1982, United States. Starring Lee Horsley, Kathleen Beller, Simon MacCorkindale, George Maharis, Richard Lynch, Richard Moll, Anthony De Longis, Robert Tessier, Nina Van Pallandt, Anna Bjorn. Directed by Albert Pyun.

Like all the innocent youths who succumb to the allure of promises about a dark world of indulgence and pleasure, we had our rituals, our unspeakable acts punctuated by arcane chatter regarding vorpal blades plus two and the unexplained mysteries of what would happen to you if you swallowed a portable hole, or put a portable hole inside a bag of holding. It was nightmarish talk the likes of which would enrage even the benevolent Jesus himself, causing him to immediately commission a new series of Jack Chick comic tracts dealing with those of us who giggled like demons gleefully licking the maggots from the cloven hoof of Lucifer as we reveled in our Sabbath feast of Chee-toes and Stouffer's French bread pepperoni pizzas.

For us, as it was for many a wayward babe lost in the woods and destined to walk not down the path leading away from their menacing gloom, but instead to walk down the dark path of the left hand, Dungeons and Dragons was our gateway to the other realm, a fantastical land where elementary school geeks could slay dragons, or at least kobolds, and scream "Blee yark!" during dodgeball games seconds before the gym teacher made up for years of failure and feelings of inadequacy by beaming some scrawny ten-year-old in the back of the head with one of those little red rubber balls. No doubt one of those foaming-at-the-mouth "If you fail to prepare, you better prepare to fail" speeches would follow as he swaggered back and forth in his two-sizes-too-wee nut-hugger shorts.

The hell of role playing games is an enticing one indeed, and it is one from which a damned soul never fully emerges, as Bob Larsen would no doubt point out. Oh sure, you can swear the games off or even claim to outgrow them, but years after you sold off your last copy of the Monster Manual, Expanded 12th Edition you'll still catch yourself glancing at a piece of graph paper and thinking, "Damn, I could design one kick-ass dungeon on that." Yes, years after your final campaign, you'll still catch yourself making passing references to The Keep on the Borderlands. In your darkest hours you will be assaulted by the guilt, by the terrible burden you are doomed to shoulder for the rest of your pathetic mortal existence. You'll wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, shivering, clutching at your tattered rag of a blankie as you wrestle with the fact that you did not, in all fairness, roll an 18 strength, 18 intelligence, 17 wisdom, 18 dexterity, and an 18 constitution. You weep, weep like a child, as you realize that your token low score of a 12 charisma probably didn't fool anybody.

Don't even get started on how your character ended up with all those psyonics.

Aye, we all had our rituals, but unlike a young and impressionable Tom Hanks, our rituals did not include wearing a burlap sack and requiring Christopher Makepeace to talk us down from our lame-brain scheme to jump from skyscraper to skyscraper with the help of our elven boots of jumping. Nor did we sit in the back of the classroom clad all in black, muttering incomprehensibly under our breath (well, not very often) as we attempted to summon Bigby's Crushing Fist. Instead, our rituals consisted mainly of meeting up at our friend Robby's house on Saturday afternoons. The candles romantic notions of gaming called to be used as lighting were replaced by the living room track lighting, and mystical new age and medieval music was often passed over in favor of "Eye of the Tiger" and the soundtrack from Flash Gordon by Queen. Like just about all the people I've ever met who were into role playing games, we weren't exactly the media stereotype of long-fingernailed Satanists in the basement thinking we actually became our characters as we sacrificed a cat to Gary Gygax.

Instead of blood sacrifices and emotion-charged readings from Anton LeVay's Satanic Bible, we spent most of the day setting up DM shields, defending the cheating on our character sheets we'd done throughout the week ("When did you get a weightless folding catapult of guaranteed foe destruction plus seven? You didn't have that last week!"), making up variations of that whole "crushing fist" thing (like Bigby's Glancing Blow and Bigby's Annoying Ear Flick), and of course flexing our pre-pubescent muscles by pulling out and comparing the size of our dice collections ("You got the smoky crystalline 20-sided die? No way!"). Indeed the bulk of our gaming experience involved eating frozen food and doing the most transparent, obvious cheat jobs on characters. In fact, the more obvious the fact that we'd been cheating, the more vehement the defense and denial. It was, as I said, a ritual.

If we were disciplined or lucky, there was maybe an hour or two of actual game play and kicking of much orc ass before we'd tire of hassling make-believe elves and retire to the outdoors to go explore the woods or play in the creek. If it was rainy outside, we'd while away the day playing TRON by throwing racquetballs at each other in the living room. We would never ever amuse ourselves by sneaking peeks at the rather massive Playboy collection we had no idea was hidden in the closet of the master bedroom.

Whatever the day's adventures and discoveries may have held, regardless of whether or not our resident nutcase Larry broke yet another bone while showing us something like how Rambo fell out of a very tall tree and hit every branch on the way down in order to slow his descent, when the sun went down out came the sleeping bags in the living room. It was time for the barbarians.

In rural Kentucky at the time, cable television was still little more than a fanciful fairy tale, something we'd hear about at school from kids who caught glimpses of the wonders it held while they were staying at their grandparents' house in Louisville. We would stand around the monkey bars and listen, half in doubt, half in awe of these wondrous tales, these cinematic sasquatches full of gore and nudity and action that would have us sighing and saying, "Wow! Ninjas?" But alas they remained just beyond the grasp of our greedy, ready-to-be-corrupted little fingertips, at least until that fateful day when Robby's dad officially began his midlife crisis by purchasing one of those giant NASA-sized satellite dishes. The gates were flung open, and like the barbarians of old descending upon Rome, we galloped forth into the waiting jungle of exploitation, sleaze, and good, wholesome fun.

Like alcoholic scientists manning a distant Arctic research facility, the satellite dish was our link to another civilization beyond the drab and endless nothingness of our homes. It was a keyhole through which we could peer into a world populated by murderous madmen, gruff cops, vengeful ninjas, and the oft-naked Sylvia Kristel. It's likely that without the satellite dish in those early days, my taste in film would never have evolved into the finely honed blade of refined sophistication I now wield. I would be sitting here right now doing an in-depth analysis of the heart-warming Cocoon as I lamented the passing of that delightful Steve Guttenberg's career. Luckily, the satellite was in place at the right time, and instead of wasting everyone's time with crap, I can do the world a service by spending inordinate amounts of time reviewing Maurizio Merli films and debating important questions like who would win in a fight between Hammer and that man Bolt.

We saw many wonders on those long nights, and slept nary a wink. Of all the amazing things we witnessed in the wee small hours of the morning, however, none enthralled us more than the bloody parade of live-action Dungeons and Dragons that was the 1980s sword and sorcery boom. We would sit in quiet, rapturous joy as we watched some greased-up dude in a loin cloth cleave monsters and evil wizards in two. It was we, then, who could go to school on Monday full of stories about how "the zombie sorcerer made the witch's chest explode, and then he caught her liver!"

Sword and sorcery. Ahh, yes. though I've always enjoyed these films, I've never quite understood at whom they were aimed. On the one hand, they are lovingly packed with gratuitous nudity and violence (the best kind), firmly planting them in the "R" category and theoretically making them off-limits to young folk such as we. On the other hand, just about everyone I know first saw these movies when they were ten years old and just beginning to master the sneaky trick of going to the bookstore and hiding a Penthouse inside the cover of a Dragon or Newsweek magazine so you could get a glimpse at some nekkid flesh without too many people being suspicious or thinking you were taking a peek at anything other than Newsweek's expose on "sweaty asses." You lived in constant fear of the Waldenbook clerk who would glance your way, catch you staring at nudie mags hidden inside other magazines, and suddenly shout, "Hey, that's not Snarf Quest!" Of course, there was always the photography section with its many illustrated tomes on nude and glamour photography...

It was a transitional time a few years before any of us worked up the courage to try purchasing an issue of Heavy Metal in hopes that the person working the counter would think it was just another comic book or music magazine rather than a precious tome full of weird stoner sci-fi stories and sexy Guido Crepax drawings. We were learning things, important things, important lessons about life, at least life as it related to space cabbies and buxom women in (and out of) metal bikinis and guys with triple-bladed projectile swords. Looking back upon that time from my vantage point here in my elder state, I can now say that despite all the gore and sex, sword and sorcery films were indeed meant for sly young kids as well as the guy down the street who had what could only be described as a "boss van."

Although the pioneers of the trend were John Boorman's bizarre retelling of the myth of King Arthur, Excalibur, and Disney's surprising dark and violent Dragonslayer, the sword and sorcery boom hit its stride in 1982 when our friend Dino DeLaurentus released the big budget barbarian extravaganza Conan the Barbarian, which starred a relatively unknown Austrian bodybuilder by the name of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Well, he was unknown to you unless you were the kind of person keeping up with the Austrian bodybuilding circuit or were one of the twelve fans of the movie Hercules in New York. Conan launched a veritable missile attack of sword and sorcery fantasy films full of all the good stuff people demand: nekkid people and violence. Dozens of loin-cloth clad young men would smear on the baby oil for that fresh-off-the-battlefield look and take to running around waving swords in the faces of out-of-work has-been actors looking to pay the rent by slumming it as an evil wizard or would-be conqueror.

It should not shock anyone that in the wake of Conan's incredible success, a whole genre popped up seemingly overnight. Producers were stumbling over themselves in rushed attempts to get something, anything out that could take advantage of this sudden surge of sword and sorcery popularity. One of the first films out of the gate was 1982's Sword and the Sorcerer, the movie that would lend its name to the genre created by Excalibur and Conan the Barbarian. While a mild hit at the theater, the film really found legs on cable television, where it seemed to play nonstop, much to the delight of young boys camped out in the living room of their friend who had satellite television. Although we loved Conan, the slightly trashier Sword and Sorcerer was a staple of our diet in those formative years. We must have watched the thing a dozen or more times on tape or any time it played on one of the movie channels. I still have vivid memories of having my young mind blown during one slumber party where we were treated with a late late night parade that included Sword and Sorcerer, Revenge of the Ninja, and Angel of HEAT starring Marilyn Chambers.

Bankrolled by Brandon Chase, the man who also produced the genre classic Alligator, and directed by newcomer Albert Pyun, Sword and the Sorcerer attempted many of the same things Conan did, only with a lot less money. Like Conan, the timeframe of Sword and the Sorcerer is the ever-convenient "time of myths and legends, of magic and mysticism," which is the generic prologue way of saying that the film pretty much throws a dozen different periods against the wall and calls it an era. Where this worked amazingly well in Conan thanks to a wealth of research, funding, and painstaking art direction, it works slightly less well in this film, a hodge-podge of medieval Europe, Japan, and generic "barbarian" times stolen from Conan. One minute, everyone is prancing around in all that kingly garb and the pointy princess hats, and the next minute everyone is in furs and barbarian outfits.

Sword and the Sorcerer also delights in sex and violence, providing plenty of gratuitous shots to insure young viewers sneaking a peak will be instant fans. Chests explode, bosoms are bared, and the hero shoots people with his triple-bladed projectile sword. Yep. That's the device that really sets this film apart from Conan, which was a fairly somber, serious film that never acts as if it's doing anything other than telling you the greatest legend ever told. Sword and the Sorcerer, on the other hand, is pretty damn goofy. For starters, there's the sword. As stated, it has three giant blades, and two of them shoot off to impale slow-moving attackers. The sword is amazingly unwieldy and difficult to deal with. Rather than instilling fear into your opponent, it just sort of makes them stand there going "...the hell?" which is good, because you'll need that delay to set up your shot.

The movie also focuses far more on magic, as the title suggests. While sorcery was present in Conan, it was very much a background element, never part of the main story, and never so pervasive as to undermine the sense of realism the film achieved. Sword and the Sorcerer begins with an evil warlord marching into a cave with a writhing witch who resurrects a zombie-faced wizard who will put his magic powers to use in the name of the warlord. No sooner is this done than the warlord, a certain Titus Cromwell (b-movie staple Richard Lynch), stabs the sorcerer in the back and pushes him off a cliff. He then goes on to slay the good king who had everyone dressing well, and the good queen, but fails to slay any of the children. Two grow up in the city under the thumb of Cromwell, while one, Talon, uses the really stupid triple bladed projectile sword to escape.

Years later, he returns with his rogusih band of mercenaries and, keeping his identity secret for no good reason, reunites with his younger sister, Princess Alana, who has grown up to be the gorgeous, buxom Kathleen Beller. Cromwell's plan is to marry her and thus solidify his claim to the throne of the kingdom, which you'd think he would have done when she was young instead of waiting until she was old enough to get all sassy and defiant. It's not like the Middle Ages weren't jam-packed with old farts marrying eight-year-old girls for political gains.

Alana and her brother, Prince Mikah, are of course conspiring with various local dissidents to lead a revolution against the oppressive Cromwell. It's just too bad that their right hand man is also secretly the right hand man of Cromwell, who dutifully fills in his master with all details regarding the plot. Talon rides into town doing his best Han Solo impersonation, and before too long is doing his best to bed Alana, which quite frankly, is sort of creepy. At first, I missed the throw-away line that explains Talon isn't her actual brother, just one of those "adopted son" types. So technically, he's not doing anything perverse. But still, she might as well be his sister what with the way the two grew up. But who am I to judge a man in a big furry barbarian outfit?

Obviously, Talon is there not just to fondle his sister but also to involve himself in affairs of state by becoming the roguish, impish rascal the rebels need as their leader. When Mikah is captured and stripped down for some old-fashioned torture, Talon saves him and acquires a band of loyal local followers who are about as useful as the Keystone Cops. The remainder of the film, of course, involves Talon engaging in various feats of daring-do punctuated by lame one-liners. Anyone who saw this film under the same circumstances I saw it back in the wild days will admit that the one thing they remember more than anything is Talon swashbuckling his way through an orgy, or at least a female bathhouse full of nude women rubbing against one another. The orgy scene is a time-honored tradition in the sword and sorcery genre. Even the PG-13 films managed to get an orgy in there somehow. It's what the kids demanded. Exploding chests and orgies.

Eventually, Talon and Cromwell face off in a rather lame battle that ends up with Talon being captured. Her brother in exile, her dashing hero crucified to one of those wooden X's, Alana finally gives in tot he pressure to marry the treacherous Cromwell. Luckily, all the rebels led by her brother show up to spoil the wedding, and a big fight ensues that results in Talon finally getting his old triple bladed sword back. Meanwhile, the deceitful right hand man kidnaps Alana and reveals himself to be the sorcerer from the start of the film. All along, he's been playing both ends against the middle in a bid to gain the power, glory, and women for himself. After dispatching waves of worthless palace guards, Talon and Cromwell face off and end up falling into the subterranean caverns where the sorcerer Xusia is amusing himself by watching a snake crawl around on the scantily-clad Alana. Talon and Xusia squabble over who gets to kill Cromwell, and eventually they get tired of that and Talon just hauls off and shoots the wizardy old freak with that sword.

Then it's back to Cromwell for the final duel, which is much better than their first. Of course, we all know who's going to win. One of the guys is an evil king and the other is a wisecracking guy covered in chest grease and wearing a loin cloth. Considering that the sorcerer hated Cromwell and wanted nothing more than to punish him for the attempted murder, you'd think the sorcerer would have been less helpful to Cromwell than he was during the film. But what do I know? He was an undead sorcerer living in a cave along with a sexy nude henchwoman, and I'm an unemployed writer and website builder sitting here in a Brooklyn slum.

Truth be told, I was somewhat hesitant to go back and watch this film, having not seen it since those glory days back in 1982 and 1983. Since just about all the movies I thought kicked major ass back then really seem lame to me today, I was not looking forward to what I thought would be my inevitable disillusionment with one of the great pillars of my early cinematic career. While Sword and the Sorcerer isn't nearly as cool as it was when I was still an avid reader of Dragon magazine, it has certainly fared better than Magic. It's still a decent fantasy action film. The sword fights and swashbuckling are well-staged compared to the bulk of what the sword and sorcery genre would offer us, and the pace is brisk. Albert Pyun is usually a dreary director whose main talent seems to be augmenting any potential dull moments in a film by a hundred. Here, however, he was green enough to get bossed around by people with more of a sense of pacing, and the result is a fairly dumb, but fairly fun fantasy adventure.

The acting is good, certainly better, once again, than most of what would be on display in later sword and sorcery films. Lee Horsely is a charismatic rogue of a lead, and Richard Lynch is venomous and evil without being over the top. As he would in many other roles, he brings an actual sense of humanity to his superficial character that results in it being far less cartoony and one-dimensional than it would have been with a lesser actor. Kathleen Beller, apart from being very easy on the eyes, also acquits herself well in the acting department, as does Simon MacCorkindale as Prince Mikah, looking like a bulked-up Bronson Pinchot. The supporting cast is there to yell, "Get him!" and "We will fight by your side," and they all do it well. The sorcerer Xusia is played by television's lovable Richard Moll. Amuse yourself by pretending that instead of hulking zombie sorcerer Xusia, the villain is actually Mexican sexpot children's show host Xuxa.

Although Conan was the film that would kick start the trend, it was Sword and the Sorcerer that would serve as the template for most of the movies to follow (including the sequel to Conan). It was heavier on humor and lighter on budget, a recipe subsequent film makers found a lot easier to reproduce than the big budget epic romance of Conan. It's not as if this is a great work of art or anything, but as far as relatively brain-dead adventure cinema goes, Sword and the Sorcerer has a lot more charm and warmth to it than any of today's overblown blockbusters. I was happy to see that either the movie aged well and was still entertaining, or my standards haven't changed since I was ten.

Labels: Fantasy: Sword and Sorcery, Year: 1982