2019: After the Fall of New York (Sergio Martino, 1983)

Riding on a crowded subway at the height of rush hour is nothing compared to being forced to eat sewer rats off the end of a skewer. At least that's what I kept telling myself as I basked in the entertaining glow of 2019: After the Fall of New York, a post-apocalyptic thrill ride that has more villainous, ponytail-sporting brunettes than every Hollywood film that it purportedly "borrows" its ideas from. Oh, and I don't mean to imply that I like riding the subway during the hellish period known as "rush hour." On the contrary, I would much rather live in the radioactive wasteland that's depicted in this film's universe. Why is that, you ask? Well, for starters, everyone is sterile. Which is perfect, as I'm always getting chicks pregnant; they don't call me the Reverse Creampie Champion of South Central Ohio for the nothing (check their non-existent website if you don't believe me). In a world without babies, who do you think would come out on top after the fallout had cleared? If you said those pesky Europeans. You would be right. You wanna know why the Europeans rule what's left of the world? It's simple. No, it's got nothing to do with their healthy attitude toward sex or their obsession with soccer. Remember that brunette with the ponytail I alluded to earlier? You do? Excellent. You see, she's a woman, and she plays an important role in the daily operation of Eurac (a Europe run alliance that includes Africa and Asia). Sure, she's not the biggest cheese in the drawer where the cheese and other cheese-related products are kept (that distinction goes to some bald motherfucker), but at least she has a hand in running things. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for the Pan American Confederacy, a small yet determined group of Americans who hope to recapture the ground they lost to the Eurac, in that, they have no women working in positions of power. At least none that I saw hanging around their antiseptic Alaskan compound.
 

 

In hindsight, maybe the Americans don't have any women. Hold on a second, that doesn't make any sense. I'm sure there are some ladies kicking around somewhere. Unless they were all killed while being experimented on. Typical male thinking. Oh-no, women can't get pregnant! What are we going to do? I know, let's perform experiments on them–you know, in order to find out what's wrong with them. Never once thinking to themselves that it's the defective sperm floating around inside their testicles that's the problem. No matter what the reason is, I think it's safe to say that I'm reading way too much into the film's imaginary take on gender dynamics.
 

 

Look at the once flourishing city of New York City, it's skyline is a smoldering shell of its former self. Who's responsible for this? The Eurac monarchy, that's who, a powerful Euro-Afro-Asian alliance who rained nuclear hellfire on the city. Claiming what's left of Manhattan as their own, the Eurac, and gangs of local mercenaries, like, the Harlem Hunters, scour the streets, armed with crossbow-style rifles, spiky clubs, and flamethrowers, in search of New Yorkers.
 

 

You can spot them by looking at the pus-laden lesions on their faces.
 

 

The idea is to wipe out, exterminate, if you will, the last vestiges of human life in the city, so that the Eurac may set the stage for their new society. Only problem is, there hasn't been a human baby born in over fifteen years. Anyway, the flamethrowers look cool and the crossbow-style rifles fired by the Eurac cavalry sound eerily similar to the phasers used in The Beast in Space.
 

 

As the Eurac cavalry and their flamethrower-wielding allies cleanse the streets of Manhattan, Parsifal (Michael Sopkiw) is about to engage in some vehicular combat out in the Nevada desert. A bloodsport, complete with prizes and a punk-friendly audience, the no-nonsense Parsifal battles other cars, most of which are equipped with cannons; think of it as a live action version of Twisted Metal: Black. Speaking of demented clowns, I want the female clown automaton who repeats the line, "To the victor: long life and happiness," after Parsifal destroys/kills all the other drivers. What do you mean, you want it? Exactly that, I want to own the the creepy female clown automaton from 2019: After the Fall of New York; the herky-jerky way she moved, the eyeball on top of her head and the deadpan  manner in which she spoke was very appealing to me.
 

 

One of the rewards for winning the car war is a brunette sex slave named Flower (Siriana Hernandez), who he puts on the back of his three-wheeled motorcycle, and proceeds to hit the road.
 

 

Deciding that owning a brunette sex slave isn't all it's cracked up to be, he let's her ride off on a horse belonging to one of the guys Parsifal puts out of his misery by the side of the road (they were coughing up green slime as a result of drinking radioactive water). Zapped by a stun gun (the prop master who worked on Barbarella just called, he wants his rayguns back), Parsifal wakes up in the secret hideout for the Pan American Confederacy, which is located somewhere in Alaska. What do they want with Parsifal? It would seem that the president (Edmund Purdom) knows the whereabouts of the world's last fertile woman, and wants Parsifal, of all people, to bring her back so that they [The Pan American Confederacy] may start producing babies again.
 

 

Suspicious of the president's motives, Parsifal approaches his offer with the right amount of caution. I mean, why should he trust him? After all, he's a politician. Mulling it over for a few seconds, Parsifal reluctantly agrees to go on the mission. Since the president doesn't trust Parsifal either, he assigns Bronx (Paolo Maria Scalondro), a claw-handed former New Yorker (the Eurac killed his family and made him watch) and Ratchet (Romano Puppo), an eye-patch-sporting strongman, to accompany him.
 

 

Did the trumpet player who toots his horn just out Manhattan remind anyone of the scene from Cafe Flesh where Max Melodramatic plays the trumpet during a break in the show? No? Okay, moving on. The plan is simple: Find the fertile woman, and bring her back to Alaska. However, as they soon find out, getting into Manhattan is easy. It's getting out part that is downright impossible. Though, I should say, getting in isn't that east either. Unless you consider crawling through rat-infested sewers easy.
 

 

After battling some Harlem Hunters at an abandoned bus depot (great location, by the way), Parsifal, Bronx, and Ratchet find themselves back in the sewers. It's here where we're introduced to the Rat Eater King (Hal Yamanouchi) and his merry band of Rat Eaters. The sight of the clearly demented Rat Eater King, his face covered with lesions, whipping rats with his trusty whip was the definition of badass. You see, by whipping them, the Rat Eater King stuns the rats in order that his fellow Rat Eaters can stab them with greater efficiency (a stunned rat is easier to stab than a rat that hasn't been stunned). As the Rat Eaters are stabbing rats, Parsifal notices a blonde Rat Eater poking rats like a pro. Even though I thought the bald chick with the lesions on the side of her head was the most attractive Rat Eater, I can't argue with Parsifal's choice. At any rate, before he can make goo-goo eyes with Giara (Valentine Monnier), the threesome must save a little person, who, of course, is named Shorty (Louis Ecclesia), from being killed by the Rat Eaters (they think little people are demons).
 

 

A brawl takes place, one where we get to see Ratchet's ball bearings in action (they're attached to a wire and hidden in his sleeve). Unfortunately,  Parsifal and Bronx, and Ratchet are outnumbered and are eventually taken prisoner by the Rat Eaters. Forced to watch them eat rats and perform some kind of campfire rape lottery, things aren't looking too good for our heroes. Will they be able to find the world's last fertile woman in order to save humanity. And if they do find her, is it really worth making more people if this is world they're going to be born into? These and many other questions are bound to answered by the time 2019: After the Fall of New York has decided that its dolled out enough awesome to satisfy the unwashed rabble lurking in the dark.
 

 

No one will deny that director Sergio Martini (Torso) was heavily influenced by films such as Escape from New York, Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior and Planet of the Apes (a half man half ape character named "Big Ape," played by George Eastman, shows up during the film's final third), but the cool thing about this particular film is that it manages to expand upon the films that initially inspired it. In fact, I thought this film was actually better than Escape from New York. While I realize a statement like that could be interpreted as blasphemy, the fact is 2019: After the Fall of New York is simply more entertaining and does more with the post-apocalyptic, New York City in ruins premise. And on top of that, Michael Sopkiw (Massacre in Dinosaur Valley) is just so darned likable.
 

 

I would be remiss if I failed to mention the stunning performance given by Anna Kanakis (The New Barbarians) as Ania, the Eurac's second in command. Channeling the Baroness from G.I. Joe, Valaria from Robot Holocaust, and Meg Foster's Evil-Lyn from Masters of the Universe, Anna Kanakis, her giant ponytail tied to perfection, imbues her character with enough ruthlessness and paranoia to sooth my wounded soul for at least six to seven hours. As I watched Anna stomp around Eurac headquarters in her black skintight outfit, I thought to myself: Fuck any film that doesn't feature a strong, fashion forward female villain at its centre. I mean, seriously, fuck them all. If you're not going to give me what I want, like, 2019: After the Fall of New York does and then some, then I'm afraid I'm not going to watch your lame ass movie with same amount of enthusiasm. Oh, sure. I'll sit in front of you for ninety or so minutes, but my heart won't be in it.
 

 

"My ponytail is better than yours. Deal with it." ~ Ania (Warning: This line is not actually uttered in the film.)

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Special thanks to The Film Connoisseur for suggesting that my eyes and their ball-like housing make a date with this totally righteous flick.

Teenage Hitchhikers (Gerri Sedley, 1975)

The open road, a well-attended orgy, drugs, flamboyant guys named Bruce, wet panties, dry panties, drugs, inadequate rapists, and the world's cutest truck stop waitress all converge to create one of the best films about teenage hitchhikers I have ever seen. Wow, that's high praise, especially when you factor in the amount of time you have pretended to spend in the mid-1970s over the past couple of years. Why do you assume this film was made in the mid-1970s? It wasn't? That's not the point. Okay, for starters, I assumed that Teenage Hitchhikers took place in the mid-1970s simply because that's date you listed (I'm not a moron). And secondly, why wouldn't it take place during the mid-1970s? Think about it, I'm not watching a teenage hitchhiking movie that takes place during the mid-1960s. (Hey, daddy-o! How's about giving us a lift?) And I'm certainly not watching a teenage hitchhiker movie that takes place during the mid-1980s (Like, oh my god! Eww! You wanna give us a ride? I'm so sure.) The mid-1960s thing I get (you can keep your clam diggers and bobby socks), but I thought you loved the mid-80s? Oh, I love 'em, all right. It's just that I don't buy for a second that anyone, particularly a couple of sexually attractive teenage girls named after animals, would hitchhike during mid-1980s. While I'm sure many teenagers did in fact thumb rides during the Reagan administration, I think the decades neon, Patrick Nagel illustrated temperament can't match the mid-1970s as far as sleaze goes. As anyone who was alive during the mid-1970 can attest, it was a boisterous period filled with violence and debauchery. I know what you're thinking, there's plenty of violence going on out there right this minute. Yeah, that's true. Violence never seems to go out of fashion. But I ask you, where's the debauchery?
 

 

Nowadays, pornography is everywhere, but, at the same time, it's also nowhere. Relegated to the fringes of our collective unconsciousness, erotica, pornography's forgotten, kinder, gentler cousin has become so non-existent, that you would probably need a magnifying glass to find it anywhere within mainstream society. Now, I'm not talking about oversexualized pop stars gyrating in their underwear. No, what I miss is artful perversion, which is something this film, directed by Gerri Sedley, has in great supply.
 

 

Getting back to my original point, the films of the mid-1970s are replete with violence and debauchery. But they also have a sense of fun. In the grand tradition of the drive-in movies made by Crown International Pictures, Teenage Hitchhikers looks like it might be yet another violent exploitation film; two young women, Mouse (Chris Jordan) and Bird (Sandra Peabody) hit the open road in search of adventure by using their thumbs, and, when necessary, their naked, tan line-adorned titties to hitch rides. However, the film, in actuality, is a lighthearted, softcore romp. In fact, it's so lighthearted, that even the ubiquitous rapist character is a bit of a doofus.
 

 

We meet Mouse, a kooky blonde with a flat chest and strong comedic chops, and Bird, a playful brunette with a shapely, pantie-compromising booty, as they're, you guessed it, trying to hitch a ride. As darkness falls, Mouse and Bird have yet to land a ride. Their luck, however, changes when a camper filled to the brim with hippies picks them up. The men are members of a folk rock band called "Energy Crisis" and the women, Sol Alcoa (Margaret Whitton) and House Cat (Lynne Ritchie), are their groupies (the former actually calls herself a parasite who sucks other people's energy). As the band perform one of their ditties, Mouse and Bird get to know House Cat, who has a habit of contradicting everything they say by spouting hippie-related nonsense in their general direction. Like, for example, if you were to say, "I don't get it" to House Cat, she would say, "I don't 'get,' man, I give."
 

 

In order for them to remain warmly ensconced in their camper, Mouse and Bird are informed that they're going to have let the band members temporarily use the inside portion of their vaginas for undisclosed amount of time. After mulling it over for about two seconds, Mouse and Bird bolt from the camper like a couple of exasperated black-capped chickadees.
 

 

Is there anything more depressing than watching a couple of teenage hitchhikers attempt to catch fish with their bare hands? Oh, you're asking me? Actually, I found the scene to be quite rewarding, as it gave us our first peek at Bird's first-rate behind. Encased in wettest pair of white panties ever to exist on this or any other plane of white pantie-based existence, Bird hikes them up even further, creating a sort of cottony no man's land of  corporeal tightness. Hardcore fans of this film, the kind that write Teenage Hitchhiker fan fiction in their spare time, will notice that Mouse, who kinda looks like Cheryl Hines from certain angles, stares at Bird in a loving manner as she adjusts her wet white panties on the shore. Was Mouse simply impressed by her pantie-hiking technique? After all, wet panties are tougher to hike than regular, non-wet panties (you mean dry panties? yeah, dry. which is totally the opposite of wet). Or was there something else going on? Hmmm.
 

 

Oh, and in case you're wondering. Yes, they do eventually catch a fish. Now, I don't want to say how exactly they go about doing this, as it would ruin the surprise. But trust me, finding out how is definitely worth, oh, let's say, the price of admission. Do people still pay for stuff? Hmmm.
 

 

After drying off, they're back on the road. No money for food? No problem. As Mouse would say, "Boobs and butts are legal tender," and they head to the nearest truck stop ready to spend a bit of both. Sitting on either side of some guy, Mouse and Bird immediately unleash a barrage of food-related sexual innuendos at Keily (Donald Haines), the truck stop's clueless soda jerk. When that doesn't work, Mouse and Bird proceed to dance without the aid of pants. Huh, it would seem that Bird's panties are in fact dry; to be honest, I wasn't sure if they were dry or not. Yeah, anyway, um, Mouse removes her top and begins to gyrate like a coked up go-go dancer. I don't know what exactly they're trying to accomplish (I think they're trying to get a free meal), but either way, it's a great scene.   
 

 

When flashing their boobs fails to get them a ride (they hurl homophobic slurs at the drivers who refuse to stop for them), they turn to plan B: Writing the words "west" on their butt cheeks. While Bird has some junk in her trunk, I don't think these gals have the badonk necessary in order to make a legible sign, especially one that supposed to be seen by the occupants of a vehicle traveling at an accelerated rate of speed. Proving that ingenuity was alive and well in the mid-1970s, Mouse and Bird share the letters in "west." Yeah, that's right. Mouse gets the 'w' and the 'e,' while Bird gets the 's' and the 't.'  You know it's an ingenious plan because their riding in Dick Daggert's station wagon in no time.
 

 

Who's Dick Daggert, you ask? Played by Pater Carew, Dick, who is a lingerie salesman, has a girl named Mouse bouncing up and down on his cock in no time. God I love the mid-1970s. A time and a place where even the most repugnant of individuals seem to get laid on a regular basis.
 

 

Sure, everything up until now has been light and frothy. But I have a feeling things are going to take a dark turn when word gets around that there's an escaped rapist on the loose in the surrounding woods. Lounging in those very same woods, Mouse (rocking giant yellow curlers in her hair) and Bird (reading an erotic paperback while relaxing in a leggy manner) have no idea, but Jenny (Nikki Lynn), a young runaway, is being stalked by an escaped rapist (Ric Mancini) a hundred yards away from where they are currently lounging.
 

 

Will Mouse and Bird come to Jenny's rescue? What do you think? Pretending to be a wayward teen, Bird tells the escaped rapist to stop raping Jenny. Why would he do that? Well, according to Bird, he's trespassing on the property belonging to a school for, you guessed it, wayward girls. And, not to mention, he failed to obey the sign that clearly stated, "No Rapists Beyond This Point." Now, we all know there's no school for wayward girls or any sign meant to deter rapists, but the escaped rapists doesn't know this. On top of the things I just mentioned, Bird also mocks his genitals and belittles his raping technique; "maybe raping isn't your bag," Bird tells the escaped rapist at one point. I don't know if this scene would pass today's politically correct smell test. But nonetheless, I admired its dark sensibility.
 

 

The stunning Claire Wilbur only made two films during her career, and I've seen both of them (I love when that happens). Anyway, just like in Radley Metzger's Score, Claire plays a forthright woman who always gets what she wants. And in Teenage Hitchhikers she plays Toni Blake, a rich lesbian who desperately wants to have sex with Mouse and Bird. The plan is, have sex with her, while Jenny (who has since joined the duo on the road) robs the rich lesbian of her valuables. While Bird is being smothered with kisses in the garden, Jenny starts to poke around Toni's study. However, it doesn't look like Jenny is in the mood for stealing, as she mostly daydreams about her boyfriend, who bears a striking resemblance to the truck stop soda jerk. Oh, and while Jenny is wistfully woolgathering about the soda jerk, Mouse has hopped in the bath with Toni.
 

 

It's during the bathtub scene that I first realized that Chris Jordan has a genuine gift for comedy. It's true, she's funny throughout the movie. But watching her face as she bathed with Claire Wilbur was when it dawned on me: Chris Jordan has got the goods.
 

 

As far as plot goes, the girls desire to purchase a car is pretty much it. A plot that culminates when they visit the Farquart Classic Car Emporium, a car lot located in a clearing in the woods. Even though it looks like a junkyard, Mr. Farquart (Kevin Andre, credited here as Carter Courtney Jr.) insists that all his cars run. Unable to afford the one car on the lot that actually works, the girls and Mr. Farquart hash out a unique payment plan. Which leads to a bizarre sex montage where Mr. Farquart almost humps Mouse and Bird in the back of a convertible. "Almost" because he's interrupted every time he's about to get his thrust on.
 

 

Oh my god! The waitress who serves Mouse, Bird, and Jenny at a greasy spoon is freaking adorable. And, get this, her name is listed in the credits! Played by Karen Schutzman, the waitress character, a demure brunette in a green smock, might only be screen for four or five seconds, but she still managed to steal my heart. Give me my heart back, demure brunette waitress who appears in Teenage Hitchhikers for four or five seconds. Give it back!
 

 

Celebrating freedom, independence, and the excitement of the open road, Teenage Hitchhikers is a loving tribute to the mid-1970s made during the mid-1970s (if you're going to pay tribute to a specific period of time, try doing it during the actual period). Ending like all tributes to the mid-1970s do, with a well-attended softcore orgy sequence (complete with a zipper pulling montage) hosted by Bruce (Kevin Andre), the orgy's "resident fag." A dizzying mish-mash of pantyhose, uncouth hippie genitals, grape-based cunnilingus, paisley shirts, catchy music, drugs, Eric Edwards, and casual humping, I can't think of a better way to end a movie about teenage hitchhikers. You could bring the escaped rapist back. Yeah, I guess you could do that. But don't you think ending with the orgy would have been the perfect metaphor for the decade's liberal attitude toward sex? Either way, the film is must see for fans of  frivolous balderdash with a subversive edge.

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Flash Gordon (Mike Hodges, 1980)

"Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! Saviour of the universe! Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! He'll save everyone us!" When people come up to me on the street–you know, to tell me my shoes are untied–they invariably ask me what my opinion is regarding actor Sam J. Jones (people, as you might expect, are dying to know what I think about stuff). And if they were to ask me before, oh, let's say, last Wednesday, I would always start off by saying, in the most sheepish manner possible: Oh, you mean they guy from My Chauffeur? And then, after waiting for their playful laughter to subside, I would launch into this long, meandering, some might say, deranged soliloquy, about the statuesque thespian. After I finished, the person who had just endured my long-winded speech would always ask why I failed to mention Flash Gordon, the live action sci-fi adventure flick from 1980 that he's purportedly best known for. Trying my best not to appear infuriated by their insolence, I would simply say, "Flash Gordon?!? I don't watch crap like that," and politely excuse myself. Fast forward, or, I guess I should say, flash forward, you know, because the film is called...never mind. Jump ahead to this past week, where cursing the arrogant, non-Flash Gordon-watching jackass who used to live inside my nimbus has been the main order of business. You can thank the live action version of Masters of the Universe for loosing up my butt-hole's tolerance for films that mix  swashbuckling with laser-gun shootouts, as the Mike Hodges-directed film entered my organic structure with a buttery smoothness (my rectum did not bleed, I repeat, my rectum did not bleed). But as a fan of films such as Barbarella and Starcrash, I must say, I feel a deep sense of shame for ignoring the garish allure of Flash Gordon, one of the greatest films to ever open with the words "hot hail" flashing on the screen for inordinate amount of time (if you remember correctly, the classic film Grand Illusion starts off with the words "hot hail" as well).
 

 

The fact that it took me over thirty years for my eyeballs to make a date with Flash Gordon is, to be perfectly honest, extremely embarrassing. Aren't you forgetting something? Oh, yeah. I want to be whipped by Mariangela Melato, while, of course, she's wearing her skintight Kala uniform. No, not that. The other thing. Right, the other thing. I would like to use this opportunity to apologize to all the people I flippantly dismissed whenever they brought up Flash Gordon after I had completed my Sam J. Jones-related ramble/tirade. In my defense, he is amazing in My Chauffeur. I mean, his chemistry with Deborah Foreman is undeniable. However, that's no excuse for my behaviour. I am, for intents and purposes, truly sorry.
 

 

"Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! Saviour of the universe! Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! He'll save everyone us!" Now that's how you start a fucking movie. What are you talking about? I'm talking about the music of Queen. "Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh!" Granted, I don't know much about Queen. Other than seeing their Metropolis-inspired video for "Radio Ga-Ga" and the video that featured Freddie Mercury vacuuming in a leather mini-skirt ("I Want to Break Free") as a smallish child, and, of course, the famous scene from Wayne's World, my Queen experience is pretty limited. Grabbing you by the haunches almost immediately, the second Freddie yells "Flash!" and that first lightning bolt flashes across the screen, I knew I was in the presence of greatness.
 

 

Like I've said many times before, it doesn't usually take long for me to size up a film's awesomeness. But in the case of Flash Gordon, it was almost instantaneous. Starting off with an unseen Emperor Ming (Max von Sydow) telling his loyal henchman Klytus (Peter Wyngrade), who is also unseen, that he's bored, you know some evil shit is about to go down.  Spotting a planet on his view screen, Ming asks Klytus what the name of that peaceful looking bluish rock is. Pronouncing "Earth" in the most derisive manner possible, Ming decides to have fun with this "Earth." And by "fun," I mean cause earthquakes, hurricanes, and, you guessed it, make hot hail fall from the sky.  
 

 

With a theme song that kicks an egregious amount of ass, it only makes sense that the hero at its centre kick just as much, ass, that is. You can't tell right away, but a blonde human male named Flash Gordon (Sam J. Jones), quarterback for the New York Jets, will have an army of Hawkmen spelling his name in the sky above Mongo by the time this epic adventure is over.
 

 

Waiting on the runway for his private jet to pick him up, Flash spots Dale Arden (Melody Anderson), a brunette travel agent, getting out of a van. Judging by the way their eyes lock, it's obvious that Flash and Dale are attracted to one another. And why wouldn't they be? He's tall, handsome, and is wearing a white t-shirt with his name on it (his first name is emblazoned across his chest in flamboyant red letting). And she, well, she's rocking a red and white ensemble like nobody's business; a pair of cheeky white pumps, a modest red dress, and a white blazer with a red handkerchief in the pocket. In other words, Flash likey.
 

 

As they're flying through the air together, their plane hits a little turbulence (of course, this doesn't stop Flash from hitting on Dale, whose lipstick, by the way, totally matches her dress). Suddenly, the plane begins to veer out of control. Oh my, the pilots are gone! What do you do you mean the pilots are gone? Just that, they're gone. It's almost as if they were sucked through the windshield by an unknown entity. Thankfully, Flash, who has recently started taking flying lessons, grabs the wheel and attempts to land the plane safely. It's still early on, but I like the way this Flash fella never seems to shirk from a challenge.  
 

 

Crashing through the lab of a disgruntled scientist named Dr. Hans Zarkov (Topel), one who used to work for NASA, Flash and Dale find themselves in yet another pickle of a situation. You see, Dr. Zarkov is disgruntled for a reason. He wants to confront the aliens that are responsible for the earthquakes, the hot hail, and the lunar eclipses, and plans to do so with the aid of a rocket that he's built in his lab. Unfortunately, no one believes his theory that a malevolent force from another galaxy is causing the planet so much turmoil. And since his lab partner has flown the coop, Dr. Zarkov wants Flash and Dale to accompany him on his mission (his rocket needs more than one person in order for it to operate in an efficient manner).
 

 

Since Flash and Dale, like Dr. Zarkov's lab partner, have no desire to battle imaginary aliens played by Swedish, British, and Italian actors, they resist the deranged scientist. Try as they might, all three, as a result of some mildly contrived circumstances, end up blasting into space. Even though they have, up until now, only exchanged a few lustful looks and engaged in some light to moderate flirting, you can tell Flash has the hots for Dale by the way he tries shield her from harm.
 

 

Welcome to Mongo, puny earthlings. If you thought The Apple was too gaudy, the Phantom of the Paradise was too glam, and Xanadu was too...xanadu-ey?!? Your eyes ain't seen nothing yet. As the opening credits were rolling to the sound of Queen, I couldn't help but wonder why the film's costume designer/set decorator, Danilo Donati, was featured so prominently (the font used for his name seemed more robust than the others). Well, after getting a look at the characters that populate Mongo, the planet ruled by Emperor Ming, I'm not surprised his name was so prominently displayed. I would say that a large part of this film's appeal comes from the sets and costumes, as they're wonderfully garish. I mean, never have I seen so much red and gold worn by so many at once.
 

 

As Flash, Dale, and Dr. Zarkov enter Ming's chambers (they have been taken prisoner), we get a sense that all is not well in this tawdry universe. It would seem that the Tree People, ruled by Prince Barin (Timothy Dalton) and the Hawk People, headed by Prince Vultan (Brian Blessed), are at odds with one another. As the two princes are about to have at it, Klytus, Ming's gold-faced henchman, reminds them that no one shall die unless Emperor Ming wills it. And judging by his stoney demeanour, Ming ain't willing shit. The always thinking Dr. Zarkov sees the conflict between the Tree People and the Hawk People as an opportunity. Meaning, if he can convince them to put aside their differences and focus their energy on defeating Ming, who they secretly dislike, maybe he can save Earth from being destroyed after all. 
 

 

Let's be honest, the chances that a disgruntled scientist, a leggy travel agent, and a blonde quarterback will be able to defeat Ming's forces all by themselves is pretty far-fetched.
 

 

While we're at it, let's be even more honest. How are they going to save Earth when the disgruntled scientist's mind has been wiped, the leggy travel agent is engaged to marry Ming (he may be evil as all get out, but his taste in concubines is second to none), and Flash is dead. Flash is what?!? Yeah, he's dead. That's what you get when you call Ming a "psycho." But don't worry, Princess Aura (Ornella Muti) has got things covered. Who's she, you ask? Oh, she's Ming's daughter. She likes to toy with men. How does she do that exactly. Uh, by looking like Ornella Muti, that's how.
 

 

Speaking of Italian women who toy with men with a jaunty elan, even though it takes roughly forty minutes for her to make her first appearance, the moment Mariangela Melato shows up as Commander Kala was totally worth the wait. In charge of Ming's feared secret police, Kala, sheathed in leather from head to toe (with gold flourishes peppered here and there to break up the monotony), is the queen of torture.
 

 

If you need to wipe someone's memory, she's your gal. If you need your treacherous, eye makeup-obsessed daughter to be whipped, she's your gal. If you need to...we get the idea, she rules. You got that right. In fact, she rules so hard, I'm having trouble concentrating. I don't know, I keep imagining myself being double-teamed by Kala and Evil-Lyn from Masters of the Universe. What makes Kala, and, I suppose I might as well include Evil-Lyn, so appealing is that they may follow the orders of dictators, yet they display brief moments of  independence. As in, we'll do your bidding, but only on our terms. Oh, and they both manage to be sexy without revealing any skin.
 

 

When she first arrived at the airfield at the beginning of the film, I wasn't sure about Melody Anderson as Dale Arden. I mean, if I'm going to believe that Flash Gordon would cast aside a flirtatious Ornella Muti for another woman, that woman is going to have to be pretty spectacular. And during the film's early going, I wasn't getting that vibe from Melody Anderson. All that changed when Dale takes off her shoes (her white pumps have long since been replaced with a pair of strappy gold heels), places them in a safe place, and proceeds to overpower three or four of Ming's creepy guards. When she's done blasting and karate chopping the guards (who let out this horrible shriek when killed), she calmly picks up her shoes and continues on her way.
 

 

Being a concubine probably blows, but you gotta love the free shoes. I'm surprised Dale didn't have second thoughts about the whole concubine thing. The prospect of having round the clock makeup service must have been tempting.
 

 

In a universe where manliness is measured by inserting your fist in a wet hole, Hawkmen dive with an infectious brand of enthusiasm (when the boisterous Brian Blessed - whose laugh makes me happy- instructs his Hawkmen to dive, I'm sorry, I meant to say, diiiiiiive, I got goosebumps), rings have built-in flamethrowers, no-nonsense earthlings use their knowledge of football to defeat alien henchmen ("Go, Flash, go!), and rocket-cycles are always conveniently nearby to help facilitate escape attempts, Flash Gordon is what cinema should be. Colourful, raucous, goofy, camp-laden fun. "Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! Saviour of the universe! Flash! Ahhh-ahhhhh! He'll save everyone us!"

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