Hercules in New York (1970) – Review

In the annals of cinematic history, some films become classics because of their brilliance. Others earn their place because of their sheer audacity. And then there’s Hercules in New York, a movie so spectacularly misguided, so blissfully unaware of its own absurdity, that it manages to transcend its incompetence and become something strangely unforgettable.

Let’s set the scene: It’s 1970. A young, heavily-accented Austrian bodybuilder named Arnold Schwarzenegger (credited as Arnold Strong for reasons) makes his cinematic debut in a low-budget oddity called Hercules in New York. The result is a film so bizarre, so hilariously earnest, and so utterly tone-deaf to Greek mythology – or filmmaking in general – that it achieves a kind of accidental greatness. Not because it’s good. Oh no. Because it’s so bad, it laps the competition and creates a new genre: unintentionally mythic comedy.

 

“Dad, why can’t anyone pronounce my name correctly?”

The plot of this epic finds Hercules (Arnold Schwarzenegger) bored on Mount Olympus. He wants excitement. He wants action. He wants… New York City. So, he berates his father, Zeus (Ernest Graves), about his life, stating that if Mars can go, why can’t he? Zeus repeatedly says no, and Hercules throws a god-sized tantrum. Eventually, tired of the whining, Zeus shoots him down to Earth on a literal lightning bolt—because teleporters are for mortals—and terrifies some poor lady on a commercial airliner. Honestly, who wouldn’t be disturbed by a hulking man in a toga shouting about Olympus mid-flight?

 

Nightmare at 20,000 Feet.

Hercules crash-lands into the ocean, but before he can drown, Zeus organizes a ship to pick up his wayward son.  Thanks dad! Hercules eventually arrives in New York City, where the locals barely bat an eye, because it’s New York and everyone just assumes he’s another bodybuilder with a speech impediment. He quickly befriends a scrawny pretzel vendor named Pretzie (Arnold Strang), because pretzels are his personality, and the two become an odd couple for the ages: the demigod and the snack vendor. While impressing a bunch of athletes practising for the decathlon, Hercules catches the eye of a college student named Helen Camden (Deborah Loomis), the daughter of a university professor (James Karen). She’s charmed by his blunt honesty and Herculean physique, despite (or maybe because of) his complete lack of social awareness.

 

Beauty and the Beast

Pretzie attempts to help Hercules adjust to city life while also profiting from the demigod’s incredible strength. Naturally, this leads to Hercules becoming a professional wrestler overnight, because that’s the only job that requires no resume, just deltoids. Soon, the demigod attracts public attention by winning staged wrestling matches and strongman competitions, but his success draws the eye of a sports promoter and the mafia, who both see dollar signs in his biceps. Pretzie is forced to sign over Hercules to these villains, unbeknownst to our hero.

 

“This is an offer you can’t refuse.”

Back on Olympus, Zeus is doom-scrolling through the godly livestream and absolutely loses it. That his son is besmirching the nobility of the gods by hobnobbing with mortals in such a fashion. Incensed, he sends Mercury (Dan Hamilton) to bring Hercules home. Mercury fails—partly because New York is confusing, and partly because Hercules is built like a Greek tank. So, Zeus tells Nemesis (Taina Elg) to banish Herc to the Underworld. Classic godly overreaction. Enter Juno (Tanny McDonald), who’s always been a bit of a pot-stirrer. She persuades Nemesis to poison Hercules instead, robbing him of his godhood, and he casually drops the news to Pluto (Michael Lipton), who immediately places a massive bet against Hercules in a strongman competition run by gangsters. Apparently, the Greek pantheon runs like a corrupt Vegas casino.

 

“The House always wins.”

Hercules loses a weightlifting competition because, well, poison, and now mob goons are after him. Pretzie and company try to help, but Herc charges in, despite being downgraded to demi-bro status. Just when things are about to go full Scorsese, Zeus, watching from Olympus with all the urgency of a dad half-watching a Little League game, finally realizes, “Oh snap, my son might actually die,” and flips the divine switch back on just in time. Because hey, divine nepotism. Supercharged again, Hercules beats the mobsters with the righteous fury of a protein-fueled freight train. He realizes Earth is exhausting, remembers he’s technically grounded, and returns to Olympus, giving Pretzie a heartfelt farewell over the radio, because real men don’t cry in person.

 

“I wonder if he’ll call me when he makes it big in Hollywood.”

Back in Olympus, Juno and Hercules ask Zeus if he’s mad. Zeus, now on his third goblet of whatever gods drink, goes “Nah,” and tells them to scram. And the second they do, this immortal hypocrite slaps on his own toga, belly-laughs, and rockets to Earth like an ancient frat bro on spring break, frightening more airline passengers in the process. Roll credits. Drop dumbbells. Offer sacrifices to whatever writer came up with this plot.

 

Is this comedy?

It’s safe to say that not much of that has anything to do with Greek mythology. It borrows little more than some names, muscles, and vague ideas. In fact, this film constantly mixes up the Roman and Greek names of the gods. Below are the major ways in which the film diverges—often hilariously—from the actual myths of Heracles (Hercules is his Roman name).

1. Hercules Was Not Bored on Mount Olympus

• In Mythology, Heracles wasn’t a full god until after his death. He was born mortal, son of Zeus and a mortal woman, Alcmene, and only ascended to Olympus after completing his famous labours and dying a painful death. He didn’t hang out with the gods in his youth, and certainly didn’t get sent to Earth for back-talking Zeus like a bratty teenager.

2. No Labours, No Monsters, No Myth

• In the myth, Heracles famously completes Twelve Labours, including slaying the Nemean Lion, capturing the Ceryneian Hind, and cleaning the Augean stables. In the movie, the closest thing to a monster is a man in a bear costume in Central Park. There are no labours, no mythical beasts, and no heroic journeys, unless you count trying to survive mafia henchmen in a deli.

3. Character Depth vs. Comedic Cardboard

• In the myth, Heracles is a complex character; deeply flawed, tortured by guilt, prone to rage, and capable of both great kindness and great violence. In the movie, Hercules is basically a muscle-bound blank slate. He speaks in broken English (or dubbed monotone, depending on the version), shows little emotion, and mostly reacts to things as if he’s confused by the concept of Earth in general.

In short, Hercules in New York takes the mythological Heracles and strips away all the pathos, grandeur, and gravitas. The film doesn’t reinterpret mythology so much as ignore it, swapping epic trials for tourist traps and divine wrath for wrestling matches. If Heracles was about strength through suffering, this film is about trying to order a sandwich with biceps, and maybe get in a chariot chase or two.

  

Don’t ask why he’s being chased by a Tarzan knock-off.

Stray Observations:

• An alternate title for this film was Hercules Goes Bananas, which is probably a more apt title. In fact, if Hercules caught a ride with Herbie the Love Bug, it could have only improved the film’s tone.
• Hercules beats up sailors and dockworkers for no reason. He lifts crates, throws dockworkers into the water, and shouts vaguely mythological one-liners. It’s like Popeye, but dumber.
• The film’s score is by composer John Balamos, and I assume he was told by the director, “Give me the theme to Zorba the Greek, on repeat.”
• No one seems fazed by an ancient Greek god wandering around Manhattan. People are mildly confused by his sandals and oiled muscles, but generally chill. New Yorkers have seen weirder.
• Venus convinces Mercury to send Atlas and Samson to help Hercules, despite one of them should have been busy holding up the heavens, while the other is a Biblical figure and not from Greek mythology.
• Olympus looks like a community college theatre set. The gods lounge around in togas and plastic laurel wreaths in a garden park that feels like it was rented for a high school Shakespeare production.

 

Thrill at the sights of Olympic Garden Parties.

So yeah, this film is the epitome of a “fish out of water” story, but instead of clever satire or character development, it relies almost entirely on confusion, yelling, and poorly choreographed brawls. The tone swings wildly between slapstick comedy and mythological drama, though it never really lands in either genre. The dialogue feels as if it were written by someone who vaguely remembers what humans sound like, filtered through a haze of Herculean puns and 1970s slang. Seeing the Greek demigod wandering around modern New York should have resulted in some good comedy, alas, that was not to be.

 

“Can we watch this Hercules movie instead?”

And yes, this is Arnold Schwarzenegger’s first film, and yes, his thick Austrian accent was so incomprehensible that in the original release, his entire performance was dubbed over by someone who sounded like a generic radio announcer. Later releases kept his original voice, and thank the gods for that, because hearing Arnold say “You are a hit with ze vimmens!” in full baritone deadpan is a cinematic rite of passage. That said, physically, he is Hercules. Chiselled, muscled, and oiled up for every scene, even when he’s just walking down the street or riding a horse in Central Park. But dramatically? He has all the emotional range of a marble statue, and his line deliveries sound like he’s reading IKEA instructions phonetically.

Note: Arnold Schwarzenegger took the role at the urging of his friend Reg Park, a fellow bodybuilder, who had previously played Hercules in Hercules and the Captive Women (1961), Hercules in the Haunted World (1961), and Hercules the Avenger (1965).

What makes Hercules in New York oddly charming is not any moment of cinematic skill, but the sheer commitment to its nonsense. The bear fight in Central Park, for example, is one of the most infamous scenes, and not because it’s thrilling, but because the bear is so obviously a man in a costume that the fight resembles a playground scuffle at a Halloween party. Similarly, Pretzie’s neurotic energy provides a strange but welcome counterpoint to Hercules’ vacant stoicism, and that scene of Hercules fighting a bear is sure to be a highlight for bad movie lovers.

 

Hercules has a bad cinematic history with bears.

Directed by Arthur Allan Seidelman – in his first job helming a film – Hercules in New York is not a good movie by any traditional measure. It is poorly written, awkwardly acted, and technically shoddy. But in its own way, it’s a perfect storm of camp, kitsch, and accidental comedy. It invites laughter, confusion, and amazement in equal measure. If Olympus truly does look down on Earth, the gods are probably still laughing at this one, or looking to get a good lawyer and sue the filmmakers for defamation.

 

“Get me my agent on the phone!”

In conclusion, Hercules in New York is a glorious disasterpiece of early Arnold Schwarzenegger cinema—a film so strange it loops back around to being entertaining. It’s a mess, but it’s a magnificent mess, and for fans of unintentional comedy or Arnold’s strange early career, it’s 100% worth watching just to witness a future superstar awkwardly flexing his way through cinema history.

Rock & Rule (1983) – Review

I give you Rock & Rule, a post-apocalyptic rock opera where the fate of the universe depends on whether Debbie Harry can hit that high note before a demon explodes through a synth-powered portal to hell. No studio wanted this. No parents asked for it. But it exists, somehow, like a neon relic from a parallel universe where animation grew up, dropped acid, and started a band with Ralph Bakshi.

“The war was over…The only survivors were street animals: dogs, cats and rats. From them, a new race of mutants evolved. That was a long time ago…”

And with that bit of information, Rock & Rule kicks off, a story taking place somewhere in the radioactive future, where rats and dogs have evolved into sexy humanoid musicians—and you’re going to pretend that’s not cool? This is not a movie. This is a cosmic mixtape, carved into celluloid by the ghost of glam rock. This film was a Canadian animated vision quest, one that crawled out of a post-apocalyptic dumpster behind a synthwave nightclub and declared, “Only the chosen voice shall sing The Demon Open.”

 

“Let’s get the party started!”

The story follows sweet singer Angel (Susan Roman, but sung by Debbie Harry), who has caught the eye of Mok (voiced by Don Francks, sung by Lou Reed), who is like David Bowie’s evil twin, having traded eyeliner for dark magic. He’s a legendary super-rocker who has retired from music to work on deciphering an ancient code that would unlock a doorway between this world and another dimension to bring forth a powerful demon. But one thing stands in his way: he is missing the last crucial component…a very special voice.

 

Can you guess who that is?

Sadly, in the role of hero, we have Angel’s boyfriend/bandmate Omar (Greg Salata), an arrogant, jealous guitarist with good hair but a hot temper and a terrible attitude, who looks like a cross between Han Solo and a punk rock coyote. He’s kind of a punk, but he’s our punk. He’s also got big “I would die for you, but I won’t say it” energy. Along with Angle and Omar are their bandmates Dizzy (Dan Hennessey) and Stretch (Greg Duffell), who play at various clubs and argue a lot. But everything changes when Mok hears Angel’s voice and realizes she’s the one. Not “the one” like a Matrix prophecy. The voice that can awaken the demon.

 

“Is your soul up for sale?”

So Mok does what any logical rock legend would do: he kidnaps Angel, with the help of his trio of hilariously bizarre henchmen  – Toad (Chris Wiggins), Zip (Greg Duffell), and Sleazy (Brent Titcomb) – and whisks her off to Nuke York (yes, that’s a thing), to complete his evil musical ritual. Omar, jealous and angry at first (and let’s be real, a little emotionally constipated), eventually realizes he actually cares about Angel. With Dizzy and Stretch in tow, he follows Mok’s trail to rescue her.

 

I think he overloaded his angst.

From here, it’s an electric journey of music, magic, and mayhem. Omar and the band set off to rescue Angel from Mok’s clutches, travelling through sketchy wastelands, trippy dreamscapes, and glam-horror concerts. Let’s just say, many hijinks ensue. Mok uses high-tech wizardry and sheer glam-rock malevolence to force Angel into singing the final notes needed to summon a massive interdimensional demon, and things start to look bad for our heroes and the world.

 

“Hello, I’ve just arrived here from Bald Mountain.”

At a climactic, over-the-top concert inside a massive arena, Mok begins the final ritual. Angel is on stage, bound to a music board, and the demon is literally beginning to manifest from another dimension. It’s monstrous, glitchy, and CGI in a way that screams “early ’80s experimental animation.” We get the villain preparing to open the portal to the demon dimension—cue swirling vortexes, fire, and a lot of dry ice fog. In a psychedelic, laser-scorched finale, the band reunites just in time. Omar finally stops brooding long enough to realize teamwork is cool and joins Angel in a duet. Their combined voices—love-powered rock harmony—defeats the demon.

 

Yes, rock music defeats evil. Not bullets. Not logic. Power chords and emotion.

Stray Observations:

• Mok’s full name was intended to be Mok Swagger, but the talent representation of The Rolling Stones’ lead singer, Mick Jagger, objected and forced the producers to drop the character’s surname.
• The animation swings wildly between “Whoa, that’s stunning!” and “What acid trip am I on?”
Fluid, rotoscoped character movements one moment, jagged trippy demon seizures the next.
• Lou Reed wrote Mok’s lyrics himself. And he ad-libbed much of the dialogue, often ignoring punctuation in the script entirely—because, well, Lou Reed.
• Disney’s Tron, which used state-of-the-art computer graphics to create its worlds, came out one year earlier. Could the artists at Nelvana have been inspired by that film?

 

“Disney has nothing on me, kid.”

Directed by Clive A. Smith, Rock & Rule stands as a fascinating, if flawed, experiment in adult animation, one that blends post-apocalyptic storytelling, experimental visuals, and an eclectic soundtrack. And while the story is somewhat derivative and loosely structured, its themes reflect the era’s anxieties and aspirations: the power of music, the tension between artistic integrity and commercial exploitation, and the mythologizing of celebrity. Mok, the antagonist, is less a standard villain than a critique of egotistical stardom; charming, decadent, and obsessed with power.

 

A wild blend of mad science and dark magic.

Despite a modest budget, Rock & Rule exudes a gritty charm, favouring atmosphere over polish. The animation has a punk DIY aesthetic, befitting the rebellious themes of its soundtrack and story. It’s no Disney production—rougher around the edges, but more experimental and personal. In fact, one could say this film was the antithesis of what Disney was putting out – there are no cute furry sidekicks, but we do get a rock princess. That said, the film isn’t as adult as Ralph Bakshi’s Fritz the Cat, but it has enough adult elements to make it a not-so-family-friendly outing, and that made it a hard film to market.

 

“Were you in Heavy Metal?”

The film’s visual ambition is one of its most striking qualities. Canadian animation studio Nelvana pushed the boundaries of animation technology at the time, combining traditional hand-drawn animation with early computer graphics. The result is a visually rich experience, full of detailed backgrounds, moody lighting, and imaginative character designs. Mok, in particular, is a standout, a slithering, exaggerated presence whose design and movements match his seductive menace. While the world is decaying in the background, with giant cities made of chrome and broken dreams, all lit in hot pinks and radioactive blues. The animation veers between “whoa, that’s stunning” and “is this melting?” Which is fitting, because half the time you feel like your eyeballs are being serenaded by a haunted Moog synthesizer.

 

A slave to music?

The soundtrack is arguably the film’s greatest asset, featuring songs by rock legends performing as the film’s characters; the music is seamlessly integrated into the narrative. Lou Reed lends his distinctively detached cool to Mok, while Debbie Harry’s vocals (as Angel) give the character a heartfelt, ethereal quality. Iggy Pop provides the raw demonic growls of the summoned beast. Seriously, what could be better than that? These musical sequences transcend the film’s narrative weaknesses and stand out as moments of audiovisual synergy.

 

“I have witnessed the power of Rock and Roll!”

In conclusion, Rock & Rule is a flawed but fascinating artifact of 1980s counterculture, a film that dares to mix dystopia, demonology, and glam rock into a psychedelic package. While its story may be uneven and its characters underdeveloped, the film’s creative ambition, striking visuals, and unforgettable soundtrack make it a standout in the history of animated cinema. It may not have ruled the box office, but in the world of cult animation, Rock & Rule rocks on.

Hercules Unchained (1959) – Review

In this 1959 Italian sword-and-sandal sequel to 1958’s Hercules, Steve Reeves once again flexes his pecs and somehow solves problems using the power of muscle tone and stoic confusion. This film explores the age-old question, “Can brawn overpower beauty?”

This isn’t just any Hercules story. No, this one kicks off with our hero trying to play diplomat. That’s right, the man who once punched a hydra into submission is now being asked to negotiate a peace treaty between two quarrelling brothers, Eteocles (Sergio Fantoni) and Polynices (Mimmo Palmara), who are each vying for the Theban throne. Naturally, things go awry when Hercules (Steve Reeves) drinks some suspicious enchanted spring water and forgets who he is, which, let’s be honest, is the only way to explain how he ends up lounging in a pleasure palace with a sultry queen named Omphale (Sylvia Lopez), surrounded by hypnotized bodybuilders and peacock feathers. Can Hercules fight off her spell and be reunited with his wife?

“Wife? What wife? I’ll just shack up here.”

Omphale, queen of Lydia and connoisseur of shirtless men, treats Herc like a piece of Grecian meatloaf, and he doesn’t seem to mind. With dreamy eyes and a fresh toga in every scene, he just kind of floats through her pastel-drenched palace like a confused gym bro who wandered into a spa and decided to stay. Meanwhile, back in the real world, Thebes is still in chaos, monsters are rampaging, and Herc’s long-suffering wife Iole (Sylva Koscina) and loyal (but basically useless) buddy Ulysses (Gabriele Antonini) are desperately trying to snap him out of his satin-lined stupor. Every so often, we cut to some political backstabbing in Thebes, but let’s be honest, nobody’s here for the geopolitics. We’re here to watch Steve Reeves throw boulders like baseballs and flex his way through mythological mayhem, with the film ending with the two brothers killing each other.

“Damn, I did not see that coming.”

Stray Observations:

• For a good third of the movie, Hercules just chills in Queen Omphale’s love palace, completely forgetting that he’s supposed to be, you know, doing stuff. It’s like the film took a vacation halfway through and Hercules said, “Yeah, I’m good with this.”
• Ulysses is somehow both helpful and completely useless. He knows everything, like a mythological GPS, but spends most of the film either being ignored or hiding in the bushes.
• The pleasure palace looks like Liberace designed it. Silk curtains, giant statues, golden goblets, and enough glitter to choke a centaur. Omphale’s palace is a fever dream of opulence and slow-motion seduction. It’s less “ancient Greece” and more “Vegas mythology revue.”

“Tonight on the Thebes strip, the lovely Grecian showgirls!”

Director Pietro Francisci returns to helm this sequel, which doubled down on mythic melodrama, visual grandeur, and the physical presence of its leading man. Visually, Francisci’s direction favours sweeping outdoor shots, vibrant costumes, and slow-motion feats of strength. Scenes of Hercules pulling down stone walls or holding up collapsing columns are not just narrative beats; they are muscle-bound tableaus meant to awe. Carlo Innocenzi’s bombastic score further heightens the theatricality, offering grandeur even when the story flattens out. Of course, the real joy of Hercules Unchained lies in its unapologetic excess. The dubbed dialogue is stilted, the fight scenes are hilariously choreographed, and the romantic chemistry has the emotional warmth of marble. But it’s sincere in its ambition and spectacular in its old-school, over-the-top fashion.

Watch Hercules bend fashion to his will.

As for a titular hero, Steve Reeves is all brawn and brooding brows, wandering through the film like a confused colossus who occasionally remembers he can throw pillars like javelins. His charisma may be as stiff as the toga he’s crammed into, but let’s be real—no one came to this movie for Shakespearean monologues. You came to see shirtless Herc beat up half of Thebes, wrestle chained beasts, and somehow escape danger by the sheer power of his pecs. Basically, he is peak Hercules here, not just built like a statue, but acting like one, too. His stoicism is part of the charm. He doesn’t emote much, but who needs emotional range when you can pull down a temple with your biceps? 

“Any temples need toppling? Asking for a friend.”

The sets are fabulous in that 1950s Italian cinema way, painted backdrops, crumbling columns, and more sheer curtains than a department store window display. The costumes range from glamorously historical to “did someone just wrap that man in a tablecloth?” But it’s all part of the fun. Every moment feels like it’s teetering between ancient epic and camp fantasy, and that balance is what makes Hercules Unchained such a gloriously goofy delight. It also helps when you have the fabulous Mario Bava as your cinematographer.

Things are bound to look amazing.

Of course, we’d be remiss not to mention the film’s delightful commitment to the absurd. Queen Omphale’s creepy statue collection? A romantic interlude with ancient Greek amnesia? That oddly tense chariot chase? It’s all served up with a straight face and a sweeping orchestral score, as if to say, “Yes, this is all very serious drama, now please enjoy this shot of Reeves in a leopard-print toga.” But what makes this outing such a blast isn’t just its over-the-top antics; it’s the sheer enthusiasm with which it throws itself into the mythology. 

 

But just how far off is Hercules Unchained from its source material?

Mythology vs. Movie:

• The myth of Omphale involves Hercules voluntarily serving her as penance for killing someone. He isn’t amnesiac or manipulated. The movie Hercules is noble, muscle-bound, and somewhat passive. He spends much of the movie under a love spell, looking confused.

• The mythological Heracles (Greek name) is violent, unpredictable, and tragic, constantly at odds with the gods and his own impulses. The film turns Heracles into a square-jawed hero instead of a deeply flawed demigod.

• In the mythology, Omphale was the Queen of Lydia, and Hercules served her as punishment for killing Iphitus. The relationship was humiliating for Hercules, he wore women’s clothes and did domestic chores while she wore his lion skin and club. In the movie version, she’s a femme fatale ruling over a palace of petrified lovers. She seduces Hercules and keeps him prisoner through sorcery.

Basically, the myth is a gender-role reversal comedy/tragedy, while the movie plays it like a campy S&M palace drama. It takes the vague outlines of ancient legend and crams them full of action, melodrama, and just enough camp to keep you grinning. It’s myth through the lens of mid-century Italian cinema, where every story needs more muscle, more melodrama, more slow-motion boulder tossing and a lot of gorgeous women.

Who wants to oil up the mighty Hercules?

In conclusion, Hercules Unchained is less a mythology lesson and more a celebration of cinematic spectacle. It’s dumb in all the right ways, beautiful in all the right places, and never once apologizes for being a gloriously greased-up fever dream of ancient epic. Because sometimes, the gods don’t demand a sacrifice, they just want a good show.

Girl Slaves of Morgana Le Fay (1971) – Review

There are some films where the plot takes a backseat to the mood, and Girl Slaves of Morgana Le Fay unapologetically plants itself in that territory. Draped in velvet, soaked in sensual fog, and carried along on a slow-motion dreamwave of sapphic allure, this film takes us on a wild and weird journey.

If you ever wondered what Excalibur would look like if it had been directed by a fashion photographer with a thing for nymphs and mist, voilà, I give you the Girl Slaves of Morgana Le Fay, or by its know in France, “Morgane et ses Nymphes,” a cult French fantasy-horror film that replaces swords and sorcery with slow-motion sensuality, witchy softcore vibes, and a castle full of mysterious women who never age, rarely speak, and definitely don’t believe in bras. This 1971 French erotic fantasy tells the tale of two young women, Anna (Michèle Perello) and Françoise (Mireille Saunin), travelling through the French countryside, who become lost near the ruins of Brocéliande, a forest steeped in Arthurian legend. 

 

“Did that road sign say Cursed Village?”

And how do they get lost? Well, they ignore the advice of the bartender at a creepy pub, “Drink and go. Turn back. Don’t go through the village,” which is about the silliest thing you can do in this type of story. Then they decide to take a back road, which appears to be a loop of an endless road, before their car eventually breaks down. They choose to spend the night in an old barn where they make love. Because, of course, they do. That Françoise wakes up to find her friend missing is pretty much par for the course in this kind of scenario; the fact that both of them weren’t killed by an axe-wielding is the amazing thing. But what is strange is the appearance of a dwarf (Alfred Baillou) in medieval garb, who leads her through the enchanted forest of Brocéliande and to a nearby lake where a magic canoe carries her to an island, and then to a castle where scantily clad women frolic and kiss.

 

“I don’t remember the tourist brochure mentioning any of this?

She is taken to the mist-shrouded castle of the enigmatic Morgana le Fay (Dominique Delpierre), the sorceress of Arthurian legend, who is now ruling an all-female kingdom where time has stopped, and desire is eternal. Morgana reveals that the castle exists outside of time, a magical limbo where women live forever under her rule. These women—beautiful, sensual, and seemingly content—are her eternal companions, but their immortality comes with a cost: complete submission to Morgana’s will. The castle is essentially a gilded cage, where desire and domination intertwine. Some of the women have been there for centuries, drawn into Morgana’s orbit and unable to leave.

 

“Welcome to Medieval Hotel California.”

From there, the film abandons narrative propulsion almost entirely, preferring atmosphere, seduction, and a looping dream logic where time dissolves, and everything glows with unspoken menace. The line between enchantment and imprisonment begins to blur, as Françoise resists the allure of eternal pleasure in favour of autonomy, whatever that might mean in a world like this, while also trying to find out what happened to her friend. But as time passes, she begins to succumb to the decadent lifestyle, erotic allure, and ambiguous promises of eternal youth and beauty. Meanwhile, Anna is held captive in the dungeon where she is given the choice of becoming an eternal slave of Morgana’s or living her remaining days among the crones, who also spurned their mistress and have since paid the price for displeasing her.

 

Morgana has a hell of a sales pitch.

Worried about her friend, Françoise escapes to look for the boat, but realizing its magical nature would make its use futile, she decides to swim across, only to find Morgan waiting for her on the other side, wherever she turns; she takes her back to her castle and promises to teach her magic. As days pass, Françoise finds herself increasingly seduced by the castle and its pleasures. She is drawn into rituals of eroticism and pagan mystery: masked balls, nocturnal processions, and decadent feasts. The women engage in open, uninhibited love with each other. Despite the beauty and sensuality, there’s an underlying sense of menace; none of the women are allowed to leave, and those who try either vanish or are punished.

 

“Is it time for our nightly pillow fight?”

Unfortunately, three of Morgana’s maidens have become jealous of their mistress’s attention to the beautiful Françoise, and they plot with the dwarf to help her “escape,” and with three magical talismans, our heroine finally breaks the spell that has turned this enchanted island into a prison. But will Morgan let such a thing pass? The girl does eventually make it off the island, but the film ends in ambiguity. Has Françoise been genuinely seduced by Morgana’s promise of immortality and sisterhood, or has she simply given up the fight? Either way, she is now one of the girl slaves of Morgana le Fay, not in chains, but in enchantment.

 

This is an unconventional fairy tale, to say the least.

Stray Observations:

• The film takes loose inspiration from the Arthurian myth of Morgana Le Fay, but trades knights and quests for a seductive, all-female utopia. Think King Arthur reimagined by a dreamy, lingerie-obsessed Jean Cocteau.
• Morgana’s domain exists outside of time, which explains why nobody ever seems to age… or wear pants. Time stands still, but the costume department never rests.
• Every room has softcore lighting. Seriously, every room. The castle is lit like a 1970s perfume ad. There’s no practical lighting—just candles, coloured gels, and whatever was left over from a Pink Floyd laser show.
• At one point, women dance half-naked around as some kind of celebration. Is it a spell? A rite? A pagan sorority rush? Doesn’t matter, it looks great, and everyone’s into it.

 

Is there anything more evil than interpretive dance?

If you’re looking for fast-paced action or monster effects, turn back now. Girl Slaves is a mood piece through and through, practically a moving perfume ad where the scent is “Fey Despair and Lesbian Yearning.” Director Bruno Gantillon leans into the eroticism without veering into outright exploitation; this is less skin flick and more surreal, sapphic enchantment. Every frame is artfully composed, bathed in hazy candlelight or soft natural mist, with gauzy gowns fluttering and glances lingering just a little too long to be innocent. Visually, the film is a Gothic fairy tale filtered through the lens of a Euro-sleaze art student. The castle of Morgana is awash in candlelight, shadowy stone chambers, and rose-coloured haze. Every scene is soaked in visual mood, accompanied by an eerie, droning score and whispered dialogue.

 

That the only dude in the cast dies is not all that surprising.

As for our titular character, Dominique Delpierre plays Morgana with regal menace and feline detachment. She’s not an overt villain—there’s no cackling or lightning bolts—but rather an immortal woman deeply committed to maintaining her ageless, pleasure-filled world. She lures her guests with charm, comfort, and luxury, never with force. Her greatest power is seduction, and it’s a slow, luxurious kind. She is portrayed not just as a sorceress but as a symbol of temptation, power, and eternal femininity, offering immortality in exchange for complete surrender.

 

Who wouldn’t surrender to this?

Beneath the film’s lacy surface lies a quietly subversive feminist thread. On one hand, Morgana’s castle represents liberation from male-dominated society: a place of sensual freedom and female community. On the other hand, it’s also a gilded cage. Immortality, here, comes at the cost of choice, agency, and perhaps one’s soul. The women don’t grow, they don’t change, they’re frozen in eternal beauty and passive sensuality. Anna becomes the audience’s surrogate as she navigates this world with growing unease. The question isn’t just “Will she stay or escape?” but rather: “What does it mean to choose between safety and self?”

 

Trapped or enraptured, you be the judge.

The soundtrack, composed by François de Roubaix, is hauntingly beautiful, an ethereal blend of psychedelic tones, choral whispers, and gently hypnotic melodies. It deepens the film’s otherworldly feel and almost seems to breathe along with the mist. Between the score, the slow pacing, and the stylized visuals, the entire film feels like a trance. If you’re not on its wavelength, it can feel maddeningly slow. But if you let yourself drift into its rhythm, it’s strangely intoxicating.

 

The music is as beautiful as the film’s cast.

In conclusion, Girl Slaves of Morgana Le Fay is a cult oddity, part arthouse, part Eurotrash, wholly committed to its hypnotic tone. There’s horror here, but it’s quiet and psychological, less about monsters and more about the seductive comforts of surrender. The danger is not death, but stagnation disguised as paradise. It’s a sapphic fever dream steeped in soft horror and poetic eroticism. Not for everyone, but for lovers of ’70s Euro-fantasy and esoteric vibes, it casts a strangely lingering spell.