Zero Woman: Red Handcuffs (1974) – Review

 

In the 1960s, a rather bizarre genre exploded into Japanese theatres called “Pink Films,” which were movies produced by independent studios that included nudity (hence ‘pink’) and most often dealt with sexual content. Then, in the 1970s, major studios started producing a line of what came to be known as “Pinky Violence films,” and while these films still had the sexual element, they focused more on action and gore. Enter Hiroo Matsuda’s Zero Woman: Red Handcuffs, a quintessential entry in the genre.

Based on Tōru Shinohara’s manga “Zeroka no Onna” Zero Woman: Red Handcuffs tells the story of a disgraced cop sent on a most perilous mission. The film opens with a shocking and brutal sequence in which Rei (Miki Sugimoto), the titular “Zero Woman,” wearing her signature blood-red handcuffs, executes a man in cold blood. The man, as it turns out, was a high-ranking politician who had raped and murdered a young woman, but her superiors are none too happy with this, telling Rei, “Your sense of duty is too strong” and she is unceremoniously packed off to prison. Lucky for her – if anything in this film can be considered lucky – her punishment is short-lived as she is offered a way out by the authorities. In exchange for her freedom, she must embark on a dangerous mission to rescue a politician’s kidnapped daughter from a gang of ruthless criminals.

“If you should choose to accept this mission…”

The main villain in this movie, one among many, is the sadistic and unpredictable ex-con Nakahara Yoshihide (Eiji Go), who along with his ruthless gang psychos, rapes the daughter (Hiromi Kishi) of a rich and prominent politician Nagumo Zengo (Tetsurō Tamba), but it’s when the rape turns into a kidnapping that the plot kicks into gear. Rei is given a clear directive from Division Zero, from her old boss Hidaka Masashi (Hideo Murota), to eliminate the kidnappers and rescue the girl. Armed with her red handcuffs and a gun, she infiltrates the criminal underworld, tracking the gang to their hideout. Along the way, she encounters various seedy characters and is forced to endure harrowing ordeals, including being captured and tortured by the gang members.

Even the lesbian brothel owner gets in on the action.

As Rei closes in on the gang, the film delves into themes of betrayal, corruption, and the fine line between justice and revenge. The police, who initially seem to be using Rei as a disposable asset, reveal themselves to be just as corrupt and morally compromised as the criminals. Rei, too, is not a traditional hero; her methods are brutal, and her motivations are rooted in a deep-seated need for vengeance rather than any sense of duty or justice. Rei is not an unstoppable kick-ass fighter – a far cry from the characters found in movies starring the likes of Michelle Yeoh – as the fights in this movie focus more on brutality rather than well-choreographed martial arts battles. But will Zero Woman be able to rescue the girl? How much blood and violence will she have to endure? Can she trust the clearly corrupt police force? Is blood, death and betrayal the only likely outcome? All this and more will be answered in Zero Woman: Red Handcuffs, a grim and nihilistic tale full of violence and debauchery.

This is not a Hallmark Channel movie.

Stray Observations:

• If someone accuses you of rape and murder and your response is “So what if I did?” Getting shot in the dick and then killed is kind of your fault.
• To keep her cover, Rei has to allow herself to be bound, whipped and raped by Nakahara’s gang. If that’s not dedication to a job, I don’t know what is.
• We see Nakahara’s gang pissing on a sign that says “Urination Prohibited” but as we’ve already seen the commit murder and multiple rapes, did we really need this extra bit of lawbreaking?
• James Bond fans may recognize Tetsurō Tamba, who plays the corrupt politician Nagumo Zengo in this film, as the character of Tiger Tanaka in You Only Live Twice.
• Rei’s trademark red trench coat has me wondering if she wasn’t the inspiration for the look of thief/adventurer Carmen Sandiego.

“Where in the world is Zero Woman?”

Directed by Yukio Noda, this film is a brutal and nihilistic example of the pinky violence genre, and its aesthetic is pure 1970s grindhouse, with its gritty cinematography, garish colours, and a pulsating soundtrack that complements the film’s chaotic energy. Miki Sugimoto’s performance as Rei is a standout as she brings a stoic, almost emotionless quality to the character, making her seem more like a force of nature than a traditional heroine. Her cold demeanour and relentless pursuit of justice make her a compelling figure, even when the film delves into some deeply unsettling territory. Sugimoto’s screen presence is magnetic, and she carries the film with a combination of raw intensity and understated elegance.

She may be cold and ruthless, but she’s good at her job.

It’s safe to say that this film is not for the faint of heart, it is unapologetically violent, with scenes of torture, rape, and murder that are depicted graphically and unflinchingly, but beneath the lurid surface lies a fascinating commentary on the abuse of power and the corruption that permeates society. Rei’s journey is one of defiance against a system that is as corrupt as the criminals she faces, and her cold detachment and relentless pursuit of justice make her a compelling, albeit tragic, figure. With death and betrayal an ever-present danger, we can understand why Rei keeps herself detached from pretty much everything.

The cops are just as dangerous as the criminals.

However, Zero Woman: Red Handcuffs is not without its flaws. The film’s relentless focus on violence and degradation can be overwhelming, and at times it feels gratuitous. The narrative is thin, serving mainly as a vehicle for the film’s more shocking elements. This lack of depth can make the film feel more like an exercise in shock value rather than a fully realized story. Additionally, its treatment of women is problematic, often crossing into misogynistic territory, which can be difficult to reconcile with modern sensibilities.

Just let that soak in for a minute.

Despite these criticisms, Zero Woman: Red Handcuffs is an important piece of exploitation cinema. It captured the raw, unfiltered energy of 1970s Japanese genre films and pushed the envelope in terms of content and style, standing out as a raw and visceral piece of exploitation cinema. Its unrelenting pace and stark depiction of violence make it a memorable entry in the genre. For fans of Pinky violence or those interested in the darker side of 1970s Japanese cinema, this film is a must-watch. It’s a film that leaves a mark—both disturbing and intriguing, a testament to the era’s fearless approach to filmmaking.

Branded to Kill (1967) – Review

Seijun Suzuki’s Branded to Kill is not your typical gangster film, nor is it your typical anything. This 1967 film is not just a crime thriller – though it does feature the yakuza and a variety of hitmen – it’s more a fever dream where the boundaries between reality and fantasy blur, creating a cinematic experience that is as disorienting as it is fascinating. So let us take a look at a movie that defies categorization.

The film opens by introducing Goro Hanada (Jô Shishido), a professional assassin with a peculiar obsession: the smell of boiling rice. Hanada is known for his cool, detached demeanour and his precision in carrying out hits. He is married to Mami (Mariko Ogawa), a sultry and manipulative woman who plays a crucial role in his life and work but is also having an affair with yakuza boss Michihiko Yabuhara (Isao Tamagawa), which is as dangerous as it sounds. It is quickly established that Hanada’s status as the third-ranked hitman in Japan is revered and feared within the criminal underworld, but despite this prestige, he clearly wants to be number one. The first job we see him on involves escorting a client from Sagami Beach to Nagano and dispatching numerous killers along the way, proving he is quite good at his job.

 

“I’ve always hated escort missions.”

Unfortunately, things go off the rails. Hanada is hired by an unnamed client to carry out a series of assassinations, and while these assignments go smoothly until the final hit, where he is tasked with killing a foreign target, the mission goes awry when a butterfly lands on the barrel of his gun just as he is about to take the shot. This split-second distraction causes him to miss his target, a failure that marks the beginning of his downfall. This botched hit puts him in a precarious position. In the world of contract killers, failure is not an option, and Hanada soon finds himself the target of his own profession. The client who hired him is furious, and a contract is placed on Hanada’s life. This turn of events plunges him into a world of paranoia and danger, where he must constantly be on guard against those seeking to kill him. Of course, it’s not only murder and mayhem.

 

The life of a contract killer has its upsides.

During his downward spiral, Hanada encounters Misako (Annu Mari), a mysterious and morbid woman who becomes a pivotal figure in his life. Misako is a femme fatale with a death wish, seemingly indifferent to life and obsessed with death. She becomes involved with Hanada, and their relationship is marked by a strange blend of eroticism and nihilism. Misako’s ambivalence toward life and her desire to die creates a dangerous dynamic between the two.  The following exchange kind of sums up their relationship.

Misako: “I love you.”
Hanada: “Damn it! Don’t mock me! I could kill you with one shot!”
Misako: “But you won’t until you’ve ravished me.”
Hanada: “Damn it!”

 

Their relationship is complicated, to say the least.

As Hanada’s life unravels, he is pursued by the top-ranked assassin, Number One (Kôji Nanbara). Number One is a ruthless and enigmatic figure, seemingly invincible and always one step ahead of Hanada. The two engage in a deadly game of cat and mouse, with Hanada trying to survive while Number One methodically closes in on him. The film builds to a tense and surreal climax as Hanada and Number One face off in a final confrontation. The duel between the two hitmen is a psychological and physical battle, with Hanada pushed to the limits of his endurance and sanity. The outcome of their encounter is ambiguous, leaving the audience to question the true nature of Hanada’s fate.

 

“From Hell’s heart, I shoot at you.”

Stray Observations:

• Goro Hanada is the Japanese underworld’s third-ranked hitman, but I’d like to know how these rankings are achieved. Is there some form of Yelp review system for contract killings?
• Joe Shishido, whose surgically altered chipmunk cheeks are as unforgettable as the film itself, makes for a very odd but compelling hitman.
• Feeling up a woman whose hitman husband is in the next room does not seem all that conducive to a long and happy life.
• Hanada has sex on a metal spiral staircase, which I’d say is almost as dangerous as fending off numerous contract killers. It certainly can’t be all that comfortable.
• One of Hanada’s kills is through an opening in a billboard, which could have been borrowed from the Bond film From Russia with Love (1963).
• Sakura, the second-ranked hitman, is set on fire but still manages to run about 300 yards before Hanada shoots him dead. That’s got to be some kind of distance record.

 

This could make for a cool Olympic sport.

Branded to Kill is a kaleidoscope of visual experimentation with the director taking the tropes of the yakuza genre and twisting them into something unrecognizable and utterly unique. Visually, this film is a feast for the eyes as Seijun Suzuki and cinematographer Kazue Nagatsuka employ bold, inventive cinematography that includes stark black-and-white contrasts, extreme close-ups, and off-kilter framing. The film’s surreal style is matched by its erratic pacing, which can be disorienting but also exhilarating. It’s as if Suzuki is constantly pulling the rug out from under you, challenging you to keep up with his feverish vision. The editing is frantic, almost hallucinatory, chopping up time and space in a way that feels disorienting and exhilarating all at once.

 

What is real and what is simply cool filmmaking is for you to judge.

The story itself is a labyrinth of double-crosses, surreal encounters, and existential dread. The narrative itself is almost secondary to the film’s aesthetic and mood. While there is a plot—centring on Hanada’s attempts to survive as he becomes a target himself—it’s often overshadowed by the film’s eccentricities. Scenes shift from tense shootouts to dreamlike sequences with little regard for conventional storytelling. But that’s the point: Branded to Kill is more about the experience than the narrative. That deadly game of cat and mouse that makes up the film’s last act is as baffling as it is brilliant—a fitting end to a film that seems to exist in its own warped dimension.

 

A Killer Odd Couple.

But beyond the chaos, there’s something deeply cool about Branded to Kill. It’s a film that doesn’t care if you understand it; it just wants you to experience it. The characters are archetypal, almost mythical, with Hanada’s stoic demeanour contrasting sharply with the film’s more outlandish elements. The dialogue is sparse, with long stretches of silence filled only by the sound of footsteps, gunfire, or the incessant whir of a projector reel. The surreal landscape and bizarre characters all spin together to create an absurdist deconstruction of the crime genre that may have you questioning your own sanity.

 

Don’t ask me what’s up with all the butterflies.

As for our lead actor, Joe Shishido’s performance as Hanada is iconic; his chiselled cheeks and deadpan delivery make him a unique antihero. He’s a man of few words, driven by primal urges and professional pride, yet there’s a vulnerability to him that becomes more apparent as the film progresses. The supporting characters are equally memorable, especially Annu Mari as the enigmatic femme fatale Misako, whose death wish adds layers of intrigue and danger, making the film’s surreal world feel inhabited by equally surreal characters.

 

A femme fatale with a death wish.

In the end, Branded to Kill is a film that defies easy categorization. It’s a yakuza movie, but also a satire, a surrealist art piece, and a fever dream all rolled into one. The film’s legacy is undeniable. Despite its initial poor reception—leading to Suzuki’s dismissal from Nikkatsu Studios—Branded to Kill has since become a cult classic, influencing filmmakers like Quentin Tarantino and Jim Jarmusch. Its avant-garde approach to genre cinema has earned it a place in the pantheon of must-see films for cinephiles. It’s a movie that won’t appeal to everyone—its unconventional style and fragmented narrative can be challenging—but for those willing to take the plunge, it’s a wild ride that’s impossible to forget.

Tokyo Drifter (1966) – Review

Planning a career change can be tough, but it’s even tougher when your previous career was that of a yakuza hitman. With Tokyo Drifter, director Seijun Suzuki tackles this fun topic with a vibrant explosion of style and chaos, in a cinematic fever dream that eschews conventional narrative in favour of visual panache.

The plot centres on Tetsuya “Phoenix” Hondo (Tetsuya Watari), a former yakuza hitman trying to leave his violent past behind. This will goes as well as expected. The film opens with a stark, desolate landscape, where Tetsuya is being pursued by rival gang members, and while narrowly escaping we later learn that Tetsuya has decided to retire from his criminal life out of loyalty to his boss, Kurata (Ryuji Kita), who is also trying to go straight. Kurata’s gang is disbanding, hoping to legitimize their operations and leave behind the world of crime.

 

This goes as well as expected.

Needless to say, this decision does not sit well with rival gangs who see this as an opportunity to eliminate Kurata and his men. But as any good noir protagonist knows, escaping the clutches of your former life is easier said than done. The primary antagonist, Otsuka (Eimei Esumi), is the head of a rival gang, and he wants to take over Kurata’s territory and is particularly interested in acquiring Kurata’s office building. When Kurata refuses to sell, Otsuka plots to force him out of the picture. Tetsuya, who remains fiercely loyal to Kurata, becomes a target as well. Along the way, Tetsuya runs into Kenji “Shooting Star” Aizawa (Hideaki Nitani), a former Otsuka man who defected from the group and attempts to lure Tetsuya back into a life of violence.

 

“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

Despite his best efforts to live a peaceful life, Tetsuya is pulled back into the underworld. He is constantly pursued by hitmen hired by Otsuka, including Tatsuzo the Viper (Tamio Kawaji), and is forced to fight back in order to survive. Tetsuya’s internal struggle is palpable—he longs to leave his criminal past behind, but circumstances compel him to revert to his deadly skills. The theme song “Tokyo Drifter,” sung by Tetsuya, underscores his status as a man who can never truly settle down, forever drifting through life Tetsuya finds himself relentlessly pursued by rivals and former allies alike, forcing him to drift through a surreal, ever-shifting Tokyo landscape.

 

Nightclubs continue to be very dangerous working environments.

Unfortunately, realizing that Tetsuya’s presence is a liability, Kurata betrays him to save his own skin, agreeing to hand Tetsuya over to Otsuka. Betrayed by his mentor and hunted by both the Otsuka gang and his former allies, Tetsuya becomes a drifter, wandering through Tokyo and the surrounding areas. He is pursued by Otsuka’s men, leading to a series of violent confrontations. Tetsuya’s journey takes him through a variety of strikingly designed settings, from a desolate train station to a modernist nightclub. Each location is infused with a sense of surrealism, reflecting Tetsuya’s disconnection from the world around him.

 

“I hope an old-fashioned Western brawl doesn’t break out in there.”

In the final moments of the film, Tetsuya, now a true drifter, walks away into the distance, having severed his ties to both the yakuza and the people he once called friends, even leaving behind his girlfriend, Club Alulu singer Chiharu (Chieko Matsubara), and with his future uncertain he remains a man without a home, forever drifting, caught between the desire for a peaceful life and the violence that defines him. Tokyo Drifter closes with the haunting image of Tetsuya alone, embodying the film’s central theme of alienation and the impossibility of escaping one’s past. The vibrant, surreal visuals and the recurring theme song reinforce the sense that Tetsuya’s journey is as much a psychological odyssey as it is a physical one.

 

If you are a killer with a moral code, you’re allowed to wear white.

Stray Observations:

• Beating up a former yakuza enforcer to find out if we will fight back is something that will most likely come back to bite you in the ass.
• The film’s wonderful visual style was inspired by the 1971 anime Rupan Sensei, both feature characters in coloured suits, have a very comical and playful undertone, and have a general emphasis on entertainment over logic.
• You have to respect a professional killer who has his own theme song, and that Tetsuya sings it himself is even more impressive.
• The high stylization of the cinematography greatly influenced the work of Quentin Tarantino, and his films Kill Bill and Pulp Fiction owe a lot to Seijun Suzuki.

 

When style is the substance.

The film is a feast for the eyes, with Suzuki using bold, exaggerated colours and striking compositions to create a world that feels both grounded in reality and completely detached from it. Every scene is meticulously crafted, whether it’s a gunfight in a blindingly white snowfield or a nightmarish nightclub showdown bathed in neon lights. The film’s style is so overwhelming that it often feels like the story is secondary to the visuals. This isn’t a complaint, though—Suzuki’s style is the story. This is a unique cinema experience as every frame is meticulously composed, blending pop art sensibilities with traditional Japanese aesthetics. This is not a Tokyo of bustling streets and crowded markets, but a dreamlike cityscape where danger lurks in every corner and the line between friend and foe is blurred.

 

A world where even morally questionable friends can help in the end.

The film’s narrative is intentionally disjointed, reflecting Tetsuya’s fractured psyche as he navigates his treacherous world and Yasunori Kawauchi’s screenplay consists of sparse dialogue, often cryptic, leaving much to interpretation. This can be disorienting for those expecting a straightforward gangster flick, but for those willing to embrace the chaos, it’s a thrilling ride. Suzuki plays with genre conventions, infusing the film with a surreal, almost operatic quality that elevates it above the standard yakuza fare of the time.

 

We get both gun battles and sword fights, what’s not to love?

The characters in Tokyo Drifter are equally stylized, especially Tetsuya, who embodies the cool, detached anti-hero archetype. Dressed in his iconic powder blue suit, Tetsuya drifts through the film with an almost Zen-like calm, even as the world around him descends into chaos. He also really knows how to rock a powder blue suit. Watari’s performance is perfectly in tune with Suzuki’s direction, offering a protagonist who is as much a part of the film’s aesthetic as the set designs and colour schemes.

 

You have to respect a nicely stylized gun battle.

In conclusion, Tokyo Drifter isn’t for everyone. Its fragmented narrative, surreal visuals, and stylized violence can be alienating. But for those who appreciate cinema that challenges conventions and embraces the avant-garde, it’s a masterpiece. Suzuki’s film is a kaleidoscopic journey through the underworld of Tokyo, where honour and betrayal collide in a blaze of colour and sound. It’s a film that stays with you, lingering in the mind long after the credits roll, much like the haunting refrain of Tetsuya’s theme song.

Black Tight Killers (1966) – Review

If you want proof that the 1960s were a weird and wonderful time, look no further than Yasuharu Hasebe’s Black Tight Killers, a dazzling slice of Japanese cinema that oozes with the stylish excesses of that era. This film is a fever dream of pop art visuals, jarring violence and quirky humour, all set against the backdrop of a zany espionage thriller. What more could you want?

The story follows Daisuke Hondo (Akira Kobayashi), a suave war photographer who has just returned to Japan after covering the Vietnam War, and shortly after arriving home he becomes embroiled in a dangerous and mysterious plot after meeting a beautiful flight attendant named Yoriko (Chieko Matsubara). But Yoriko is not just a typical damsel in distress; she is being pursued by a group of ruthless assassins known as the “Black Tight Killers” and this group of go-go dancing femme fatales wield everything from boomerangs to blow darts with deadly precision, and they are willing to kill anyone who gets in their way. Of course, getting killed by this group falls into the category of “There’s worse ways to die.”

 

At least your death will be stylish and amazing.

And what exactly are the Black Tight Killers after? They are in search of a treasure map that Yoriko unknowingly possesses, which is said to lead to a stash of  World War II gold, that her father hid before he died. As Daisuke and Yoriko try to evade the relentless pursuit of the Black Tight Killers, they uncover more layers to the conspiracy. It turns out that these beautiful assassins are not the only ones after the treasure. Okada (Hiroshi Nihon’yanagi) a man who claims to be Yoriko’s uncle. but is actually in league with a local criminal named Sabu (Eiji Gô) – who has his own gang of thugs – is also after the gold, and our two hapless leads are caught in the crossfire of these two forces. The situation becomes more complicated as the lines between friend and foe blur, with betrayals and double-crosses adding to the tension. The film’s rapid-fire plot is simply chock-full of a variety of cartoonishly evil villains, ones that you can’t wait to see dispatched.

 

All that is missing from these guys is a bag of money labelled “loot.”

Stray Observations:

• The Japanese title for this movie is “Ore ni Sawaru to Abunaize” which literally translates to “Touching Me is Dangerous” and is definitely a great title.
• Hondo is held under suspicion of murder but is released because his friend points out to the police “Why would a man commit murder while on a date?” Yeah, can’t argue with that logic.
• Hondo is photographed as he grabs a knife found in the back of a recently murdered man, much as what happened to Cary Grant’s character in Hitchcock’s North by Northwest. Do people not understand it’s a bad idea to grab a hold of a murder weapon?
• As heroes go Hondo’s abilities are a bit suspect, Yoriko is kidnapped four times right from under his nose. If it wasn’t for the Black Tight Killers poor Yoriko would be a goner.
• The Black Tight Killers utilize something called “bubble-gum bullets” and if that is not an actual thing it certainly needs to be because while throwing stars are cool blinding someone with bubble gum is next-level fun.
• One of the Black Tight Killers uses a technique called “Octopus Pot” which is to seize a man’s penis with the walls of their vagina, and I must say, James Bond was lucky to never encounter that tactic.
• Honda has his own gadget supplied by his mentor Momochi, and he provides him with such devices as the “Momochi Vanishing Ball,” a canister of laughing gas, as well as something called the “Momochi Secret Canon.” He’s basically this film’s “Q” from the Bond films.
• The fact that any time our hero teams up with one of the Black Tight Killers, no matter how briefly, it almost always results in them dying in his arms and is something I found a bit distressing.

 

This does make the original title “Touching Me is Dangerous” more appropriate.

The plot, involving a hidden treasure and double-crosses galore, is more an excuse for director Hasebe to indulge in psychedelic visuals and over-the-top action than a coherent narrative and while the film isn’t quite on par with what you’d expect in your average martial arts film of the time – it’s more on par with what you’d find in a Dean Martin Matt Helm spy-comedy – but it’s that delightfully over-the-top quality that makes this film so enjoyable. Expect plenty of high-flying martial arts, absurdly fun gadgets and enough plot twists to make your head spin. Each confrontation with the Black Tight Killers is a set piece filled with ingenuity and flair, showcasing the film’s knack for blending suspense with campy fun.

 

Adam West’s Batman would feel right at home here.

The film’s visual style is its most striking feature as each moment literally bursts with vibrant colours, rapid edits, and creative camera angles. Simply put, Black Tight Killers is a feast for the eyes. Every frame is a kaleidoscope of 60s fashion, kitschy set designs, and inventive action sequences, all brought to life by the brilliant cinematography of Kazuo Nanbu who brings an almost cartoonish energy to his work, lending the film an air of gleeful absurdity. But what truly sets Black Tight Killers apart is its unashamed embrace of pulp sensibilities. It’s a film where logic takes a backseat to style, where the most unexpected objects become weapons, and where the line between reality and comic book fantasy is delightfully blurred.

 

How can you not love a film with this kind of aesthetic?

Akira Kobayashi is perfectly cast as the dashing hero, effortlessly cool in his turtlenecks and trench coats, navigating the chaos with a bemused grin. His chemistry with Chieko Matsubara adds a touch of romance to the otherwise frenetic pace of the movie. The supporting cast, particularly the Black Tight Killers themselves, are a colourful assortment of characters that keep the film entertaining even when the plot threatens to lose focus. Yet, beneath its playful surface, there’s a subversive edge to Black Tight Killers. The film plays with the tropes of the spy genre, turning the traditionally male-dominated narrative on its head by giving the most memorable roles to its female characters. The Black Tight Killers, though villainous, are empowered figures who command attention in every scene they occupy and their final fate is the only painful element in this excellent action flick.

 

“Damn, lost another one.”

In conclusion, Black Tight Killers is a rollicking blast from the past that combines the best elements of spy thrillers, action films, and mod fashion into one unforgettable package and would make a great double bill with the likes of Danger: Diabolik or Modesty Blaise. It’s a film that doesn’t take itself too seriously, and neither should you. Just sit back, relax, and let this psychedelic, action-packed gem transport you to a time when danger came in the form of stylish femme fatales and every moment was a potential explosion of fun.

Xanadu (1980) – Review

With financial musical flops like Doctor Dolittle, Camelot and Hello, Dolly! losing millions at the box office, studios became wary of green-lighting more of the same, but then along came a smash hit called Grease, starring Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta. It must have seemed like a great idea to cast Olivia in another musical, and as soon as possible, and hey, why not throw in Gene Kelly to sweeten the pot? How could it possibly fail?

The story—what little of it exists—follows Sonny (Michael Beck), a disenchanted artist who is stuck painting album covers rather than creating his own original art, but he gets inspired when a literal Greek muse named Kira (Olivia Newton-John) glides out of a mural to help him… open a roller disco. That’s right: a roller disco. Not to save the world. Not fall in love convincingly. Just… open a venue with light-up floors and jam sessions that feel like rejected Solid Gold routines. The plot kicks off when Sonny meets Danny McGuire (Gene Kelly), a clarinet-playing, fedora-wearing ex-nightclub owner with a heart full of nostalgia and a closet full of 1940s charm. Sonny and Danny bond over their love of music, dreams, and the fact that Olivia Newton-John has also mysteriously inspired them both—though Danny met her decades ago and didn’t notice she hadn’t aged a day.

 

Red flag? Nah. She’s just that magical.

With her twinkly-eyed encouragement, Sonny and Danny decide to open a nightclub—a roller-disco-palace-of-dreams hybrid that only makes sense if you’re high on cotton candy and synthesizer solos. It’s called Xanadu, because why name a nightclub after anything other than a Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem that reads like it was written on mushrooms? Sonny falls in love with Kira, because how could he not? She’s beautiful, mysterious, and communicates primarily in soft-focus montages. But uh-oh! Kira reveals she’s not a regular girl; she’s a muse—immortal, divine, and bound by cosmic rules that definitely weren’t explained earlier. Her dad is Zeus (Wilfrid Hyde-White), who’s apparently cool with disco but not with inter-dimensional dating. Can true love overcome such an obstacle? Could these two mine even more musical nostalgia than ever thought possible?

 

“Is it okay if we reference Singin’ in the Rain?”

The club opens! There’s a massive roller disco, people in spandex and feathers, Gene Kelly roller-skates like it’s 1942, and Olivia Newton-John performs a musical number that bends time and fashion. Then Kira vanishes into the cosmic void… or does she?! Because a waitress who looks exactly like her appears at the end, suggesting maybe she gave up Olympus to hang out with Sonny in Los Angeles and help him paint more record covers. Confused? Don’t worry, it’s not supposed to make sense, but that’s part of the charm. This is a film that dared to ask: “What if Greek muses wore roller skates, disco never died, and Gene Kelly agreed to do one more musical purely out of confusion?”

 

As bad as things get, Gene Kelly can still dance.

It should be noted that Kira’s character is based on an actual mythological character, Terpsichore, the Muse of Dance. But comparing Xanadu to Greek mythology is like comparing a glitter roller disco to Mount Olympus — both are magical in their own way, but this film swaps togas for leg warmers and adds a whole lot more synth. It’s less concerned with mythological accuracy and more about creating a dreamy, surreal vibe where art, love, and disco intertwine. So it’s safe to say that the writers of Xanadu took a few creative liberties with Greek mythology—more disco ball than dusty scroll. Here are a few things the film gets wrong (or at least wildly reimagines).

 

1. Romance with a Mortal

In the movie, Kira (Terpsichore) falls in love with Sonny, a mortal, and wants to stay with him.

In mythology:

• The muses are usually aloof and divine, not romantic leads, and they don’t typically leave Mount Helicon or Olympus to hang out with struggling L.A. artists.
• Terpsichore herself is never romantically linked to mortals—she’s busy inspiring dance, not dating skaters or big band leaders.

Mythology mismatch: Muses don’t typically date mortals, and if they do, there are consequences. Think tragic endings, not happily-ever-after nightclubs.

 

2. Roller Disco as Divine Inspiration

The entire plot of Xanadu hinges on building a roller disco as some kind of inspired act of art.

In mythology:

• Artistic inspiration means epics, tragedies, music, and poetry.
• A roller disco wouldn’t quite make the cut for divine praise in ancient Greece.

Mythology mismatch: This might be the only time the gods have facepalmed from Olympus.

 

3. Zeus and Hera as Cosmic Parents

Zeus and Hera appear as disembodied, bickering parents who allow Kira to visit Earth. It plays more like a magical sitcom than Mount Olympus.

In mythology:

• Zeus is often meddling and philandering, but not usually portrayed as a sitcom dad.
• Hera is more wrathful than understanding—especially when it comes to mortals and affairs.
• Mount Olympus has also rarely been depicted as something from the Disney film Tron.

Mythology mismatch: Zeus and Hera wouldn’t be calmly negotiating over a Muse’s curfew. Think lightning bolts or unpleasant transformations.

In Summary, Xanadu doesn’t get Greek mythology wrong so much as it reimagines it as a glitter-fuelled fantasy. It’s more roller boogie than Homeric epic, and that’s kind of the point—mythology as a launching pad for music, love, and neon-tinted escapism.

 

The neon budget must have been through the roof.

The film’s most glaring flaw is not its divergence from Greek mythology, but its indecisive tone. Xanadu wants to be everything: a tribute to the golden age of musicals, a vehicle for contemporary pop music, a fantasy romance, and a celebration of the roller-skating craze. But it never fully commits to any of these genres, resulting in a narrative that feels more like a sequence of disconnected music videos than a cohesive story.  If Xanadu has a soul, it’s in its style — a gaudy, kaleidoscopic fever dream of animated interludes, glowing costumes, and endlessly spinning roller skates. The production design is occasionally interesting in an abstract way, like an art deco theme park filtered through a lava lamp. Not to mention a few fashion crimes along the way.

 

The 80s were certainly something.

Things aren’t much better on the acting side of things. Olivia Newton-John brings a glowing presence to Xanadu — she’s sweet, luminous, and effortlessly likeable. But charisma alone can only go so far. As Kira, a Greek Muse come to Earth, Newton-John’s performance is airy and soft-spoken, but the role lacks depth. Her line delivery is often flat, and the romantic moments feel forced rather than heartfelt. That said, she excels in the musical sequences, where her warmth and stage presence shine. When she sings or dances, she lights up the screen.

 

When she speaks? Less so. 

Michael Beck was perhaps an unusual choice for a romantic lead in a musical fantasy, mostly known for hi starring role in Walter Hill’s The Warriors. His performance here is stiff and wooden, particularly in the more romantic or comedic scenes. Beck struggles to convey the starry-eyed wonder the role demands, and his chemistry with Newton-John is lukewarm at best. He often looks bewildered — which, to be fair, might have been an honest reaction to the film’s increasingly surreal plot. He has leading-man looks, but no magnetism or warmth to carry the film’s romantic arc. He’s a blank canvas — which might be appropriate for a character who needs a Muse — but not an engaging protagonist.

I

 barely buy Sonny as an artist, let alone a love interest.

Gene Kelly, a screen legend in his final film role, brings a touch of old-Hollywood magic — and a palpable sense of professionalism — to Xanadu. His performance is easily the most grounded and genuine in the film. He’s charming and relaxed, and his brief dance numbers are a bittersweet reminder of his once-electrifying screen presence. But even he can’t elevate the weak material much. One gets the sense he agreed to this movie out of curiosity or nostalgia rather than inspiration. In fact, sources claim that Gene Kelly took this one last spin (literally, on roller skates) in Xanadu partly because the filming location was close to his house.

 

Gene Kelly was the quintessential triple threat.

Stray Observations:

• The movie opens with Sonny tearing up one of his sketches and throwing it into the wind, and the pieces find their way to the muses. This is similar to how Mary Poppins got her job notification. Wait a minute, was Mary Poppins a Greek muse?
• The plot of this film borrowed heavily from 1947’s Down to Earth, where Rita Hayworth also played the Greek muse Terpsichore.
• Gene Kelly’s character, Danny McGuire, also appeared in the 1944 film Cover Girl—played by Kelly himself. So, Xanadu is technically a sequel… just with more spandex.
• The film’s nightclub setting was actually the Pan-Pacific Auditorium in Los Angeles—a beautiful Art Deco landmark that had fallen into disrepair. Sadly, it was destroyed by fire in 1989.
• We get a “Battle of the Bands” number between a 1940s big band and an 1980s glam rock band, sadly, we are the losers.
• Michael Beck is not a singer, but instead of having him dubbed by somebody who can sing, his character simply doesn’t sing at all. Which is definitely a choice, just a strange one for a musical.
• While reading the definition of “Muses” in the dictionary, the description ends with “Do you believe me now, Sonny?” This gag is a complete lift from the Jimmy Stewart comedy, Harvey.
• The rotating star stage used in the final musical sequence was originally featured in the carousel sequence of the movie Logan’s Run. 

 

I’m betting no one was screaming “Renew!” after this film came out.

Directed by Robert Greenwald, Xanadu was the cinematic equivalent of licking a glittery glow stick while roller-skating through a lava lamp. It wasn’t just a movie—it was an out-of-body experience where plot, logic, and fashion went out for cigarettes and never came back, and despite the shortcomings in plot and character, Xanadu does boast a few notable strengths. The soundtrack, largely composed by Jeff Lynne of Electric Light Orchestra, is undeniably catchy. Songs like “Magic,” “Suddenly,” and “All Over the World” became hits, even as the film floundered. Visually, the movie is often striking, with bold colours, elaborate costumes, and over-the-top production design that captures the flamboyant spirit of late-70s/early-80s entertainment. The film’s commitment to its aesthetic—however misguided—gives it a surreal charm that’s hard to replicate.

Note: There is an excellent Don Bluth animated sequence, which is one of the best things in the movie, but it exists solely because they couldn’t organically work another song into the plot.

Released in the summer of 1980, Xanadu was intended to be a sparkling cinematic spectacle—a joyous collision of classic Hollywood musicals and modern pop culture. Instead, it was met with critical derision, commercial disappointment – Esquire magazine famously summed up the movie in a single sentence: “In a word, Xana-don’t” – and not to mention the confusion audiences who weren’t sure if they had witnessed a movie, a dream, or a very expensive roller-disco hallucination. But despite flopping hard on release—and earning a reputation bad enough to help inspire the creation of the Golden Raspberry Awards, Xanadu has developed a cult following. It’s a glittery time capsule of a moment when Hollywood tried desperately to ride the disco wave… just as it was crashing. So, that’s something.

 

Who knows when inspiration will strike again?

In conclusion, Xanadu is what happens when you give a fog machine a film budget and tell it to follow its heart. It’s a beautiful disaster—completely incoherent and wildly excessive. Xanadu may not be a good movie, but it’s a memorable one. A neon-lit, roller-skating, synth-pop spectacle of ambition gone awry. A musical misfire so bold in its weirdness, you can’t help but admire the audacity.