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.

Young Sherlock Holmes (1985) – Review

From Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce to Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law, cinema has produced no shortage of takes on the world’s most famous detective and his steadfast companion, Dr. Watson. Some versions stick closely to Conan Doyle’s text, while others sprint off in their own, more enthusiastic directions. Then, in 1985, Barry Levinson and Chris Columbus asked a far more interesting question by reimagining Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson altogether: “What if they’d met as children?”

The mystery kicks off with a series of murders committed by a mysterious hooded figure using a blowgun to shoot its victims with thorns, which would then induce nightmarish hallucinations resulting in their apparent suicides. Our young Sherlock Holmes (Nicolas Rowe) gets involved when his mentor Rupert Waxflatter (Nigel Stock) becomes the latest casualty, uttering the final word “Eh-Tar” to Holmes, and our hero becomes obsessed with solving what he believes to be a series of murders. Helping Holmes solve this mystery is Waxflatter’s niece, Elizabeth Hardy (Sophie Ward), who is also Holmes’ love interest, and John Watson (Alan Cox), new to the school but eager to become Holmes’ friend and assistant.

Note: The film endangers itself by dropping in “origins” for all of the classic Holmes tropes, as if we needed to know where he got his deerstalker cap or pipe.

Holmes, Watson, and Elizabeth follow the trail to a shadowy Egyptian cult called Rame-Tep, who are out for revenge. Which, as cults go, is at least a step up from waiting for a comet. We learn that years ago, a British expedition defiled a sacred tomb in Egypt, and now the descendants of those explorers are dying one by one via blow-darts laced with hallucinogenic nightmares. The cult operates from a hidden underground temple in the middle of London because, you know, zoning laws weren’t a big thing back then. Our teenage trio crashes a cult ritual (never a good idea), rescues a would-be sacrifice, and nearly gets roasted alive by torch-wielding robed maniacs. Not to mention, some weird tonal shifts.

 

Cute killer desserts?

The investigation leads to a shocking twist: the kindly Professor Rathe (Anthony Higgins), who was Holmes’ fencing teacher and father figure, is actually the sinister cult leader, going by the name Eh-Tar, and the school nurse, Mrs. Dribb (Susan Fleetwood) is Rathe/Eh-Tar’s younger sister and his cult’s second-in-command as well as chief assassin. The film concludes with a chilling duel between Holmes and Rathe on the icy Thames in an epic final showdown. Rathe falls through the ice, seemingly to his death, while Holmes, badly bruised and emotionally wrecked, faces an even greater tragedy: the death of Elizabeth.

 

A pretty dark ending for a kids’ movie.

Stray Observations:

• A story about three school kids, two boys and a girl, who have to team up to fight evil was a nice training ground for screenwriter Chris Columbus, who would later helm the first two Harry Potter movies.
• Nigel Stock, who plays Waxflatter, played the role of Dr. Watson in Sherlock Holmes (1964).
• Uncle Waxflatter’s whirlybird was modelled after Leonardo da Vinci’s sketches — adding to the film’s steampunk-adjacent aesthetic before “steampunk” was a term.
• The deduction sequences are visual and flashy — a style that would be copied in Sherlock and the Downey Jr. films.
• The villain using an elaborate contraption to pour boiling wax over his victim is very reminiscent of the Vincent Price movie House of Wax.
• A post-credit scene (rare for its time!) teases Holmes’ future arch-nemesis in a cheeky nod that predates Marvel’s stingers by decades. It’s a bold little wink that rewards diehard Holmes fans.

 

Sadly, no sequel was forthcoming.

Director Barry Levinson brought an unusual seriousness to what could have been a lightweight adventure, as the tone is often dark and brooding, particularly in its hallucinatory sequences, which blend gothic horror and fantasy in ways that push the boundaries of a PG-13 film. Aided by cinematographer Stephen Goldblatt, the movie bathes in mist, candlelight, and gothic textures, giving us a pervasive sense of dread, but also awe and an appropriate blend for a film exploring the early trauma and brilliance of a future great detective. And while not directed by Steven Spielberg, his fingerprints are all over this. There are thrilling chases, creepy hallucinations (some of which remain surprisingly eerie), and a sense of youthful discovery. 

 

Youthful rebellion against authority.

The hallucination scenes are standout sequences, including cooked killer Cornish hens, a nightmare of pastries coming to life (both comical and disturbing) and a chilling stained-glass knight that comes to life in a landmark achievement in early CGI animation by Industrial Light & Magic. That stained-glass knight was the first fully CGI-animated character in a feature film, pre-dating even the more famous T-1000 of Terminator 2. It’s a brief but jaw-dropping sequence that hints at the future of cinema.

 

When science and religion meet.

At its core, Young Sherlock Holmes is a story about identity formation and emotional awakening. The film portrays Holmes not as the fully-formed, emotionally detached genius seen in later interpretations, but as a brilliant, passionate, and occasionally impulsive teenager. Nicholas Rowe’s portrayal gives the character depth and vulnerability, particularly in his romantic relationship with Elizabeth Hardy. This emotional layer—largely absent in Doyle’s Holmes—adds poignancy to the film’s tragic climax and helps explain Holmes’s later emotional reserve. In this way, the movie bridges the gap between Holmes the boy and Holmes the man, suggesting that his experiences as a teenager shaped the stoic figure readers would come to know.

 

Having good villains is also a big plus.

One of the film’s most distinctive features is its willingness to incorporate fantasy elements. The central mystery involves a secret Egyptian cult conducting ritualistic murders using hallucinogenic darts that cause victims to experience vivid, often terrifying visions. While some purists might object to the “supernatural” overtones, the film’s gothic atmosphere and visual inventiveness elevate it beyond standard genre fare, aligning it with other Spielberg-produced projects of the era, such as Goonies and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

 

Sherlock Holmes and the Temple of Doom.

Thematically, the film addresses the pain of loss and the difficulty of growing up. Holmes is repeatedly confronted with failure, vulnerability, and grief—experiences that humanize him and offer viewers a glimpse into the emotional cost of genius. His romantic loss at the end of the film serves as a turning point, one that transforms him from an idealistic youth into the emotionally guarded detective the world would later know. This trajectory adds weight to the character’s psychological development and lends the film an unexpected gravitas. The film even dares to explore Holmes’s vulnerabilities, particularly through his romantic relationship with Elizabeth, which lends real emotional weight to the climax.

 

A dash of tragic teen romance to spice things up.

In conclusion, Young Sherlock Holmes is a fun and poignant coming-of-age story that feels like a blueprint for the modern YA mystery genre. A brisk, spooky, and imaginative adventure that turns the origin story of the world’s most famous detective into a YA thrill ride. It’s not canon, and it’s not particularly faithful, but it’s got heart, flair, and a dash of Spielbergian awe. It may be “elementary,” but it’s certainly entertaining.

Can’t Stop the Music (1980) – Review

In what can best be described as a glitter-smeared trainwreck, Can’t Stop the Music tried to ride the disco wave just as it was collapsing into a rhinestone-studded sinkhole. It’s a musical fantasy loosely inspired by the formation of the Village People, and more accurately, a monument to what happens when camp, chaos, and coke-fueled optimism collide on screen with no brakes. This is a disco fever dream that proves you can stop the music, and maybe should have.

If there were ever a film that defined the phrase “so bad it’s good,” Can’t Stop the Music would be leading the conga line. The film tells a fictionalized origin story of the Village People, and it begins in New York City, the only logical setting for a movie where a struggling composer named Jack Morell (Steve Guttenberg) dreams of making it big in the music industry. Jack has beats in his heart, polyester in his soul, and a synthesizer in his kitchen. He just needs the right voices—and an outlet with more than just a fondue pot and a dream. Enter Samantha Simpson (Valerie Perrine), a high-powered former model turned record executive turned… Jack’s friend and business cheerleader?

“What do you mean, I’m not the film’s love interest?”

Samantha believes in Jack’s talent and takes it upon herself to help him find singers and secure a record deal. She also just casually has the connections to do it, including a few with ties to the fashion elite and record execs because, of course, she does. And somehow, she manages to run into every type of performer imaginable, who all seem to be wandering around Greenwich Village. Enter Ron White (played by Olympic gold medallist Caitlyn Jenner, then Bruce Jenner), a straight-laced tax lawyer from St. Louis who is just trying to understand what the heck is going on. His transformation from square to sparkle is… dramatic.

To be fair, Jenner is all about transformations.

Ron gets swept into Samantha’s madcap plan to promote Jack’s music and helps wrangle what eventually becomes the Village People: a cowboy, a construction worker, a cop, a Native American, a soldier, and a leatherman. These six archetypes appear one by one, as if the movie is assembling the disco Avengers. This newly formed group sets out to get a record deal, but they’re blocked by industry snobs, shady managers, and the challenges of managing six very different personalities, leading to such highlights as a completely bonkers “YMCA” number that turns into a full musical within a fitness centre, complete with fountains, synchronized towel twirling and a little psychedelic.

Burn off calories and brain cells.

Amid the chaos, Jack continues pushing his music, and Sam fights to keep the group together. After various near-misses and misunderstandings, the group finally lands a performance in San Francisco for a major live concert event. This culminates in a glittering, over-the-top finale where the Village People perform the title song, “Can’t Stop the Music,” to a screaming, disco-hungry audience. Everyone gets their big moment in the spotlight, and the message is clear: you can try to shut down disco, but you can’t stop the music, no matter how hard you try.

Couldn’t they have prayed a little harder?

Stray Observations:

• For some reason, roller skating became synonymous with disco, with both fads hitting their peak in the 70s but vanishing as quickly in the 80s. However, rollerblades have managed to keep their pastime alive. Sadly, disco never got a streamlined version.
• The lead role was originally offered to Olivia Newton-John, who turned it down to do Xanadu. I’d say she dodged a bullet, but I’ve seen Xanadu.
• The Village People barely act. They mostly show up in various fabulous outfits, say a few lines, and perform. They’re like Pokémon in bell-bottoms, summoned when the script demands a dance break.
• Despite being about the Village People, the movie never explicitly acknowledges any of the group’s subversive queer appeal. It’s like someone invited you to a Pride parade and then claimed it was just a “colourful fitness expo.”
• It was this film, playing on a 99-cent double bill with Xanadu, that inspired John Wilson to create the Golden Raspberry Awards in 1980.
• With a budget of around $13.5 million, the film was considered one of the most expensive musicals ever made upon release. I’d love to know where the money went. It was cocaine, wasn’t it?

I wonder what the glitter and sequin budget was?

Directed by Nancy Walker – then best known as a sitcom actress – this was her directorial debut, that it was also her one and only time directing a feature film is no surprise, but it can’t all be blamed on her. When this film hit theatres in 1980, disco was already on life support by this time. While the genre had dominated the late ’70s, it was by this point being culturally dismantled by backlash, mockery, and even outright hostility, embodied most famously in 1979’s “Disco Demolition Night” in Chicago. Into this increasingly hostile environment came Can’t Stop the Music, a glitter-bomb of a film that attempted to celebrate disco at its most flamboyant, centring around the real-life pop phenomenon of the Village People. A movie full of bizarre choices and truly baffling moments.

Their version of “Danny Boy” will leave you questioning reality.

The script by Allan Carr and Bronté Woodard was less a cohesive story and more a kaleidoscope of camp spectacle, with over-the-top musical sequences, ranging from Broadway-style showtunes to full-blown disco extravaganzas featuring spandex, glitter, and synchronized choreography that defy logic and taste in equal measure. “Milkshake,” “Y.M.C.A.,” and the title track are each given extended set pieces that feel like music videos stretched to absurd lengths. These numbers themselves are both the film’s raison d’être and its most outrageous crimes. Lavishly produced and drenched in sequins and absurdity, the songs go on forever, with choreography that’s half high-school musical, half Studio 54 fever dream.

Note: The “Milkshake” number was literally sponsored by the American Dairy Association. This over-the-top dance sequence wasn’t satire, it was actual product placement. Somewhere in an office, dairy executives approved that glittery, shirtless choreography was the way to go.

The film seems caught between being a traditional MGM-style musical and a surreal disco fantasy. The editing is haphazard, the pacing sluggish, and the dialogue deeply awkward. The acting is frequently amateurish, with Jenner’s performance standing out as particularly stiff. Even the camera work often feels more like a TV special than a big-screen production. The entire thing plays like an unintentional parody, which would be forgivable if it didn’t run for a bloated two hours. Worse, it commits the ultimate musical sin: it’s boring between the insanity. The dialogue is flat, the humour is awkward, and the whole thing feels like it was edited with a disco ball instead of a blade.

Cinema took some wild turns in the 80s.

Yet, despite (or perhaps because of) these flaws, the film radiates a kind of sincere naivety. It’s trying so hard to entertain—to be big, bold, happy, and inclusive—that it can’t help but win some affection from audiences who appreciate camp or kitsch. It is a fascinating contradiction: at once a corporate product of disco commodification and an unintentional celebration of queer culture and joyful excess. And let’s be clear: if you enjoy camp, spectacle, or roller disco, Can’t Stop the Music has some treats for you as the musical numbers are truly jaw-dropping—not because they’re great, but because someone thought…

“Yes, this should absolutely be in a movie.”

In conclusion, Can’t Stop the Music is a fascinating cinematic artifact: a movie made with confidence in a cultural trend that had already passed. It is overlong, underwritten, and often incoherent, but it is also sincere, colourful, and defiantly committed to its vision. As a piece of filmmaking, it is undeniably bad. As a window into the extravagant optimism and theatrical absurdity of late-’70s pop culture, it is priceless.

Sextette (1977) – Review

There are cult classics, there are vanity projects, and then there’s Sextette, a film that somehow manages to be both, and neither, all at once. Whether you find the result horrifying or hilariously watchable depends entirely on your tolerance for the absurd.

Based on West’s own stage play, Sextette tells the story of an aging yet still adored screen siren on her sixth honeymoon, this time with a young British aristocrat. The plot—such as it is—features a revolving door of diplomats, ex-husbands, and Cold War hijinks. Our story opens in a five-star London hotel, where Hollywood legend Marlo Manners (Mae West), the world’s most famous actress, sex symbol, and international icon, is enjoying her sixth honeymoon. Yes, sixth. Marlo’s new husband is Sir Michael Barrington (Timothy Dalton), a handsome, dashing British aristocrat who’s somehow not put off by the fact that Marlo is, well, 84 years old and speaks like she’s being dubbed in slow motion.

 

The couple of the…century?

But this is no ordinary honeymoon…oh no. Marlo’s hotel suite becomes the epicentre of international chaos. Global delegates have descended on the hotel for a peace conference (don’t ask why it’s in the honeymoon suite), and everyone is distracted because Marlo Manners is in the building, as international politics grinds to a halt when Mae West saunters by in a feather boa. Enter the ex-husbands. One by one, Marlo’s previous lovers start popping in, like ghosts of poor decisions past. First, we have Alexei Andreyev Karansky (Tony Curtis), a Russian delegate at the conference, who threatens to derail the intense negotiations unless he can have another sexual encounter with her. Not to be outdone by a Russian, we have Laslo Karolny (Ringo Starr), a mystic film director/rock star who talks like he’s stoned and disappears after one scene. That he escapes that early means his agent did something right. But will Marlo make the ultimate sacrifice for world peace?

 

“This is what the Cold War has come to?”

But there’s more; we also have gangster Vance Norton (George Hamilton) as another smarmy suitor with slicked-back hair and bedroom eyes. He arrives with a tan and some serious mustache energy, but not much else. And then there is an entire American athletic team, all of whom want to have sex with her. Of course, Marlo, in turn, reacts to them with the same sedated smirk and sultry catchphrases she’s been using since Prohibition and drives the film’s “plot” right off the rails. Have I mentioned that Keith Moon of the Who and Alice Cooper pop in for some reason? Add to all that nonsense, we also have the revelation that Marlo secretly works for the United States government as some kind of secret agent, using her fame and influence to shape the political stage. Because why not just chuck reality right out the door? 

 

This isn’t a vanity project. It’s a sad narcissistic nightmare.

Meanwhile, Marlo has to give a speech to the U.N., stop nuclear war, dodge a blackmail scandal involving a secret sex tape, and maybe rekindle romance with Sir Michael, all while wearing heels that should be illegal in 49 states. Her manager, Dan Turner (Dom DeLuise), who is the go-between Marlo and the government, spends most of his time running around screaming and sweating like he’s in a completely different movie, and to be fair, he might be. If at times you feel like you’ve set sail on a deranged episode of The Love Boat, you’re not too far off. Eventually, the film crawls it its grand finale, with Marlo strutting into a conference room full of world leaders, delivering a rousing speech about peace, maybe flirting with nuclear war into submission, and saving the world by the power of innuendo and shoulder pads. Then she kisses her husband, winks at the camera, and the credits roll over yet another inexplicable musical reprise.

 

“Is world peace really worth all this?”

Stray Observations:

• Dan Turner says that Sir Michael Barrington is a spy who’s “bigger than 007.” Which seems like foreshadowing, as Timothy Dalton would later take on the role of Bond for The Living Daylights and License to Kill.
• The entire film was shot in a real hotel in Los Angeles, because… budget. Most of it takes place in corridors, banquet rooms, and oddly generic hotel suites pretending to be “international embassies.”
• There is an interview between Rona Barrett and Sir Michael Barrington that is nothing but a series of “Gay Panic” jokes. That none of them are funny goes without saying.
• The infamous “Happy Birthday” number was not a parody. It was meant to be sultry. The disco arrangement, slow dancing, and sultry eye contact were all intentional. And unforgettable.
• Mae had difficulty hearing on set, so co-stars would reportedly speak their lines into a microphone that transmitted directly into a hearing aid in her wig. Yes. Her wig. That’s Hollywood ingenuity, baby.
• Non-singer Timothy Dalton sings “Love Will Keep Us Together” to Mae West. Not only that — she sings back. It’s not so much a duet as it is a hostage situation wrapped in disco.

 

License to Thrill?

Directed by Ken Hughes, Sextette was ostensibly intended as a campy musical comedy, but the film became instead a surreal spectacle of misguided nostalgia, proof that not all icons can withstand the ravages of time—or the harsh lighting of a movie set in the polyester-drenched late 1970s. The most glaring issue is the miscasting, or rather, the misplacement of West herself. At 84 years old during filming, West was far removed from the sultry, sharp-tongued bombshell who had scandalized and dazzled audiences in the 1930s. She recites lines in a slow, laboured monotone, often appearing confused or disengaged, and is clearly being fed her dialogue through off-screen cues. The effect is not glamorous or cheeky; it’s uncomfortable. Her refusal to adapt or update her persona gives the film a sense of time-travelling awkwardness, as if the ghost of old Hollywood has wandered uninvited onto a Brady Bunch set.

 

“Gloria Swanson wants her bed back.”

The screenplay is a complete mess. You can feel the script clawing at relevance like a desperate lounge singer. The jokes are older than Prohibition, and the pacing is so slow you could go make a sandwich between scenes and not miss a thing. And Mae West—bless her rhinestone-covered soul—is visibly reading cue cards, dubbed to high heaven, and seemingly unaware that the 20th century has progressed beyond 1939. The dialogue is like it was written by a horny ghost. Every line is a double entendre, sometimes triple, delivered with the timing of a rotary phone. Everything is bathed in a Vaseline-smeared lens of glamour, as if the cinematographer declared war on focus. Dialogue is whispered, mumbled, and occasionally forgotten entirely. Scenes end because the actors seem to give up. Plot points appear and vanish with the logic of a dream, if that dream involved being stuck inside a 1970s variety show hosted by Liberace’s ghost.

 

Alice Cooper as a substitute for Liberace…sure, why not?

Musically, Sextette isn’t much better; it’s a patchwork of ill-fitting cover songs awkwardly shoehorned into the narrative. The musical numbers come out of nowhere and go nowhere. One minute, someone’s talking politics, the next they’re disco-dancing in a gym with Alice Cooper. West croons pop standards like “Happy Birthday Twenty-One” and “Baby Face,” often in a strained whisper, as if the songs themselves are embarrassed to be there. The choreography is uninspired, the sets are flat and garishly decorated, and the cinematography veers between hazy glamour shots and flat television-style framing. Yet perhaps what makes this film such a fascinating failure is its sincere belief in its own fabulousness. The film is not self-aware; it truly believes that Mae West is still the magnetic, taboo-breaking superstar of the 1930s. It expects the audience to believe it, too. This dissonance—between the reality of what’s on screen and the fantasy it wants to sell—is where Sextette becomes unintentionally surreal. 

 

This film is a rhinestone-studded denial of time itself.

This would be West’s final film, a deeply unfortunate epilogue to an otherwise groundbreaking career. And yet, in the years since, Sextette has become something of a cult artifact: a symbol of faded glamour clashing with disco-era absurdity, a film so wrongheaded that it loops back around to fascinating. It’s camp, yes, but not always the good kind. But here’s the thing: Sextette is also weirdly fascinating. As a time capsule of 1970s excess and Hollywood delusion, it’s unmatched. It’s so tone-deaf, so egotistically strange, so determined to make Mae West into a sex goddess well into her eighties that you can’t look away. It’s bad… but in a glitter-covered, camp-tastic, please-never-let-this-happen-again kind of way.

 

“Lights, camera and…roll credits?

In conclusion, Sextette is not a good film by conventional standards, but it remains a valuable case study in stardom, legacy, and the perils of nostalgia. For admirers of Mae West, it may offer a bittersweet farewell. For others, it’s a curiosity—uneven, over-the-top, and unforgettable in its own peculiar way. It’s sad that for one who was once a notorious sex bomb, her career ended with an infamous box-office bomb.

Starcrash (1978) – Review

Imagine if Star Wars were made by people who had never seen Star Wars but had only heard about it through an unreliable game of telephone. That’s Starcrash in a nutshell, a delightfully goofy, low-budget Italian rip-off of George Lucas’s space saga, filled with flashing lights, nonsensical dialogue, and the absolute conviction that every absurd thing happening on screen is epic.

The film begins with a massive spaceship drifting through the void of space. The crew aboard, dressed in futuristic battle gear, seems frantic as they receive a strange, glowing signal. Moments later, they are overwhelmed by flashing lights, and the ship is destroyed in a catastrophic explosion, but not before three launches make their escape. The cause of this destruction is unknown, but the audience soon learns that it is linked to the evil Count Zarth Arn (Joe Spinell), a power-hungry warlord from the League of the Dark Worlds, who has created a secret superweapon that would allow him to rule the entire galaxy.

 

“Ming the Merciless ain’t got shit on me.”

Enter our heroine, Stella Star (Caroline Munro), a space smuggler who wears an intergalactic bikini at all times, because that’s the most practical outfit for battling evil in the cosmos. She and her sidekick, Akton (Marjoe Gortner), a curly-haired weirdo with glowing hands and unexplained magical powers, are captured by the Imperial Space Police, led by robot sheriff Elle (Judd Hamilton) and Police Chief Thor (Robert Tessier). They are tried and convicted of piracy and are sentenced to life in prison on separate planets, not that this is much of a wrinkle in the plot, as Stella quickly escapes, and then the two are reunited by Elle and Thor, who bring them before the Emperor of the Universe (Christopher Plummer) in hologram form. 

 

“My performance has so many dimensions.”

The Emperor orders Stella and Akton to find a secret weapon of immense power, which Count Zarth Arn has hidden away. They are offered clemency if they help find three more missing escape pods, as well as the mothership, one of which may contain the emperor’s only son, Prince Simon (David Hasselhoff). This all seems dangerous, but is made even more so by the fact that Chief Thor is working for Count Zarth Arn, who briefly murders poor Akton, but he has mysterious plot powers. But will Prince Simon be found alive and well? Can our band of misfits survive various challenging encounters as they search for the three escape pods?

 

Could the plot of this movie be any more bizarre and convoluted?

The Amazing Quests of Starcrash:

• Stella and Elle land on a planet inhabited by Amazon warriors riding reddish-pink horses, who are led by a villainous queen and are in league with Count Zarth Arn. Sadly, we are cheated out of a lesbian scene between Stella and the Amazon queen.
• Stranded on a freezing world by the traitorous Thor, Stella nearly dies from exposure – wearing tights and a metal breastplate in the freezing cold may not have been the best idea – but she is rescued by the not-quite-dead Akton, and he uses his mystical powers to thaw Stella out. He’s like a Jedi Swiss army knife.
• They encounter a tribe of primitive, club-wielding cavemen (What’s a space adventure without cavemen?). Elle is bashed apart, and Stella is captured, but before she can be turned into dinner, a mysterious figure in a gold mask shows up and blasts them with his laser eyes.
• Surprise! Surprise! The masked figure turns out to be Prince Simon; unfortunately, his laser shooting helmet has limited power, and the pair are soon surrounded by more hungry cavemen.

 

Enter Akton and his lightsaber.

Did I mention that Akton knew the entire future but couldn’t interfere, making his entire presence even more confusing and the actions of our heroes fairly pointless? Akton then reveals that they are currently on the Count’s “Hidden World” and quickly make their way to an underground laboratory, where they are apprehended by Count Zarth Arn and his minions. Way to go, team! The Count discloses his plan to use them as bait to bring the Emperor to the planet and then have his weapon self-destruct, destroying the planet, the Emperor and all three of them in one fell swoop. The Count leaves, ordering his two robot golems to keep the group there, but Akton engages them in a laser sword duel and nobly sacrifices himself to save his friends. The Emperor arrives, but with only 48 seconds to destruction, all seems lost, that is, until Christopher Plummer issues forth one of the greatest lines in cinema history, “Imperial Battleship… halt the flow of time!”

 

“This is what years of Shakespearean theatre gets you.”

Somehow, this actually works, buying time for everyone to escape. Stella leads an assault on the Count’s fortress, fighting through his guards in a sequence filled with awkward choreography and laser blasts. Meanwhile, the Emperor’s forces engage the Count’s fleet, filling the screen with neon space battles that feel like a fever dream of 1970s special effects. Sadly, the attack fails, and the victorious Count gets ready to destroy the Emperor’s home planet. The Emperor decides to ram the Count’s space station with a massive space station, the Floating City, in a 4th-dimensional attack he calls “Starcrash.” Hey, he said the title of the movie! Thus ends another evil space plot to take over the galaxy.

 

“Are we going to get a trilogy out of this?”

Stray Observation:

• The film’s opening shot is a large spaceship slowly passing over the camera just so that it’s perfectly clear what movie they are ripping off.
• The filmmakers were highly reluctant to allow John Barry to see the film, in case he decided to quit the project. His participation is easily one of the film’s best elements.
• In the U.S. version, Caroline Munro’s voice was dubbed by Candy Clark, who was married to Marjoe Gortner at the time.
• Stella Star and Akton are sentenced to life in prison by the “Imperial Justice” who looks surprisingly like the creepy tentacled-headed Martian mastermind from 1953s Invaders from Mars.
• I’m not sure if Prince Simon in a Gold Mask is a reference to the Alexander Dumas book “Man in the Iron Mask” or the Ray Harryhausen film The Golden Voyage of Sinbad.
• The Amazon’s giant robot guardian clearly took its inspiration from the giant bronze statue in Ray Harryhausen’s Jason and the Argonauts.

 

How can you not love a giant robot with breasts?

Directed by Italian filmmaker Luigi Cozzi, Starcrash was a low-budget, hastily produced space adventure that shamelessly imitates Star Wars while bringing its own unique blend of absurdity, camp, and unintentional humour, with a script that feels like it was written by someone who had heard of science fiction but had no idea how human conversation worked. The pacing is all over the place, with random characters appearing and disappearing, and major plot points being explained after they happen. Scenes end abruptly, new plot elements are introduced without explanation, and characters gain superpowers or lose them as the script demands. Akton, for example, possesses precognitive abilities and laser hands, yet conveniently forgets to use them in moments of peril. This haphazard approach to storytelling results in a film that feels more like a fever dream than a structured narrative.

 

“Engage plot armour.”

Now, let us talk about the amazing cast. First, we have Caroline Munro as the heroic Stella Star who spends most of her time running around in impractical space bikinis, playing a character who doesn’t act so much as exist, but she’s having fun, and that energy carries the movie, delivering her lines with an endearing sincerity, even if the script rarely gives her anything meaningful to do beyond reacting to the chaos around her. Next, there is Marjoe Gortner as Akton, a bizarre, inexplicable character with Jedi-like abilities, but the movie never explains why or how. Gortner plays him with an eerie calmness, like he’s constantly high on space drugs. Joe Spinell gives a delightfully over-the-top villain as Count Zarth Arn, chewing every inch of the cheap scenery. He growls, sneers, and laughs like an evil cartoon character, fully embracing the camp and playing the villain with exaggerated theatrics and frequent maniacal laughter. 

 

“I was in Godfather, damn it!”

Oh, and let’s not forget the real star of the show: Elle, the wisecracking cowboy robot with a Southern accent, who delivers lines like a malfunctioning AI programmed exclusively with Wild West clichés. Just imagine if R2-D2 and John Wayne had a love child, and you’re close. Then there is poor Christopher Plummer as The Emperor, and you can see the regret in his eyes. He delivers every line like he’s daydreaming about the paycheck, but his deadpan delivery of “Imperial battleship… halt the flow of time!” is legendary. Finally, we have David Hasselhoff, in his pre-Knight Rider days, playing an unmemorable space prince with fabulous hair. His big moment? Wielding a neon green energy sword against a robot while looking incredibly confused.

 

“George Lucas isn’t going to sue us, right?”

One of the most infamous aspects of Starcrash is its special effects, which range from charmingly amateurish to outright laughable. The film was made with a fraction of the budget Star Wars had, and it shows. Spaceships, crafted from toy models, float against colourful starfields that, like discount Christmas lights, their movements are stiff and unnatural, but glorious nonetheless. Explosions—often recycled stock footage—are used liberally, sometimes appearing multiple times in the same battle. We also get some stop-motion creatures, clearly inspired by Ray Harryhausen’s work, and they stumble through their scenes with an endearing clumsiness. That said, despite its overwhelming badness, Starcrash is never boring. It moves at a breakneck pace, throwing new ridiculous ideas at the screen every few minutes, and there is an undeniable charm to its visuals. 

 

This galaxy is very colourful.

The film’s bright, primary-coloured aesthetic sets it apart from the more polished yet muted tones of Star Wars. The production design, while crude, is imaginative in its own way, embracing the surrealism of 1930s serials like Flash Gordon. While modern audiences may laugh at the effects, they also reflect a time when filmmakers had to rely on creativity rather than CGI to bring their visions to life. And to be fair, the film’s appeal lies in its earnestness. Unlike many modern bad movies that are deliberately made to be ironic, Starcrash is completely sincere in its attempt to create an epic space adventure. It fails spectacularly, but it does so with such enthusiasm that it becomes endearing. Every element, from the nonsensical dialogue to the nonsensical action, contributes to an experience that is as entertaining as it is bewildering. In many ways, Starcrash represents the golden age of low-budget sci-fi filmmaking, a time when studios were willing to gamble on wild, ambitious ideas, even if the execution was lacking. It is a testament to the power of cinematic excess, proving that a film does not need to be “good” to be memorable.

 

It also helps if your cast is quite attractive.

In conclusion, Starcrash is the kind of movie that makes you wonder how it ever got made, but also makes you grateful that it did. It is a film that defies conventional criticism, existing in a category all its own. Gloriously messy—cheesy, nonsensical, and completely ridiculous—but that’s exactly why it’s so entertaining. Whether you love bad movies or just want to see David Hasselhoff wield a lightsaber, this is an essential watch.