The Three Stooges Meet Hercules (1962) – Review

There’s slapstick, there’s sword-and-sandal, and then there’s whatever The Three Stooges Meet Hercules is, a delightfully goofy mashup of time travel, ancient Greece, and good ol’ Stooge mayhem that manages to make absolutely no sense and somehow still charm your socks off.

The movie opens in modern-day Ithica, New York (1962), where the Three Stooges, Moe (Moe Howard), Larry (Larry Fine) and Curly Joe (Joe DeRita), work at a local pharmacy for their smarmy boss George Dimsal (George N. Neise), but things get interesting when their friend and neighbour Schuyler Davis (Quinn Redeker), a shy, brainy but awkward scientist who has invented a time machine in his spare time (as one does). Schuyler is the sort of guy who probably shouldn’t be trusted with a toaster, let alone the fabric of space and time. He’s also trying to win the affections of Diane Quigley (Vicki Trickett), who seems more interested in bravery than brainpower. Unfortunately, Dismal also has the hots for Diane, and he sabotages the blueprints to Schuyler’s time machine.

 

“This will explain my entire evil plot to steal the heart of Diane.”

Dismal easily manipulates the Stooges into “fixing” the time machine, and, needless to say, this meddling causes Schuyler’s experiment to go awry, and the whole gang, Diane included, are transported back to ancient Greece, specifically the island of Ithaca, where their accidental grand entrance just happens to line up with a battle between King Odius (George N. Neise) and Ulysses (John Cliff), with the mighty Hercules (Samson Burke) fighting alongside Odius. At first, the Stooges are hailed as gods, because, of course they are, as their startling appearance causes the army of Ulysses to flee the field, granting Odius a victory.

 

Mythology Note: Hercules and Ulysses come from different generations of mythological heroes. Hercules lived a generation before the Trojan War, while Ulysses was a central figure during and after the Trojan War.

Naturally, this divine mix-up eventually lands the Stooges in hot togas. They immediately tell Odius that they are not gods but mere mortals – breaking the cardinal rule that if some asks you if you are a god, you say yes – and while the king cannot believe mortals could arrive in a flying chariot, as this is what he believes their time machine to be, when Ulysses is dragged in chains before the cruel king our heroes quickly realize that they’ve changed history. The Stooges free Ulysses from his cell, but are soon captured by Hercules and, along with Schuyler, they are sentenced to spend the rest of their short lives serving as rowers on a galley.

 

“Row well and laugh.”

With them out of the way, things become even more complicated with Odious making his lecherous intentions towards Diane clear, even drugging her to become his love slave. Now the Stooges and Schuyler have got to escape slavery – multiple times – save the girl, fix the timeline, and pretend like they know what they’re doing, which, historically speaking, they absolutely do not. This will involve shipwrecks, Schuyler becoming musclebound from rowing a slave galley, a slave market, back to more rowing, and then being offered their freedom if they rid the island of Rhodes of the terrifying Siamese Cyclops, because two heads are better than one. 

 

Yeah, this is a thing that happens.

Schuyler, now “mistaken” for Hercules, becomes famous for defeating and performing many of the demigod’s legendary tasks, such as defeating the Cretan bull and battling the nine-headed hydra. Of course, the real Hercules eventually gets wind of this imposter, and he’s not happy, but Schuyler defeats Hercules in the arena and convinces the legendary hero to team up with them in overthrowing Odious and rescuing Diane, who is not-so-secretly regretting every life choice that brought her here, especially the ones involving time travel and the Stooges.

 

Cue the chariot race.

Their time-travelling shenanigans reach a glorious climax with a chariot chase that would make Ben-Hur sweat, followed by the brilliant decision to dump King Odius into the Wild West, because nothing screams “historical correction” like dumping a toga-clad tyrant into cowboy country. When they finally stumble back to the present, Schuyler can now stand out to Dimsal, who then ends up stuck in a pillory due to a time-travelling jaunt of his own.

 

Things are a bit wacky in this one.

Stray Observations:

• Schuyler’s time machine looks like something cobbled together from a water heater, a dentist’s chair, and a spaghetti strainer. Somehow it works—but only when the Stooges are breaking it.
• The king’s guards look like they were recruited from a community theatre production of Ben-Hur, and they somehow manage to be even dumber than the Stooges—no small feat.
• The Stooges can’t read a road sign because it is written in ancient Greek, yet everyone in this movie speaks colloquial English.
• Ithaca looks suspiciously like Southern California with some Greek columns slapped in the background. Hollywood magic at its most… optimistic.
• There’s an absurd chariot chase sequence through ancient Greece that feels one horse short of a Looney Tunes cartoon, with stunt doubles looking nothing like our stars.

 

This has to be the only chariot race to include a pie fight.

Directed by Edward Bernds, The Three Stooges Meet Hercules is delightfully unbothered by historical or mythological accuracy. What of Hercules? He’s a snarling bodybuilder who looks like he’s wandered off the set of a peplum epic and into a Marx Brothers routine. Ancient Greece? It’s mostly papier-mâché sets and confused extras in tunics. Time travel? It’s just a box with buttons that work when the script needs them to. But let’s be honest: nobody comes to a Three Stooges movie for logic or world-building. You come for the gags, and Meet Hercules delivers in droves. Whether it’s Moe smacking Larry upside the head, Curly Joe botching a disguise, or the trio brawling their way through a slave auction, the slapstick is vintage Stooge — broad, loud, and unapologetically dumb. And that’s its charm, which allows us to forgive some of its silly science fiction trappings.

 

This film sports a less-than-impressive time-travelling conveyance.

By the early ’60s, the Stooges were in the twilight of their long, bruised careers, but their comic timing hadn’t gone entirely soft. This film, part of their resurgence due to television reruns, leans heavily on nostalgia, but there’s still a kind of madcap energy in the air. It may not be their best work, but it’s certainly not their worst. It should be noted that this iteration of the Stooges features Curly Joe instead of the original Curly Howard, and he does lack the manic energy found in the classic shorts. Curly Joe is gentler and less animated, which somewhat dilutes the trio’s trademark chaos. Yet, by 1962, the Stooges had adapted their act to a more family-friendly tone, aiming to appeal to children who were discovering their old Columbia shorts on television. In that context, the film’s broader and less violent comedy is understandable, if less electric.

 

“Could we time-travel to one of Caligula’s orgies next?”

The portrayal of Hercules, played by Canadian bodybuilder Samson Burke, leans into the “strong but dim” archetype, making him more of a muscle-bound obstacle than a true co-star. He’s used for contrast, his stoic heroism bumping awkwardly against the Stooges’ slapdash antics. While this doesn’t make for particularly complex storytelling, seeing “Brains vs Brawn” take an interesting detour in this outing was fun to see.

 

“I can lift boulders just as well as Reg Park can.”

The film’s greatest asset is its unapologetic silliness. There’s no pretense of historical accuracy or logical plot development—only an enthusiasm for physical humour, goofy anachronisms, and visual gags. The sets and costumes are modest, the effects primitive, and yet the whole thing has a handmade charm. Watching the Stooges being more terrified of giving a pretty woman a massage than of the swords of pursuing Greek soldiers. It is comedy that transcends eras, not because it’s sophisticated, but because it’s proudly not.

 

This is where mythology goes to laugh.

In conclusion, The Three Stooges Meet Hercules is not a film of great depth or innovation, as you’d expect, but it does deliver exactly what its title promises: a ridiculous, light-hearted collision between three stooges and one musclebound demigod. For fans of classic slapstick, it’s a pleasantly dopey time capsule. For everyone else, it’s a reminder that sometimes comedy doesn’t have to be smart—it just has to be fun. “Nyuk nyuk nyuk!”

Zatoichi as Cultural Icon: Genre, Myth, and the Common Man (1962-1989)

 

The Zatoichi film franchise is one of the most enduring and iconic in the history of Japanese cinema. Stretching from 1962 to 1989, with later revivals and reinterpretations, the series features a unique hero in a genre dominated by stoic samurai and noble ronin.

Zatoichi is not a warrior by birth or class, but a blind masseur—a commoner—whose disability disguises a masterful swordsman and a deeply ethical soul. Played primarily by the inimitable Shintaro Katsu, Zatoichi became a cultural phenomenon in Japan and a cult icon around the world. Zatoichi made his first appearance in The Tale of Zatoichi (Zatoichi Monogatari, 1962), directed by Kenji Misumi. Immediately, the film turned the conventions of the chanbara (sword-fighting film) on their head. Instead of a high-born samurai or a dashing ronin, audiences met Ichi—a humble, blind masseur and former yakuza. His weapon of choice: a cane sword (shikomi-zue) concealed within his walking stick. His demeanour: humble, self-deprecating, kind to children and the downtrodden, yet lethal when provoked.

What makes Zatoichi such a compelling figure is the duality within him. Blind and marginalized, he is underestimated by virtually everyone he meets. Yet his physical prowess and razor-sharp hearing allow him to outfight any adversary. He is both a protector and a killer, a wanderer and a man with a strong moral code. The contradiction is central to his appeal: a man who wishes for peace but is followed by violence.

One of the most consistent patterns in the Zatoichi series is the portrayal of women as victims of violence, exploitation, and injustice. Many of the women Ichi encounters are prostitutes, widows, or poor peasants who are vulnerable to the abuses of corrupt samurai, gangsters, or cruel landlords. Their suffering often serves to highlight the moral decay of the ruling class and justifies Ichi’s intervention. In this sense, women are frequently used as a moral compass for the story, symbols of innocence or purity that evoke Ichi’s protective instincts. Their mistreatment underscores the brutality of the world and often catalyzes Zatoichi’s quest for justice.

Stray Observations:

• Zatoichi gambles like a boss. Ichi is weirdly good at dice gambling (cho-han), even though he’s blind. He listens to the sound of the dice bouncing and calls the outcome with uncanny accuracy. It’s like Daredevil meets Vegas.
• Zatoichi has a habit of getting stuck taking care of babies or children mid-quest. He’s surprisingly nurturing, but also hilariously awkward about it. Those familiar with the Lone Wolf and Cub films will understand this dynamic.
• If a woman catches feelings for Ichi, she might as well pack her bags and prepare for disappointment. Either she dies, turns out to be working for the enemy, or gets the classic “we can never be together” speech.
• He meets Wang Kang in Zatoichi Meets the One-Armed Swordsman. Reportedly, two endings were filmed—one for Japanese audiences (Zatoichi wins), and one for Chinese markets (Wang Kang wins or escapes with dignity).
• He meets Yojimbo (sort of). In Zatoichi Meets Yojimbo, he faces off with a character heavily implied to be Kurosawa’s Yojimbo (Toshiro Mifune). It’s a samurai movie crossover event, and it’s as entertainingly mismatched as it sounds.

Between 1962 and 1989, Shintaro Katsu portrayed Zatoichi in 26 feature films and 100 television episodes. The films, particularly in the 1960s, followed a loose but familiar structure: Ichi arrives in a new town, encounters corruption, cruelty, or injustice, often involving gangsters or feudal lords and is reluctantly drawn into conflict. Along the way, he gambles, befriends children, falls in love (with tragic consequences), and delivers poetic, lightning-fast justice.

The success of Zatoichi owes much to Shintaro Katsu. A former kabuki actor with a flair for the dramatic and comedic, Katsu imbued the character with humanity and pathos. He wasn’t content to simply act; Katsu eventually produced the series through his company, Katsu Productions, and even directed the 26th film (Zatoichi, 1989), which served as both a revival and a sombre farewell. Katsu’s involvement kept the character alive for nearly three decades. His performance is a masterclass in physical acting: his head tilts, the way he shuffles, his playful laughter, and sudden bursts of violence all combine to make Ichi feel utterly alive. He’s a figure of both myth and flesh.

At its core, Zatoichi is a deeply humanist series. Though filled with sword fights and genre thrills, the films are often concerned with issues of social injustice, class struggle, and the fate of the marginalized. Ichi is a symbol of resistance: against corrupt authority, against discrimination, and against the assumption that strength must come from wealth or status. The franchise also touches on the loneliness of the wandering hero. Despite his good deeds, Ichi is often left alone at the end of each film, walking off into the distance with nothing but his cane. His blindness, while physically limiting, also metaphorically isolates him from the world, a man fated never to settle, to never fully connect.

In conclusion, the Zatoichi franchise is a singular achievement in cinema. For over sixty years, this blind swordsman has walked across Japan’s war-torn landscapes, dispensing wisdom and slicing through injustice. Shintaro Katsu’s portrayal is legendary, and the stories themselves still resonate; they are simple, poignant and thrilling. In an era that celebrates flashy antiheroes and high-tech spectacle, Zatoichi remains a timeless figure: a humble man with a hidden blade, fighting not for glory, but for what is right.

Hercules and the Captive Women (1961) – Review

This 1961 sword-and-sandal spectacular is less “epic myth” and more “myth-adjacent fever dream,” a film that dares to ask, “What if Greek mythology had no rules, fewer shirts, and absolutely wild Atlantis cosplay?” Complete with foam boulders, clunky dialogue, and glow-in-the-dark magic rocks.

The film opens with the Greek states being affected by strange atmospheric events and creepy visions that Androcles (Ettore Manni), King of Thebes, wants to investigate, but none of the other Greek leaders seem all that interested in doing so, as they have grown tired of paying for wars that Androcles starts. Worse is the fact that legendary demi-god Hercules (Reg Park) also refuses to be dragged off another crazy adventure, stating that he’d rather relax at home with his wife Deianira (Luciana Angiolillo) and his son Hylas (Luciano Marin), making him the classic reluctant hero. 

Hercules, the original Inaction Figure.

After more or less stating “I’m just here to take a nap,” Hercules soon finds himself shanghaied by the king, aided by Hylas, who drugs his father and earns the title of “Worst Son of the Year,” and he wakes up aboard a boat manned by ex-slaves and thieves. He does have one “friend” in the form of his faithful dwarf sidekick Timoteo (Salvatore Furnari), but this guy is more comic relief than support when it comes to fighting. The following high-seas adventure quickly runs into some trouble when the entire crew mutinies, while Hercules almost sleeps through it. Way to keep the eye on the ball, Herc. But our hero wakes up in time to drag the ship back to shore and maroon the mutineers. 

“Are you pulling my chain?”

Before you can say “S.S. Minnow,” a storm brews and their tiny ship is tossed. Androcles falls overboard and is presumed lost at sea, and come morning, Hercules finds himself adrift on a piece of wreckage, still not knowing that all along his son Hylas had been aboard their ship the whole time, and soon comes ashore on a mist-shrouded island, where he sees a woman encased in stone as a sacrifice to the sea god Proteus. Now, it’s here I should point out that while there are “captive women” in this outing, as the American title suggests, they’re not exactly central to the plot. Which is about creating an invincible army of black-uniformed blond supermen to take over the world. The Italian release of this film was called Hercules and the Conquest of Atlantis, which was a more accurate title.

Or, how about Hercules and the Encased Women?

This leads to the lost continent of Atlantis, because, surprise, surprise, the woman he rescued is Princess Ismene (Laura Efrikian), daughter of Antinea (Fay Spain), the Queen of Atlantis, and we quickly learn that Atlantis is not just a lost continent but completely bananas as well. Turns out there is a prophecy that if Ismene is not killed, Atlantis and its population will be destroyed. The death of Proteus has already stripped Atlantis of its protective fog that keeps it unseen by the outside world, so Ismene is recaptured and taken for execution. Luckily for her, this is when Hylas and Timoteo eventually show up and perform a well-orchestrated rescue, taking out numerous guards with sticks and stones. Needless to say, Ismene is nonplussed by the whole situation.

“Is my sole job to be a damsel in distress?”

Meanwhile, we learn that Queen Antinea might be the most fabulous evil queen ever, draped in sequins and power, and positively glowing with radioactive ambition. Her plan? Use a glowing stone made from the blood of Uranus to create an invincible army of black-uniformed blond supermen with which she plans to conquer the world. That’s bad enough, but she’s also turned Androcles into one of her mindless soldiers, sending him to kill Hercules. That will not stand! Determined to stop Antinea, Hercules and his allies rescue Ismene once again, and this leads to a climactic battle, in which Hercules destroys the source of Antinea’s power, causing Atlantis to collapse.

“Let’s go home, that ‘twas a silly place.”

Stray Observations:

• In the original Italian version, the character is actually Maciste, a recurring Italian strongman hero dating back to silent films. U.S. distributors routinely renamed Maciste “Hercules” because Americans have actually heard of Hercules.
• While drifting on the wreckage of their ship, Hercules has a vision of Androcles calling for help. I had no idea this was one of Hercules’ abilities. I don’t think even his dad, Zeus, had this psychic power.
• Hercules promises to return to the beautiful Antinea after he concludes his search for his friend Androcles, but he already has a loving wife waiting for him back home. Greek heroes tended to have feet of clay when it came to women.
• The dubbing in this film is hilarious. Hercules sounds like he’s trying to remember his grocery list while fighting, and Queen Antinea sounds like she learned English phonetically from a villainous parrot.
• Special effects alert: Atlantis gets destroyed in a wave of glitter, fire, smoke, crumbling sets, cool-looking models, and stock footage of volcanic eruptions. 

It’s hard to tell if Atlantis is sinking or just blowing up.

Let’s get one thing straight: if you came to this 1961 Italian peplum spectacle looking for mythical accuracy or even a coherent plot, you took a wrong turn at Mount Olympus. But if you’re here for shiny muscles, wild magic, mysterious islands, and enough camp to host a Boy Scout jamboree—welcome, my friend. Hercules and the Captive Women is exactly the kind of delightfully bonkers B-movie that belongs in a toga-twirling Hall of Fame. Directed by Vittorio Cottafavi, this bizarre blend of Greek myth, science fiction, and proto-feminist villainy elevates the film from generic pulp to something uniquely bizarre and occasionally inspired.

The beautiful face of Evil.

This was Reg Park’s debut as Hercules, and he is a more stoic and physically imposing presence than his predecessors, notably Steve Reeves. Though not a nuanced actor, Park’s sheer presence is enough to sell the role of a demigod. Park is so monumentally muscular that he makes the Colossus of Rhodes look like a stick figure. He grunts, flexes, and lifts giant stone doors like he’s cracking open a cold one. Acting range? Who needs it when you can toss guards like lawn darts? Let’s talk sidekicks. Hylas, son of Hercules, tags along as a secondary hunk, falling in love with Ismene, and to provide semi-useful sword work. He mostly serves as the one person Hercules doesn’t throw across the screen, and he somehow survives the entire film despite wandering off like a dim golden retriever in every scene. Hylas doesn’t even get to fight monsters, like his dad.

And by monsters, I mean a guy in a goofy suit.

Visually, the film is bursting with over-the-top colour and charmingly fake sets. Atlantis looks like it was designed by a 12-year-old with a box of crayons and a love of lava lamps, and I mean that as a compliment. It’s glorious, kitschy, and surreal in all the best ways. Director Vittorio Cottafavi, one of the more stylistically adventurous directors in the peplum arena, imbues the film with operatic flair and occasional bursts of visual poetry. His direction is far more imaginative than the script requires, which may be why Hercules and the Captive Women has had longer critical endurance than many of its contemporaries.

You can’t knock the film’s sets and costumes.

The action? Delightfully cheesy. Hercules wrestles guys in rubber suits, flips papier-mâché boulders like flapjacks, and generally grunts his way through villainous henchmen like he’s in a protein shake commercial from ancient Greece. Atlantis finally explodes in a finale that would make Ed Wood say, “That’s a bit much.” And sure, the dubbing is goofy, the dialogue is wooden, and some of the special effects might make you giggle more than gasp. But that’s part of the charm. This isn’t just a movie, it’s an event. You don’t just watch Hercules and the Captive Women, you experience it. You marvel at the absurdity. You question the logic. And you will wonder, “What exactly is going on?”

Who knew that the Greeks had cloning technology?

In conclusion, Hercules and the Captive Women is a perfect movie for those who enjoy their mythology served with a side of nonsense, and their heroes oiled up and mildly confused. Is it historically accurate? No. Is it coherent? Barely. But is it a glorious, sweaty, toga-wrapped time? Absolutely. For fans of camp, cheese, and chiselled chests, this one’s a mythical mess worth watching.

Pinocchio in Outer Space (1965) – Review

Some movies defy expectations, and then some movies defy basic comprehension. Pinocchio in Outer Space falls squarely into the latter category. This baffling Belgian-American animated sci-fi morality tale asks, “What if Carlo Collodi’s wooden boy tangled with giant alien crabs on Mars?”

Strap in, kids (and deeply confused adults), because Pinocchio in Outer Space is less of a movie and more of a fever dream shot into the cosmos on a rocket fueled by ’60s optimism and pure narrative chaos. This Belgian-American animated oddity takes Carlo Collodi’s classic wooden boy and hurls him through the stratosphere in a cosmic coming-of-age tale featuring space whales, a cranky turtle, and desolate Martian cities. Off the hop, we get this delightfully useful piece of narration, “The adventure you are about to see is based on a true portrayal of outer space, and could actually happen, to a puppet come alive.”

 

“What, they’re upgrading us to sci-fi now?”

Our story begins with the world’s most beloved former puppet, Pinocchio (Peter Lazer), now a real boy… but not for long. See, Pinocchio has backslid on his promise to “always be good,” and kindly Geppetto (Ray Owens) is beside himself as to what to do. Enter the Blue Fairy (Mavis Mims), who has apparently upgraded her fairy license to intergalactic probation officer, and punishes him by turning him back into wood. Bummer. But Pinocchio isn’t giving up that easily. He wants redemption, and what better way to prove he’s a hero than to save the Earth from a rampaging, satellite-destroying space whale named Astro?

 

Yes, a flying space whale. Don’t question it.

When a news broadcast states that there is a “handsome reward” for the capture of the creature, Pinocchio latches onto the idea of going off into space, catching the big space whale so that he’d win the reward, and they wouldn’t be poor anymore. “And I’d prove myself worthy, and the Blue Fairy would turn me into a real boy again.” Yeah, sounds like an excellent plan. Unfortunately, on the way to school, he runs afoul of the Fox and Cat from the original tale – now named Sharp (Conrad Jameson) and Groovy (Jess Cain) for some reason – and when they learn Pinocchio wants to catch Astro, they run a con suggesting that hypnotism could be the secret to defeating the space whale.

 

“Don’t let logic or book learning stand in your way!”

Enter Nurtle the Twurtle (Arnold Stang), a green alien turtle who rocks an aviator’s cap, arrives on a spaceship that looks like it was made by one of Santa’s elves, and has the dry wit of a weary substitute teacher. Nurtle’s mission was to investigate stories of a highly advanced civilization on Mars – the detection of radiation in the area supports this theory – but he landed on Earth due to his poor map-reading skills. Pinocchio warns Nurtle of the rogue space whale, and with the claim that he can hypnotize Astro, he is welcomed aboard Nurtle’s ship.

 

“Do you have strings to hold you down?”

At first, Mars seems to be a lifeless planet, endless tracts of sand, but the sight of a distant city gives them hope, and the two decide to check it out, that is, after rescuing their ship from a trio of gigantic Martian crabs who thought it looked like a nice snack. Sadly, when they eventually make it to the Martian city, they find it to be deserted, a collection of ruins that look to have been destroyed by a large space whale. Could the giant crabs and a giant whale have a common ancestry? Turns out the Martians had used radiation to mutate a variety of animals to turn them into giant biological weapons, which, of course, eventually bit them in the ass.

 

Martians developed their own kaiju, who knew?

The two flee from an assortment of these giant beasties, while also discovering the canal where Astro was created, but then they have to escape the underground catacombs as it begins to shake apart. It seems that a massive sandstorm has begun to sweep across the planet, and as it enters the city’s nuclear reactors, the whole place starts to come down around our hero’s ears. Luckily, their ship isn’t totally buried by the sands, and they lift off just in time to see the city detonate with a huge atomic mushroom cloud.

 

This is pretty dark for a kids’ movie.

Unfortunately, they almost immediately run into Astro, and Pinocchio once again finds himself in the belly of a whale, because this film is both a sequel and a remake of the original tale. But, fear not, kiddies. The Blue Fairy finally decides to make an appearance, and even though Pinocchio disobeyed his father, consorted with criminals, and lied his little wooden ass off, she gives him a little “hint” as to how to escape their current predicament. Yeah, they fly out Astro’s blowhole as if that wasn’t the most obvious escape route. This leads to a rousing battle between our heroes and the rogue space whale, using bravery, brains, and, surprise, surprise, a little bit of hypnotism.

 

“I think he’s right behind us.”

While Pinocchio’s attempts at hypnotism fail at first, a damaged fin on Nurtle’s ship causes the craft to spin in such a way as to mesmerize the big beast and become a puppet on a string, but the day isn’t quite saved yet. Astro’s route to Earth is too direct, and they will burn up in the planet’s atmosphere, so Pinocchio exits the ship to hook onto Astro’s “jet propulsion” spout to alter their course and save their lives. Sadly, this results in the little wooden boy being bathed in flames and dying. Needless to say, the Blue Fairy arrives, and Pinocchio earns back his human status.

 

“We’re just going to repeat the ending of the original, is that it?”

Stray Observations:

• A marine biologist theorizes that “A rare mutation, the kind that resulted in flying ants, flying squirrels and flying fish, may be responsible for the evolution of a flying whale.” Sure, that makes sense, but how about its ability to survive in space and develop rocket propulsion?
• Nurtle the Twurtle was voiced by actor Arnold Stang, who bad movie lovers may recognize as Arnold Swartzenegger’s co-star in Hercules in New York.
• Geppetto gets abducted by the plot and never returns. He’s barely in the movie. Pinocchio goes to space to prove he’s brave and honest… not to save Geppetto. Priorities.
• Pinocchio’s nose still grows when he lies, but also shrinks when he tells the truth, another added ability for this movie.
• Pinocchio and Nurtle find an underground city, one that is very reminiscent of the Krell city in the film Forbidden Planet.

 

“Keep an eye out for Id monsters, Pinocchio.”

Directed by Ray Goossens, Pinocchio in Outer Space is a 1965 offering that delivers a truly eclectic visual style. Imagine mid-century European animation colliding with Hanna-Barbera on a sugar high. There’s a weird charm to the stilted movements and odd colour palette, like a space-themed picture book brought to life with just enough LSD to confuse the kids and mildly alarm their parents. The character designs vacillate between cute and uncanny, with that classic ’60s European animation style that seems designed to make kids mildly uncomfortable. Voice acting varies from earnestly wooden (yes, again, appropriate) to melodramatic Saturday morning cartoon. The moral lessons are still there; don’t lie, be brave, help others, but they’re sandwiched between surreal alien encounters and intergalactic PSA-worthy messaging.

 

Pinocchio definitely has a dark side.

Pinocchio’s journey in this film is technically still about being brave and good, but that message is now filtered through alien landscapes, giant mutated monsters, and extended space sequences that feel like they’re one synthesizer track away from 2001: A Space Odyssey. It’s like Educational Filmstrip Theatre meets Plan 9 from Outer Space, but for children. Tonally, it’s a cosmic blender of child-friendly adventure, Cold War paranoia, and philosophical oddities. Pinocchio is still trying to be a “real boy,” but now he’s doing so while fleeing exploding nuclear reactors and pondering the ethics of space crab extermination. The moralizing is ever-present but hilariously shoehorned in. Your nose may grow if you lie, but you’ll really get in trouble if you mess with intergalactic crustaceans.

 

Avoiding intergalactic crustaceans is a lesson we all should learn.

Pinocchio remains the moral centre of the film, though his journey here is less about resisting temptation and more about gaining empathy and bravery. His character arc, though rushed, mirrors the themes of the original story, just filtered through a Jetsons-like lens. However, it’s Nurtle the Turtle who steals the show. Voiced with rapid-fire wit and no small dose of sarcasm, Nurtle provides the film’s comic relief and its scientific credibility. He’s a clear nod to the talking animal sidekicks of Disney fare, but has more in common with the fast-talking salesmen of 1960s American television. He’s easily the most memorable character and provides a much-needed anchor for the film’s otherwise scattered tone.

 

“I’m more effective than any cricket.”

And then there’s Astro. This isn’t Monstro from the Disney classic; this is a full-on nightmare beast from a sci-fi horror movie, complete with gaping jaws and cosmic mind control powers. He is a delightfully absurd antagonist. The idea of a gigantic, planet-destroying whale floating through the void of space is so wonderfully ridiculous that it becomes iconic in its own right. The creature embodies the “atomic age menace” trope common in 1950s monster movies, but with a fairy tale twist. The desolate Martian landscape also brings that “atomic age” feel to the forefront, with its destroyed city giving us a look at a possible future Earth.

 

Post-apocalyptic Earth, anyone?

Is it good? Maybe if you squint. Is it entertaining? In the way that watching a marionette puppet try to explain orbital mechanics is entertaining, absolutely. The movie is short, strange, and wildly inconsistent, but that’s part of its appeal. It’s got that special kind of vintage nonsense that makes you wonder what the writers were smoking (and where you can get some). Yet, it’s somehow earnest, like it genuinely believes that putting Pinocchio in a rocket ship is a natural extension of Carlo Collodi’s beloved 19th-century fable.

 

When Fantasy and Science Fiction collide. 

Ultimately, Pinocchio in Outer Space is a bizarre artifact from a time when animation was still willing to take absolutely unhinged risks. It’s not a classic by any metric, but it’s a cosmic curiosity worth witnessing if only to confirm that yes, this really exists. It’s baffling, bonkers, and kind of beautiful in its own off-kilter way. Definitely not “good” in the traditional sense, but oh boy, is it an experience.