Cleansing the lens of cinematic perception, for your aghast befuddlement

Wednesday, January 23, 2019

Six Dope Analog Sci-fi Nugs (1978-87) Now Streaming on Prime

Biiitch, and I mean you youngsters, you're all spoiled with your blah blah, but (cranky presuppository position insert), back in the day all we had was STAR WARS, and its special effects were analog - the ships were made with model airplane parts; the stars were made by poking pins through black felt and shining a light behind it. Child, we made everything ourselves, high as shit on Testors fumes circulating in our D&D dungeons. Computer Graphics were still at the Pong-stage. Atari was just giant pixels floating around. Life in space was tactile. And anyway, the big problem with STAR WARS? Just one woman in the whole thing. It was crush on Carrie or get lost. Corman and New World and the Italians, watching the box office from the wings, they knew - add more babes with guns, scrap the John Williams pomp, crank up the jams, let fly. 

Often maligned as imitations by us pre-teen virgin nerd film snobs at the time, today these scrappy influence-gathering sci-fi pack rats glow anew, and for a very simple reason: their tactile analog special effects, 35mm film and solid HD restoration bring us the vivid tactility, deep colors and film grain so lost in modern movies (mostly) and which we never saw in these films original pan and scan VHS versions.  Italian import films especially can look like shit on pan and scan as their directors make full use of widescreen for their imagined drive-in audience's windshield. Now with restored HD colors and anamorphic widescreen on a solid HD TV with deep blacks (like my beloved Sony Bravia), oh my my my! 

(1983) Dir Lamont Johnson 
*** / Amazon Image - A+

Time and widening sharpening HD video has been especially kind to this weird fusion of elaborate junkyard art design and middling everything else. What was once just another blatant PG blender-pureed Star Wars Road Warrior virgin cocktail (Molly Ringwald as the semi-feral ragamuffin- her red hair niftily color-coordinated with her dirty clothes) now beguiles and corrupts. Filmed in 3D (as the plethora of things flying right at the camera will confirm), it holds up better in 2D now that the whole (wide, anamorphic) screen is visible (the reviews at the time pointed out that with the 3D glasses it was too dark - and indeed there is a lot of shadow and night/twilight scenes that probably got lost in 3D or on pan and scan home video). I guess that means no more being a 16 year-old smartass bemoaning seeing his beloved Road Warrior wasteland besmirched with a PG rating, terrible cropping, and a bratty redheaded tomboy (at least she didn't have an 80s perm).

The plot is a bounty hunter free spirit on a rescue mission to a wild wild planet (virtuous maids held captive by a slavering bandit chief in a big metal rig as he's all crippled by his own lascivious evil). Peter Strauss is the mercenary; his assistant is a cute girl who's killed in the first big firefight after the hostages are whisked away by crazy glider hooks (a very cool stunt!).  Now it's personal, he's going into the Forbidden Zone to get those girls. His particular set of skills includes acting scruffy and rouge-ish, Han Solo meets Mad Max. But Peter Strauss may not be Harrison Ford, or even Christopher George, but he is in the league of, say, Andrew Prine, and sometimes Prine is enough.

Still, it's the spectacularly termite-detailed art direction that makes it work. Cars are immaculately dirty and surreal; the sail -(wind powered)-trains are life size and move on actual railroad tracks; the hang gliders swoop down and capture people in low hanging talon attachments - not models but real life (invisible wires etc); characters show up out of nowhere on roofed circular motorcycles; a barrage of deflated Michelin man-style blubber people come sliding obscenely forth from hanging cocoons; big trippy neon tunnels suck soul energy; and--the big highlight climax--Molly Ringwald is thrown into the pit to try and survive an obstacle course spring-activated buzz saws, spikes, whirring lawnmower blades, fire jets, and an ever advancing spike-fronted bulldozer. Hot damn!

Funny enough, the main reason my buddies and I sneered at this film at the time was due to our reverence for the original source material, i.e. The Road Warrior. Why did we sneer when, nary two years later, George Miller destroyed that reverence himself in Thunderdome when he brought all those kids aboard, choking the mise-en-scene with a cadre of scruffy orphan on a kookie train. The Tina Turner hit song and big bounce back from Ike media splash (her imperious overacting still lingers in my mind, "Raggedy Man" yeah right) and a 'Thunderdome' that includes bungee bounciness. What's next, George? An ewok? And don't make some lame joke about Angelo Rossitto. The man is a treasure. I didn't care for having to imagine a whole layer of pigshit under the city. That's disgusting, George!

It was a rough time to be a teenager, the mid-80s, during sequel fever. Greedy filmmakers forgot all the best films we saw repeatedly in theaters--Raiders, Ghostbusters, Conan, Star Wars -- had no kids in them. It was like they'd turned to writing of the sequels over to TV sitcom hacks for whom learning kids liked a movie meant putting actual kids in the sequel, which is a kind of dumb "you got an F in viewer psychology class and all you got was this lousy 7-figure writing gig" habit of Hollywood's. So Star Wars developed an ewok problem the same year (1983) as Spacehunter came out; Raiders of the Lost Ark's 1984 sequel had that insufferable Short Round, even Ghostbusters 2 (also 1984) had to have a baby in it. As I've said, kids hate to see themselves in movies unless they're legit savages -see CinemArchtype 21: The Wild Child - rather than merely slightly scruffy brats with big black velvet painting eyes.

Well, Ringwald gets a pass because, though her acting is all over the place, at least she's a girl, and cute, and not insufferable. Well, she's kind of insufferable, but the color coordinating of the maroon-brown clothes and her cherry red hair go a long way.

So, let's bury the hatchet and savor the anamorphic HD screen and Amazon's lovely streaming print allows us to savor Ringwald's red hair against the harsh burnt umber sky of a strange planet so elaborately and creatively detailed I thought at first it had to be a Dino de Laurentiis production, made with Ron Cobb, John Barry or Anthony Masters or someone at the art direction helm. The amount of creativity in this repurposed junkyard planet look, and the weird creatures and dangers met along the way, is well beyond the capacity of the story or direction to do justice to. It's like a quick museum tour through some elaborate interactive space that requires way more time and attention then the rushed guide is giving. The bad guy's big lair is about three stories tall and full of so much welded-together artfully-rusted bric-a-brac it should have been made into a permanent interactive art installation the moment filming wrapped. I can only imagine the sorrow of the craftsmen who labored on such spectacular mise en scene only to have it all torn down after the wrap, see the film barely recoup costs, and then have 90% of all their work lost on pan and scan home video, never---as far as they knew--to be seen again. Redemption ahoy!

For example, the space above, a beautifully natural-industrial flooded cavern/basement kind of environment, neither indoors nor out, with mangrove tree roots that are actually pipes, and so forth, is the kind of 'in-between' zone Antonioni would approve of were he making a sci-fi film in his post-structuralist Red Desert period. And then these sex hungry sirens cohere out of the mist, debating whether to use our wandering mercenary Peter Strauss for breeding purposes, a great idea (he's into it), but that's scuttled almost immediately with the arrival of a small dragon/snake thing (like an X-mas garland with teeth) which the sirens are all afraid of but seems easily dispatched by their spears or elaborate nets. That's a wrap on the sirens - were they edited out to make this a "G" rating? No one even mentions them again. and YET, Strauss and Molly Ringwald are too scared to go back into their parked car; they escape up a hatch to the surface and leave their car behind so they can wander the desert and almost die of thirst. Jesus - why didn't they just back the car out? It makes little sense, and this great set and sexy siren thing is just forgotten for the rest of the picture- we're onto another gorgeous, creatively ingenious set, should have been an art installation, but Strauss and Ringwald just run through it and it's never seen again.

Lastly, in my continuing push to restore some kind of platonic good faith between women and straight men, I recommend the film not just for the beautiful visions and creativity of the sets and vehicles, but also the unique relationship between Molly and Peter Strauss's characters. There's never any sexual intention between either one of them - never even a thought of it. She's obnoxious, but that's okay - I like she cuddles up to him in the dead of night because she's cold, but that it's no more than that for either of them or for the director, script or any unspoken subtext. She's more an adopted orphan, a scrappy Oliver, a Dr. Who companion, and his disinterest in even having her around speaks to, ironically enough, his worth as a mentor. It's a testament to a more innocent time, when real men were trusted to be caregivers of teenage redheads because, unlike celibate priests or pent-up nerd weirdos, they were laid, loose and not Archie Lee desperate or Humbert creepy.

Best of all, PG or no, it all ends with cocktails, evoking the spirit of Howard Hawks!

(1980) Dir. Jimmy T. Murakami, Roger Corman
Script by John Sayles; Art director: James Cameron
(New World) - *** / Amazon Image - A+

The idea that this film was actually put out by Corman's New World seems absurd- it looks like a movie that would today cost at least 100 million today. Imaginatively written by John Sayles, adapting the Magnificent Seven/ Seven Samurai, it's got a zingy cast including John Saxon as the evil warlord; Robert Vaughn as a professional killer hiding in a dusty old space arcade; starry-eyed Richard Thomas as the John Boy-meets-Luke hero; George Peppard as a kind of Han Solo meets cowboy truck driver (truckers were still 'in'); buxom Sylvia Kristel as a diminutive Valkyrie; and--a personal favorite--a robotics engineer played Darlanne Fluegel, whose haunting gray eyes perfectly counterbalance her 80s-anticipating ironed blonde hair and gray-piped pink jumpsuit, as the breeding-ready love interest. How did John Boy get so lucky?

James Cameron worked in the art direction unit, which--as with his work on Galaxy of Terror--may partly explain why it's all so stunningly gorgeous, every frame pops to the point Star Wars now seems hopelessly square by contrast. Just dig the ship John Boy flies in (above) - it's both phallic and fallopian, like some Frank Frazetta barbarian lost a fight with a sexy slug. Why wasn't there a toy version of that instead of the tiresome Falcon or Tie-Fighters? I'm also a big fan of the cozy spaceship and planet interiors, full of warm hued-lighting and interesting touches that give them a 70s shag carpeted / older brother's van bedroom aura. Every ship has its own homey touch, you want to live in them and get to know these people (most of them anyway), but since it's a Corman joint it has to be over in under 90 minutes so Roger can save money on film cans. (Would there was a longer director's cut).

There are still negative voices out there for this movie, but if they're going by some old video pan and scan or other, they need to shut dey mouths and watch it again... in Prime's widescreen restored-color version it pops and glows and beguiles. And if they don't appreciate Sayle's weirdly Buddhist script (lotsa talk about the 'Vardas' preaching nonviolence) or the gorgeous matte shots and creative ideas bouncing all over the place, then to hell with them. For me, the only sour note concerns the scarfaced moron underlings of Sador, who have balding ginger 'fros and piggy noses, and attitudes typical of those smirky slob horndog types in bad early-80s teen movies who always have food on their shirts and are saying crude things about girls. You know the guys I mean, they give all guys a bad name. Though this a PG they pick up a peasant girl and presumably rape her in the back of their spaceship (she comes out form the back room with her dress torn and crashes their ship for them in retaliation, killing herself in the process - it's an oddly sleazy addition, unnecessary moment --one wonders why it's kept in when so much other interesting stuff was clearly taken out). There's also some weird misplaced hostility from John Boy with the arrival of Kristel's valkyrie, and her sudden appearance as a right-sized (and how!) maiden is never explained. If I have to get this minor to quibble, you know I loved it. Hubris kept me from watching it at the time -- it seemed such a blatant ripoff to my 13 year-old Star Wars-ophile senses (Empire Strikes Back was out the same year) but now I could care less about Star Wars whereas I'm a big-ass fan of Battle Beyond the Stars. Hey, it even has more than one female character! Maybe George Lucas should have been ripping it off instead of vice versa?

(1978) Dir. Luigi Cozzi
** / Amazon Image - A
If you're watching all these as part of an Acidemic-azon Prime festival, let me warn you that it's better to watch this one first, because the FX are so crude it can feel like you just got demoted to the kid's table. That's not to say that--in their badness-the special effects are not peculiarly charming, especially if you were a kid in the 70s and remember Lite-brite ("making things with light / what a sight, making things with Lite-brite"), HO scale airplane models (I had a whole London blitz dogfight hanging over my bed); and erector sets, from childhood. These three elements of any 70s kid's toy collection seem to comprise the bulk of Starcrash special-effects tool kit. But hey, the film is still a blast... a big terrible blast. Directed by the "Italian Ed Wood," maestro Luigi Cozzi (working here, as he often did, under the Americanized 'Lewis Coates'), Starcrash moves so fast from cliffhanger to cliffhanger it seems to have more in common with one of those compressed feature film versions of the 1936 serial Flash Gordon (right down the helmets, and the hero's escaping his/her stint shoveling fuel into the enemy blast furnace) more than its clear source in$piration, the previous year's Star Wars.

The story has outer space adventuress Stella Starr (Caroline Munroe) squaring off against her future Maniac co-star Joe Spinell. As the evil-laughing, mustache-twirling, cape-swirling Baron, Spinell is clearly having fun so it's too bad he (as well as Munroe) are so blandly dubbed by other people. In league with "dark forces," the Baron has created a weapon "so vast, so huge, it would take a whole planet... to conceal it," Clearly, when Coggi does stop to rip off Star Wars, he doesn't kibitz -- (there's even an actual light saber at one point). On the other hand, his real yen is clearly to do The 7th Voyage of Sinbad in space -and to that end there's a stop-motion giant 'metallic' warrior woman guarding a beach, a sword fight with a stop-motion skeleton, a benevolent stranger in a gold mask, treachery from an evil double agent, Caroline Munroe (that's why Cozzi cast her and made sure she brought her heavenly midriff). But that's just the half of it!

Now the bright side: even if you don't like Munroe's co-star Marjoe Gortner (perhaps due to some archaic prejudice against overly white teeth and curly towheads) one has to admit that--maybe thanks to his being an ex-child evangelist--he handles the scenes of mystical magical force-casting with admirable dead-eyed focus (and mouth closed). Though he may be quite diminutive, his red and black leather uniform is way cool.  Munroe's 'sexy' outfit looks like it was cut out of a naugahyde car seat by contrast, though it's still a striking image that cuts through the years like a knife (especially if you're old enough that you remember her Starlost magazine cover). But oh, if only there was more of the evil Amazon queen, Corelia (Nadia Cassini -above)! Tossing off classic bon mots ("put her in the mind probe!") in her repurposed gladiator movie brocade, tossing her dynamite bangs back from her eyes, tossing Stella to the mines, she's very.... memorable. With a few extra lines she might have been a new Aura or a gender-reversed Vultan. Sadly, like every other challenge they wiz past, Stella and the Gort escape from her clutches mere seconds after falling into them, Cozzi just can't wait to dash ahead.

With already twice the number of cool chicks than Star Wars, would there was time to stop and appreciate any of the high camp weirdness before rushing onto the next exhibit. By the time we meet the king of the universe (you can tell he's important because his ship is bright gold and he's dressed in all sorts of Versace-ish golden chains and frills), we're out of breath, like an old parent dragged through an aquarium by a sugar-addled first grader.

Luckily there's one such old parent waiting at the end of the rainbow: the emperor of the universe, Christopher Plummer. Barely conscious, the one pure male heart left in Hollywood does a great kind of reverse hamming, trailing off into elliptical pauses for effect (or to remember his lines): "you must sail... to the haunted stars.... and find the count's... secret ship... and destroy it."

Barely talking in a whisper, while schmaltzy grand piano refrains in the background, we feel the greatness enter the room in fisher king style.

As for John Barry's titanic score, Legend has it that Cozzi didn't let him see the actual film while he was composing, lest he back out of the deal, which was a smart move. Barry treats the material like it's big budget grandeur and rises to the task, and and so yeah, it sounds wayyy too much like decade-old Bond cues hammered into Williams 'rousing sci-fi adventure' refrains. Yeah, David Hasselhof pops out from behind a golden mask (yo!) and yeah, we're like 'why couldn't he and the Gortner swapped roles? That-a been so choice. So many 'why couldn't?'s to count... but that's Coates!

As we pop along, sometimes things get too ridiculous even for the Italian Ed Wood: Hasselhof uses a gold demon mask to shoot lasers at a bunch of savages so he can rescue Stella during the big outdoor cave sequence, but THEN he throws his helmet down to fight hand-to-hand, and loses! And then, viola! now they both need to be rescued. The whole purpose of the Death Star (sorry, I meant "planet-sized weapon") is to explode it in the prince's face before he can successfully de-activate it? Whaat? Who cares? It's already over, and you can't wait to go again! 

Dude, find Cozzi's HERCULES and start the madness anew. The same erector set is used, this time for flying monsters, three-headed dragons, and... I already forgot. Praise this kind nepenthe.

(1987) Dir. Mel Brooks
*** / Amazon Image - A-

Time's been kind to this lumbering doofus of a film.  A favorite of good friends of mine, it never used to make it past my three strikes rule. Strike 1) the off-the-beat comedic hamming of Rick Moranis as 'Darth Helmet' (it's a big helmet - get it!?), 2) the gross eating habits of Barf (John Candy's dog-wookie character), and 3) the disgusting 'Pizza the Hut'. But those are just the breakwaters, the first five or ten minutes. Once someone made me stick around to the end I started to really vibe with this film, especially once Daphne Zuniga (base hit!) shows up as a runaway bride in a gorgeous wedding gown exposing her toned, lithe, tan, bare shoulders. Escaping Prince Valium and capture by the Imperial Fleet by jumping into the space Winnebago of Bill Pullman as the Han Solo, her charm takes over the picture and lifts it over ugly hurtles. Pullman and Zuniga have a palpable chemistry and play the whole thing deadpan straight, which helps immeasurably especially when we have to endure oversize sight gags like the industrial strength hair dryer and the troopers 'combing' the desert.

Brooks makes films for a big audience to laugh at, loud and progressively raucous, in a theater. That means that, after every single pratfall, he pauses for presumed guffaws. But it's OK not to sob instead, quietly, at home, for he also clearly loves genre films; he makes movies that endure because they take the time to hit all the mythic narrative bases, deliver a respectful look and feel of his sources (The cinematography and special effects are all as good as any other decent post-Star Wars rip), showing again Brooks never forgets t, and best of all, to avoid ephemeral pop culture references beyond its designated genre.  Lovely detours into poker-faced absurdist post-structuralism (as when the bad guys watch a VHS tape of Spaceballs to figure out their next move, but wind up forwarding to the exact spot they're watching the film in) and when the Yiddish-accented Yogurt (Mel Brooks) showing off his collection of Spaceballs merchandise ("ver da real money is made") give it enough of a deconstructed edge you don't feel too stupid for liking it. Brooks also plays the evil emperor, as basically the same corrupt mayor he played in Blazing Saddles (only instead of a buxom redhead secretary to bark at (woof!) there's an 80s punk-short haired imperial officer onscreen at the urinal (hmmm). Joan Rivers provides the voice for the cockblocking C3PO chaperone and there's some great inside bits like sound effects guy Michael Winslow as a radar technician and John Hurt in his Nostromo duds chowing down at the local space diner (uh oh).

Really though, what puts it all over, for me, and gets me watching again and again (after decades of resistance because of the first 15 minutes of gross-outs and lame slapstick) is that Daphne Zuniga as the princess spending the whole film wild and lovely, with toned, tan bare shoulders in beautifully tattered runaway bride wedding dress, blowing up whole armies when they dare to mess up her perfect (down and free-flowing --no constricting buns or coils) hair; or the heated moments of near-hooking up between her and Pullman (cockblocked by Joanie's robot) they both play so straight and so well. Such moments are medicine for an ailing psyche, and if they work to allay a panic attack, one becomes a bit loyal to them. Spaceballs has already led me safely out of two such crises! Such is the power of the schwartz and Brooks' innate love of classic genre cinema, even if we're supposed to laugh when Barf molests a waitress with his errant tail. Barf, you aptly-named cretin, the days when that was funny are gone forever! The Schwartz decrees it so.

(1980) Dir. Stanley Donen
**1/2 / Amazon Image: A

Kirk Douglas plays "the Major" i.e. Adam, a hydroponic botanical scientist trying to solve a rapidly dying world's food shortage in an experimental, octopus-armed hydroponic garden in a cave.... on Saturn's third moon (so far you've got biblical allegory and Ringo Starr lyrics - and we've barely begun!). His Eve is a girl half his age, played by Farrah Fawcett, his lover and assistant, and rather naive. She's never even been to earth! She doesn't know how lucky she is. So Earth comes to her, in form of insecure (but with excellent eyelashes) Harvey Keitel. As Benson, Keitel lets you know they're so hard up on Earth they eat dogs, and everyone has to share sex partners, or else it's stealing, and people take pills called 'blues' just to relax enough to fall asleep. Yes please! He lusts for Farrah, thinks it's unfair Adam gets her all to himself, especially since he's obsolete, old, and 'inadequate.... in every area!" Benson meanwhile is building a giant robot to help them garden, but it goes crazy when Benson inadvertenly uploads his own stalker obsession onto Hector's organic hard drive. Thus begins a very long interesting stalk and chase sequence, as there's no way to radio for help while S3 is on the far side of Saturn's rotation, Hector has all the time in the world to lumber around the tentacles of the garden after our fleeing lovers. Does Hector stand for the razzing the December end of May-December relationship receives from his racketball buddies? Or is Hector himself a symbol of time's relentless attack on the male libido?

The best elements are, without a doubt of this fossil from a pre-Star Wars age of adult themed sci-fi (back when priapic middle-aged white men were still allowed to be punk rock about facing their demise), is the detailed and highly imaginative art direction, costumes, sets and effects are all of a unique, highly organized mixture of organic and mechanical: bizarre green/black insectoid space suits, a robot chassis styled after Da Vinci sketches, and winding hallways through the cavernous rock lit with an array of white, green and gleaming blue luminescent wires and pipes, like a combination giant human arterial system, ocean floor tentacle mazes and Space Port at the mall. Good music too, and Kirk is clearly feeling it - his fuck you to the social order at the end gets me cheering every time, even if it's from within my own navel. (full)

(1981) Dir. Bruce D. Clark
**1/2 / Amazon Image - A 

I read all the hostile reviews when this movie came out (in the local print newspaper, as was the style of the time) and, being caught up in my 14 year-old feminist phase, I blanched in horror (the slasher craze was going full bore at the time and the theater ad page looked like a frat boy's basement slaughterhouse), so I dismissed it outright, furious and appalled that the sickos were being pandered to.  Little did I know it would hold up so well, not for any special reason but, like Battle Beyond the Stars, from surfeit of imagination, aided in no small measure by ambitious production designer James Cameron and the genius of cinematographer Jacques Haitkin (Nightmare on Elm Street). You'd never guess this Alien clone was all shot in the Corman lumber yard lickety-split but it sure looks great. In fact, in one of those art imitates its own imitation things, James Cameron got the Aliens sequel largely because of this film. And no wonder! The space ship interiors are gorgeous, cozy and amniotic (love those padded walls); the strange mist-enshrouded giant space pyramid the crew scale and enter is a haunted world of eerie gel lighting worthy of Bava.

The crew is there to investigate, a bit like in that movie, what was it called? Alien? But what they find are demons of all sorts. Each meets their doom in a brutal, gory ironic way. The cook (Ray Walston) knows more than he's saying, but just smiles enigmatically when questioned and then volunteers for the dangerous work. And what a crew! Sid Haig plays a weird cult member whose devotion to his 'crystals' as his only weapons borders on absurdism (they break so easy it's a wonder they lasted him a week); Robert Englund (another future Elm-Street-er) winds up fighting himself (don't we all?); Erin Moran (Joanie!) is an empath who's not loving the weird vibes of this planet and she's claustrophobic (naturally she must slide through constricting embryonic tunnels; slug-ophobic Taaffe O'Connell provides the sex appeal in a questionably tasted but classic demise; Zalman King provides the scowling and brooding menace; Soulful-eyed Edward Albert is the Tom Skerrit natural leader, the one quickest to conquer his inner demons, and to empathically steer the crew above their surly bickering. The captain of the voyage is played by Grace Zabriskie with her usual alien-eyed conviction. She's one tough old salt, calling everyone "boy," like "come get some chow, boy." And somehow seeing her wide-awake face lit only by those cool red dashboard lights makes me feel grounded. Sure, she ends up going down tough as a burnt steak, but I don't think there's ever been a female space commander quite like her since. Or before.

Trouble is, the film moves so fast that you've barely met her, or anyone else, before their ranks dwindle down to almost nil. (Corman's got to get all the reels into one big film can, remember?) Better, though, to want more than one gets than to get more than one wants. Speaking of fast, see if you can spot that little stop motion lizard man thing from Joe Dante's Piranha. And if the end of the ride comes too soon, too super strange and mystic, to satisfy, don't get uptight: you can always go back and ride it again. That's the joy of the Prime. You don't even need to rewind anymore. Not even Phillip K. Dick could have predicted that kind of televisualization.


  1. I always skip past these, but will take some time for them, now. I did watch LIFE FORCE a couple of weeks ago on the Prime. I always thought that I had already seen it, but really just saw clips and remembered the big spread about it in Starlog. I loved it so very much, for, as the kids say these days, All The Reasons. (sub cousin category - Also watched The Eyes of Laura Mars - what a peculiar movie)

  2. Titan Find (aka Creature) was always a guilty fave of mine back in the day :)


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