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.

Eliminators (1986) – Review

1986’s Eliminators plays like somebody dumped a box of mismatched action figures on the floor, yelled “movie!” and started filming. Imagine if a sleep-deprived screenwriter watched The Time Machine, Robocop and an Indiana Jones film back-to-back, then rewrote them all in one delirious weekend with a $15 budget and a stack of VHS tapes from the clearance bin, that’s this movie in a nutshell.

The film begins with the introduction of Mandroid (Patrick Reynolds), a former pilot who has been transformed into a half-man, half-machine warrior by the villainous scientist Dr. Abbott Reeves (Roy Dotrice).  Reeves is using this cyborg, which is equipped with interchangeable robotic arms, cybernetic implants, and—most impressively—a lower-body attachment that allows him to swap his legs for tank treads when necessary. Reeves, an evil genius obsessed with time travel, has been using Mandroid as a test subject for his experiments, and to say that Reeves is not the most compassionate of employers would be a vast understatement.

 

“I was kind of hoping for the Ark of the Covenant or the Holy Grail.”

After a successful mission transporting a piece of ancient Roman armour through time, which causes John to regain fragments of his human memories, Reeves orders his assistant, Doctor Takada (Tad Horino), to dismantle the Mandroid and remove its memory, as this particular creation is no longer required for the furtherance of his evil goals. A sympathetic Takada warns Mandroid of this turn of events and aids in his escape. He dies helping the hero escape, which is par for the course in this kind of thing. Still, before dying, he tells Mandroid to find scientist Col. Nora Hunter (Denise Crosby), who is responsible for designing various parts of the Mandroid, as he will need her help in stopping Reeves from enacting an evil plan.

 

“I knew working with a mad scientist was a bad idea.”

After escaping, John heads to the United States, hoping to find Nora Hunter, and while he does find her, one spunky scientist isn’t enough to take down someone as evil as Dr. Abbot Reeves. This leads to the formation of our “Action Team,” which consists of wisecracking riverboat pilot Harry Fontana (Andrew Prine), who gets swept up in the adventure purely for the payday but ends up being surprisingly useful. That he looks like he escaped straight out of the comedy Romancing the Stone is beside the point. More importantly, we have Kuji (Conan Lee), a ninja who is seeking revenge against Reeves for killing his father, Doctor Kanada, because 1980s action movies legally required at least one ninja. And… A CAVEMAN. Yes. A literal caveman shows up because why not?

 

What’s a time travel movie without some cavemen?

Now fully assembled, this ragtag group of heroes will set off on their perilous journey, battling Reeves’ henchmen, dodging jungle traps, and engaging in high-speed boat chases along the way. When they eventually infiltrate Reeves’ fortress, the team discovers the full extent of his twisted experiments. Reeves isn’t just content with cyborg soldiers, he’s building an entire army of time-travelling warriors to rewrite history in his favour. What is his ultimate goal? As mentioned, he plans to use time travel to become the supreme ruler of the past and the future. But can our team save the sacred timeline? Will Nora fall for Fontana’s roguish charm? And will our cyborg hero have to face off against an upgraded version of himself? Let’s just say that Charles Band and company will leave no cliché unturned.

 

“Iron Man, eat your heart out.”

Stray Observations:

• Our hero’s origin story involves a plane crash and advanced science saving his life and turning him into a cyborg. I guess the writers were fans of The Six Million Dollar Man as that’s how Steve Austin got his start.
• Mandroid use a rocket launcher attachment to blow a hole in a stone wall to escape, rather than just driving through the wooden gate two feet to the left. To be fair, explosions are cool.
• To travel incognito from Reeves’ South American jungle lab to the States, Mandroid covers his clunky cyborg parts with a hat and a poncho. Brilliant. No notes.
• Nora has a small robot that looks like a cheap knock-off of VINCENT from Disney’s The Black Hole. Which, in turn, was a knock-off of R2-D2.
• Throughout the film’s entire running time, our band of heroes is never called or referred to as Eliminators. Did some corporate branding agent come up with it?

 

Raiders of the Lost Plot.

This movie was directed Peter Manoogian but more importantly it was produced by Charles Band, the man behind such classics as Metalstorm: The Destruction of Jared-Syn and Trancers, is as goofy and silly as Eliminators turned out to be should shock no one, that said, the story laid out here barely holds together, jumping from one ridiculous scene to the next like a drunken game of hopscotch. One minute we’re in a lab, the next we’re in the jungle, then suddenly…Surprise! Ninja attack! There’s no flow, no logic, and no reason for anything that happens. The aforementioned scientist is your standard-issue cackling villain, with a vaguely European accent, and with a lair that looks like it was built from leftover Bond movie props.

 

“You try building a proper lair on this kind of budget.”

As for the special effects, let’s just say that the Mandroid’s suit looks like it was made out of cardboard and duct tape, and that’s being kind. Mandroid even has a detachable tank body, which is hilarious until you realize how painfully unwieldy it moves. This “tank mode” should be an exciting feature, but it’s so slow and impractical that it feels more like a joke than a cool sci-fi gimmick. This guy couldn’t chase down a turtle on a sugar crash. And let’s not forget the villain, Abbott Reeves, a discount Doctor Doom who wants to rule ancient Rome. Yes, you read that right. The evil scientist’s grand ambition isn’t world domination, unlimited power, or even money; he wants to go back to ancient Rome and rule it with his advanced technology. What’s his endgame? Sell futuristic togas? Invent pizza early? We’ll never know, because he fails spectacularly.

 

“Damn you, and your little cyborg too.”

The acting? It’s about as lifeless as the Mandroid himself, who speaks in a monotone voice from the school of Robocop. It’s the least intimidating cyborg voice ever, making every line he delivers sound like he’s struggling with a bad Wi-Fi connection. Roy Dotrice doesn’t fare much better as the villain; he chews scenery like he’s starving, and it doesn’t help that his evil plan to conquer ancient Rome sounds like something a third-grader came up with. Finally, we have Denise Crosby, who would later find fame in Star Trek: The Next Generation, but she’s fighting a losing battle against some of the worst dialogue ever written. She’s trying way too hard to take things seriously while everything around her is pure nonsense. Props to her for keeping a straight face!

 

“Resistance is futile.”

And let’s talk about the action. You’d think a movie featuring cyborgs, ninjas, and explosions would at least deliver some fun, right? Wrong. The fight choreography is stiff, the effects look like they were made with a $20 budget, and the “high-tech” weaponry is laughable. Mandroid’s tank treads might be the slowest-moving action vehicle in history. There are explosions, laser battles, and plenty of B-movie one-liners. Without spoiling too much, let’s just say that when the dust settles, justice is served, bad guys are defeated, and cyborg-tank legs prove their worth. Despite all of this—or maybe because of it—Eliminators is an absolute riot. It’s the kind of movie that makes you wonder if the filmmakers were in on the joke or if they genuinely thought they were making the next big sci-fi blockbuster. Either way, it’s a glorious mess that delivers non-stop unintentional laughs. 

 

And seriously, who doesn’t love ninjas and cyborgs?

If you ever wanted to see a movie where a cyborg in tank treads teams up with a ninja and a riverboat captain to fight a time-travelling Roman emperor wannabe, congratulations, you’ve found the perfect film. Peter Manoogian’s Eliminators is a goofy, nonsensical film so full of bizarre choices that it’s impossible to look away. Whether it’s the terrible effects, the bonkers plot, or the fact that someone thought this was a good idea, it’s a must-watch for lovers of cheesy sci-fi schlock. Just make sure to bring plenty of popcorn…and maybe some aspirin.

Cinderella (1977) – Review

It’s hard to believe there was a time when you had to leave the house, buy a ticket, and sit with strangers to watch something naughty. Long before OnlyFans, streaming tabs, and the infinite scroll of regret, erotic films were a legit theatrical business. 1977’s Cinderella is a leftover artifact from that era, when soft-core smut – or even hard-core porn- tried very hard to be a movie and sometimes accidentally succeeded.

We are quickly introduced to the lovely Cinderella (Cheryl Smith), who lives a life of nonstop humiliation at the hands of her two deeply unpleasant stepsisters, Drucella (Yana Nirvana) and Marbella (Marilyn Corwin), and her aggressively lusty stepmother (Jennifer Stace), a household where cruelty is a hobby and personal boundaries are treated as optional suggestions. She scrubs, sighs, and sings her way through misery, dreaming of escape and clinging to optimism like it’s a flotation device in a sewer. This is less “once upon a time” and more “once upon a prolonged bad decision.”

 

Wardrobe malfunction?

Elsewhere in the kingdom, there is the Prince (Brett Smiley), who is rich, bored, and emotionally dead inside, having discovered that excess has dulled all sensation. His parents, the perpetually sniping King (Buckley Norris) and Queen (Pamela Stonebrook), decide the solution to this is obvious: throw a giant ball and hope novelty fixes everything. The Royal Chamberlain (Kirk Scott), is tasked with inviting women to this event, but spends most of his time prioritizing personal gratification over basic job competence, turning a simple errand into a series of delays and detours. The Queen also orders the King to explain the birds and the bees to their son.

 

“He is twenty-one, after all.”

News of the ball sends Cinderella’s stepsisters into competitive overdrive, convinced they’ll be the ones to conquer the Prince’s famously unmoved heart and treat the event less like a royal gathering and more like an athletic competition. They mark the occasion by tormenting Cinderella one last time, dumping filth on her and reminding her exactly where she ranks in the household hierarchy before strutting off in triumph. Left alone, filthy, and emotionally wrecked, Cinderella collapses into sleep, and the film promptly rewards her with a nightmare that trades metaphor for blunt force.

 

Is this symbolism or just plain weird?

Salvation arrives in the form of a wanted cat burglar and self-proclaimed transvestite “fairy godmother” (Sy Richardson), who discovers Cinderella’s plight while fleeing the law. What starts as opportunistic theft becomes genuine assistance once Cinderella is cleaned up and revealed to be, shockingly, gorgeous. Armed with a mysteriously functional magic wand and a midnight deadline, the Fairy Godmother sends Cinderella to the ball with an enchanted pussy to make her unforgettable. At the ball, the Prince finally feels something; chaos ensues, midnight strikes, and what follows is an endurance test masquerading as romance, culminating in recognition, pardons, and a surprisingly communal idea of a happy ending.

 

And they lived hornily ever after.

Stray Observations:

• The film treats musical numbers like commercial jingles for bad ideas, and they work far more often than they should.
• The movie was only rated “R” in North America, thus we were allowed to see full frontal nudity of women but not men, because the penis is evil.
• Drucella and Marbella get pleasured by pedal-powered vibrators made from corn cobs, and all I can say is “That’s one way to pop your corn.”
• The Royal Chamberlain stumbles across two maidens having a lesbian tryst, because it’s not a proper sex film without some girl-on-girl action.
• While this film has more than its requisite lesbian moments, most of it is of an incestuous nature, which adds to the kink factor…I guess?
• The “recognition test” plot device is equal parts hilarious and horrifying, the longer you think about it.
• The Fairy Godmother is somehow the most ethical character in the movie, which says more than intended.

 

This film also has the weirdest magic wand.

Michael Pataki’s direction walks a careful line between parody and participation, and that balance ends up being the film’s greatest strength. He understands the premise is ridiculous and leans into it without turning the whole thing into a sneer, staging scenes with cheerful efficiency and playing the comedy straight even when the situations are anything but. That approach is supported by Joseph Mangine’s cinematography, which does far more work than strictly necessary, with warm lighting, clean compositions, and a genuine effort to make the film visually pleasant rather than merely functional. This isn’t shot like something meant to be hidden under a mattress; there’s colour, movement, and the occasional flourish that suggests someone behind the camera actually cared how this particular strain of nonsense looked. I’d also be remiss if I didn’t point out Christine Boyar’s wonderfully period costumes, which blend whimsy and eroticism perfectly.

 

17th-century France never looked lovelier. 

Cheryl Smith is the real secret weapon, grounding the film with an open-faced sincerity that gives the chaos something human to cling to. She plays Cinderella without irony or apology, committing fully to charm and vulnerability, and without that conviction, the movie would disintegrate into a pile of half-related gags. Her performance is sharpened by the stepsisters, played wonderfully by Yana Nirvana and Marilyn Corwin, who gleefully lean into cruelty and stupidity with zero interest in nuance. Nirvana is venomous and calculating, Corwin smug and dim, and neither softens the edge to chase sympathy. Together, the three create a clean, effective dynamic: one genuinely decent soul trapped between two unapologetic monsters, giving the film a surprisingly sturdy emotional spine under all the musical smut and fairy-tale filth.

 

These two aren’t your typical “ugly” stepsisters.

As an erotic film of its era, Cinderella sits comfortably alongside oddities like Alice in Wonderland: An X-Rated Musical Fantasy and Flesh Gordon, films less concerned with shocking audiences than with amusing, titillating, and mildly embarrassing them for buying a ticket. The comedy is uneven but mostly effective, and the songs are catchier than they have any right to be, the kind that linger long after the film has ended, whether you invited them to or not. The sex itself occupies an awkward middle ground: explicit enough to repeatedly stall the momentum as characters pause to perform or spectate, but too restrained to feel fully committed. A harder lean into an R-rating might have allowed the musical comedy to flow, while a full plunge into triple-X territory could have justified the interruptions. Instead, the film keeps tripping over its own intentions, never quite deciding whether it wants to be playful smut or smut that occasionally remembers it’s supposed to be funny.

 

Keep your Eyes Wide Shut.

In conclusion, Cinderella is a bizarre, catchy, frequently funny relic from a time when erotic cinema still pretended to care about plot, music, and character. It’s silly, oddly sweet, and far more memorable than it has any right to be, even when it sabotages itself with pacing issues and indulgence. This is absolutely not the version parents should accidentally grab off the shelf, expecting talking mice and a glass slipper.