way his music was edited within the film, although it’s undoubtedly one of his most powerful scores that shifts between a howling, vacum-of-space theme and brassy coiling sounds for the Alien. Along with Giger’s iconic work, Carlos Rambaldi helped bring the creature’s deadly extra mouth to life and both shared the film’s sole Oscar for Best Special Effects. O’Bannon was also fittingly credited as “Visual Design Consultant” since he introduced Ridley Scott to Giger’s work and whose DARK STAR influenced ALIEN’s gritty, working-class future, defined as “truckers in space.” And very special praise must go to copywriter Barbara Gips for coming up with the famous poster tagline.

ALIEN was a massive hit upon release, one of those rare moments where a film is instantly designated as a genre classic, though some charged it was merely a high-gloss version of IT! THE TERROR FROM BEYOND THE STARS. Which it is only on the most surface of levels. After my first viewing, I was doubly obsessed by the film and quickly amassed every artifact I could, from Kenner’s nifty ALIEN Movie Viewer and the controversial 15 inch action figure to every magazine appearance to an entire box of Topps trading cards to the illustrated novel by Dan Simmons and Howard Chaykin to the actual novel by Alan Dean Foster (which contains a cool scene I assume they filmed and lost, with Dallas confronting Ash about the egg inside Kane) and finally culminating with the detailed Foto-Novel (better than any issue of Playboy since it featured Ripley’s strip tease in montage). Images of the deleted Cocoon Scene fascinated me as much as the Kong Spider Scene so I was thrilled to watch the reel thing 20 years later on the comprehensive 1997 Laserdisc set. Yes, I still have them all. It’s bizarro that toymakers unleashed items based on Giger’s bio-mechanic sexuality — what could be more subversive than a monster whose head was basically a penis with teeth?

Obviously, ALIEN had a vast esthetic impact on me. I could go on forever about moments that thrill me to this day, such as Ripley’s voice echoing over the exterior of the Nostromo as it glides through black space; the naturalism of the cast and their overlapping dialogue along with the incongruity of the plastic dunking bird; Lambert’s quiet plea to “get the hell out of here” as they come upon the derelict ship; the electric sound of the undulating egg as it opens; that close-up of Ash’s stoic face as Ripley refuses to let the crew onboard with the downed Kane; the brief camaraderie at their last supper; Brett washing his face in the landing gear mist; the resigned look on Dallas as “Mother” can’t calculate his odds; Ripley telling Parker to shut up as she takes charge; the strobed, squealing Alien as it crawls from the shuttle’s paneling; and so many more. Along with the obvious genre attraction, the skill and talent on display, I was intrigued by the film’s melancholia, the inevitable doom of the characters, a sense of dramatic space tragedy heady for even a Monster Kid like myself, who cried at Son Of Kong’s death as a tyke and more so with the trio of robots in SILENT RUNNING (1972). I didn’t cry for these characters but I identified with their fear and resolve. However, I am moved to briny tears by the late, great Dan O’Bannon telling the story of his first viewing of ALIEN at the Egyptian theater on its premiere night and what it represented to the culmination of a driving vision writ large by the vision of other amazing artists. Unlike STAR WARS, which I only re-visit on special occasions, I can pop in ALIEN anytime and bask in the dark glow of one of my favorite films, the movie that led me into screenwriting and beyond. As the teaser poster advises, “A word of warning…”

B-Day Dylan

From 1969′s, “Nashville Skyline” — my personal favorite Dylan record. I mean, Johnny Cash and Dylan!

End Of The World Song

Just in case…

Sci-Fi Dystopia Theatre: Damnation Alley (1977)

This 17 million dollar adaptation of Roger Zelazny’s fast-paced post-nuclear holocaust adventure novel was expected to be a big hit for 20th Century Fox in 1977 and cost almost twice the amount of the other more bizarre space opera that the studio had contemplated shutting down the previous year. When STAR WARS broke the bank, Fox put DAMNATION ALLEY (briefly re-titling it SURVIVAL RUN) on the shelf for a year to re-edit scenes and add an apocalyptic glow to the skies among other spfx band-aids. Upon release, the film’s publicity centered on two things: the massive “Landmaster” — a 12 wheel armageddon RV designed by Dean Jeffries; and the sonic sensation of SOUND 360, another version of the Sensurround system that rumbled through theaters during the disaster movie era. Still, in the wake of George Lucas’s opus, DAMNATION ALLEY received poor reviews and was later double-billed with Ralph Bakshi’s much cooler WIZARDS for a nifty dystopic double-bill. Zelazny was unhappy with the changes made to his perfectly realized SF pulp novel, altering the plot and notably removing the focus from the Snake Plisskenesque anti-hero, Hell Tanner, to a ragtag team who encounter a series of nuclear tainted threats from redneck mutants to giant scorpions.

Directed in standard 70′s big screen television style by Jack Smight (HARPER, THE ILLUSTRATED MAN, and AIRPORT 75), DAMNATION ALLEY lacks a strong central POV or understanding of the genre. I don’t think there’s one memorable image. The film was heavily edited so it’s not fair to lay all the fault upon the director; the episodic script doesn’t drive the narrative as opposed to Zelazny’s race-against-time plot. The cast does what they’re asked without compensatory characterization. George Peppard plays the stoic military leader with a shaky Texas accent and Jan Michael Vincent is motorcyclist Hell Tanner, congenial and gorgeous (for a dude). Dominique Sanda plays the beautiful female survivor and Jackie Earle Haley is the ragamuffin orphan. Poor Paul Winfield gets eaten by cockroaches. Out of the actors, Haley registers the most, low key and likable. There’s little for the players to do but react to the myriad catastrophes minus the occasional respite for post-nuclear reflection; the only scenes with any emotional resonance are the opening where the military watches the nuclear war with clinical dispassion and when the characters play dusty slot machines in a deserted casino as the sounds of Vegas rise on the soundtrack. Speaking of, Jerry Goldsmith provides a grand score.

Rare shot of the excised remote-control scorpions

All could be forgiven if DAMNATION ALLEY at least delivered in the special effects department. It’s revealing that a 17 million dollar budget could not provide even a minute of visual awe compared to the 7 million dollars spent on the non-stop wonders of STAR WARS. And for a film of this expense to rely on stock footage of ICBM missiles in lieu of a creative solution within the first few minutes shows the difference between a vision and a committee. The giant scorpions that Tanner cycles through were originally motorized puppets (see lobby card) but were optically replaced by actual insects, a cheap effect that Bert I. Gordon did more convincingly the same year in EMPIRE OF THE ANTS and that Willis O’Brien did magnificently in THE BLACK SCORPION 20 years earlier. The major spfx added in post-production were the psychedelic skies (using lasers) that would look dandy if not so awkwardly placed behind the actors and landscape. Even a sudden flash tsunami in Detroit (?) that submerges the Landmaster can’t compare to Toho’s meticulous 1960′s miniatures.

The film’s chaotic editing is matched by the abrupt climax that feels as if the third act was simply tossed. The wonderful people over at Shout! Factory have announced an anamorphic DVD/Blu-Ray with extra features that should shed light on studio intention and excised footage (some of which turned up in the TV version). While ultimately unsatisfying as apocalyptic adventure, DAMNATION ALLEY belongs to that last gasp of dystopic studio fare before STAR WARS gave audiences a new hope.

Me!

I watched everything multiple times on HBO back in the day when it was like this mysterious electronic cinematic conduit emanating from my sub-conscious. Strangely, I first discovered the network in Wyoming, where mid-western cities already had pay television long before anybody in California knew what it was. My cousins turned me on so to speak, and I was able to viddy uncut and unsupervised such weird child’s fare as TAXI DRIVER, DELIVERANCE, DEATH RACE 2000, HOUSE BY THE LAKE and the most frightening home viewing experience in my life, THE TOWN THAT DREADED SUNDOWN. Of course, I also got to discover SATURDAY THE 14TH, THE GREAT TEXAS DYNAMITE CHASE, THE THIEF WHO CAME TO DINNER and many more. I even watched the Gary Coleman film, ON THE RIGHT TRACK, every single time it was on and I have no idea why. Maybe because I was so appreciative that I could watch anything uncut and uncommercialized. Thus, the new HBO catalog was more exciting than the TV Guide and almost as good as the Sears Christmas catalog. You can see why:

Happy Friday the 13th Part 3 In 3D

Forgotten Films: O.C. & Stiggs (1987)

“And so, because Lenora was so artistic and withdrawn and delicate, and totally unable to function anyplace where there were any people or any windows or anything else that might suck her into a connection with the world, me and Stiggs got her an Uzi submachine gun for a wedding present, with a twenty-round clip and a detachable stock.”

Every time I think I’ve sussed out Robert Altman’s strangest film, I find I’ve sussed wrong. Is it his sole science fiction film QUINTET (1976) starring Paul Newman in a dystopic tundra? Or the cosmic twining of the dream logical, THREE WOMEN (1977)? I’ve claimed that POPEYE (1980) is perhaps the oddest man out by nature of its comic strip musical base, but I could also make a case for the bird-brained BREWSTER McCLOUD (1970). But could Altman’s strangest film be O.C. AND STIGGS? At the height of Reagan’s pastel era amid the dominance of John Hughes and National Lampoon comedies, I can only imagine the 1984 test screening audience as they sat in angry or stupified silence at Robert Altman’s attempt to crash the pop teen flick party. There’s not even a single new wave synthesizer note to at least gild the youth lily — and worse, no tits and ass. After the disastrous preview, MGM shelved the film and barely released it in 1987 when it escaped to VHS and cable, leaving a confused generation of viewers in its ramshackle wake.

Actually, the film should be titled NATIONAL LAMPOON’S O.C. AND STIGGS as it stems from the only issue-length story that appeared in the amoral, hilarious and influential humor magazine. “The Utterly Monstrous Mind-Roasting Summer of O.C. and Stiggs” as written by Ted Mann and Donald Cantrell was a mosaic of clips, images and first-person narrative deal about the sociopathic adventures of two teen monsters, O.C. and Stiggs, who terrorize the wealthy Schwab family for no particular reason as they lay waste — and waste lays — among the slut populace. Written in the dry, cruel style so indigenous to the magazine, one can read the sordid tale as a piercing satire of suburban anomie, or as another variation of ANIMAL HOUSE. One can also only imagine why Altman decided to take on this incongruous project during the wilderness phase of his career, but he must have hoped to parody the genre and puncture other sacred cows of the ’80′s. In the story, the abuse of the Schwabs was apolitical; in the film, they represent the fundamentalist right.

The cast alone is enough to warrant a viewing: Tina Louise, Martin Mull, Jane Curtain, Dennis Hopper, AND Louis Nye! In an Altman film! Ironically, Jon Cryer is also here as a totally credible nerd deluxe – three years before PRETTY IN PINK (1987). Paul Dooley plays the object of O.C. and Stiggs contempt, an Arizona insurance magnate who acts as the stand-in for the Reagan generation. Martin Mull is terrific as a clothes maven and Ray Walston gives the funniest performance as the doddering grandfather whose money woes the boys try to amend. As for our young stars, Daniel H. Jenkins and Neill Barry do exactly what the director demands, almost like teen versions of Elliot Gould and Donald Sutherland, minus their star charisma or more important to the studio, the totally awesome lingo indigenous to the decade.

As for the plot, well, that’s not important but it involves lobsters, Vietnam vets and a Studebaker christened, The Gila Monster. The dialogue is archetypal Altman, weaving in the background and foreground, forcing the viewer to listen or to follow the voices. One can see how alienating this would be to the potential audience of Valley Girls and Boys to whom the film was ostensibly marketed. But isn’t that exactly what the director wanted? O.C. AND STIGGS is like buying the new O.M.D. record in 1987 and finding out it’s King Sunny Ade, the juju musician who provides the jaunty songs and appear in a penultimate scene. Reportedly the movie was shot in a rush so MGM wouldn’t interfere and it shows — there’s a disjointedness that can be perceived as intentional if not completely successful. You can zone in and out of the film while you’re watching; I don’t even know what the hell to make of O.C. AND STIGGS.

Along with REPO MAN (1985), this was one of the few artifacts of the 1980′s that savaged the culture of Just Do It, but was less precise in its satire. The repeated slurs on Louis Nye’s gay drama teacher simply come off as witless homophobia. The biggest mistake was probably changing the story’s crude, destructive heroes into anarchistic Robin Hoods; the amoral National Lampoon characters would have better typified the era. Altman never spoke much of O.C. AND STIGGS except to say it didn’t work and nobody in the cast should be blamed, yet it’s clear a unique movie like this would develop a minor cult. Here’s a long, perceptive essay that sums up the film’s cultural value, and one of the minor pleasures of this cinematic oddity is to peruse the eclectic online analysis all stemming from “The Utterly Monstrous Mind-Roasting Summer of O.C. and Stiggs” as seen through the sly, jaded and stoned eyes of Robert Altman. Totally awesome!

Random Film Generator: 100 Rifles (1969)

I finally sat through this late-night TV fodder — and was pleasantly surprised at how cool and exciting it was. Coming on the tail end of the dying Western genre, this New Cinema hybrid written and directed by Tom Gries stars Jim Brown, Raquel Welch and Burt Reynolds as an odd trio who end up involved in Mexican action and adventure. There’s also Fernando Lamas as the wicked General, familiar British 70′s actor Eric Braedan as a German officer, Dan O’Herlihy as a sly businessman, VAMPYROS LESBOS star Soledad Miranda in the nude, and a big steam train. At the time Brown was riding high off the success of THE DIRTY DOZEN (1967) and became a stiff, appealing leading man. Welch was bopping between films like ONE MILLION YEARS, B.C., BEDAZZLED, FATHOM, BANDOLERO (also well worth a view) and others without establishing a screen persona outside of her stunning beauty and natural talent. Ditto Reynolds at his career drift betwixt TV shows like DAN AUGUST, along with disparate films such as NAVAJO JOE, FADE-IN and SKULLDUGGERY. The plot of 100 RIFLES is not vital, but Gries elevates the basic Western tropes into an exciting, humorous and violent spectacle. Raquel Welch, in particular, is always surprising in these films; her Mexican accent is convincing enough and she’s a strong, aggressive character – whether taking a shower under a water tower or blowing the bad guys apart with a rifle. More risque, her and Brown end up the romantic couple (with controversial sex scene for the era) while Reynolds steals every scene as Yaqui Joe, Renegade Half-breed (Navajo’s brother?). It’s clear that Reynolds is itching for stardom and there’s a lot of his 70′s persona in this fun characterization, replete with kick-ass stunts the camera makes sure you note is Burt. There’s no heavy thematics, but Tom Gries directs with a definite point of view: all the characters have something to say and by the bloody climax, I was roped and rustled into caring. 100 RIFLES has a surprisingly large scope (with rousing Jerry Goldsmith score) and is well worth a gander for Dirty Western completists.

Saturday Afternoon Matinee ’82

I saw this opening weekend in a packed theater and it was everything I could have possibly wanted and more. Directed in high style by Albert Pyun with more action and imagination than any other medieval fantasy film of the decade (outside of EXACLIBUR), THE SWORD AND THE SORCERER was a major spring sleeper hit in the most fabled genre year of the decade. Between CONAN THE BARBARIAN and YOR, HUNTER FROM THE FUTURE, musclebound warriors were all the rage but Pyun managed to trump the biggest budgeted films by focusing on a breakneck narrative with startling images such as a demonic tomb built of moaning faces, a hero jumping through the red air into battle and of course, the amazing, ridiculous, three-blade projectile sword. It’s too bad star Lee Horseley (a Tom Selleck -esque TV competitor) didn’t go onto bigger things as he’s quite fun and properly swashbuckling here while Richard Lynch is an apropos evil and ominous opponent with nifty make-up design. Albert Pyun should have parlayed this into a studio career as well, though he later made one of my favorite lo-fi TERMINATOR clones of the 90′s, NEMESIS. Amazingly, THE SWORD AND THE SORCERER is still not available on domestic DVD. Aye, though we still have our memories of coke, popcorn and peanut butter cups in the cool, darkened cineplex of the mind…

Friday Song: The B-52′s

1990. Dawn of a new global decade. Video cameras and compact disc. Writing and filming. Reading poesy to taut hipsters at Drago’s. Cruising downtown in a ’64 Cadillac. Big bucks data-entry at the porn store. Lingering conversations over beers and iced coffee at bars and cafes. LSD, Zelda’s pizza and bootleg movies on eternal Friday nights. Saturdays of record and comic book shops. Late cocktails at incense apartments. Fly into the Land Of The Rising Sun. The B-52′s bounce back into the cultural landscape with their biggest record, “Cosmic Thing.” Walk away from soul-crushing job. Drift through midtown days of warm tree shadowed streets. Lazy dreams of the vast future coming soon…

Obama Trumps Osama