SORCERESS (1982) | Attack of the Drive-In
SORCERESS (1982) | Attack of the Drive-In
In a time of shirtless men, a bat-lion was born.
How lovely you look, even in those goat-herd clothes.
— Traigon, Sorceress (1982)
The 1980s were a strange time, if you’ll recollect for a moment, moment-and-a-half, with me.
And so it was, in those days, we had wrestlers telling kids to eat their vitamins, we had a cowboy president (the first off the D-list to prance into the Oval Office), and we were talking about lasers to protect us from the Communists.
Now that I think about it, not much changed.
But that’s not the point (or is it?!).
The point is that, in the headiest of days, a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah of free range voodoo economics, the American people decided that what we really needed was something fresh.
Something exciting.
Something that could right wrongs, defend the free world against an Evil Empire of Communism. To let us join together, hand in hand, just before we gave each other hugs — not drugs.
What we needed was half-naked, sweaty men in loincloths.
And thus, the sword and sorcery genre came to pass, and there was much rejoicing. If you thought CONAN THE BARBARIAN was the pinnacle of grunting, performatively masculine, silver screen swordslingers?
Well, you just back your trolley back up and lend me an ear. Or eyeball. As the case may be.
And I’ll tell you a sordid tale of the High Deacon of the Drive-In, Roger Corman.
Old Roger was a prolific fella. A producer steeped in such award-winning classics of high cinema as ATTACK OF THE 50 FOOT CHEERLEADER and TERROR FROM THE OCEAN FLOOR, the 80s marked a point in his career that he, too, decided that the shirtless in sand drama was a ticket to a paycheck (you can thank those free range economists for that one).
And so it came to pass that B-movie master director Jack Hill and writer Jim Wynorski came up with the concept of this feature straight out of the wastebasket of Robert E. Howard, and brought it to screens. It was originally titled THE BARBARIAN WOMEN, which is a much more apt description. There’s not a sorceress to be had in the actual film. How did it get its name? Well, Roger Corman. Legend has it he asked some local college kids what they thought a cool name would be for a fantasy flick, and they gave him SORCERESS.
So they loaded up a few trucks and went to Mexico to get this filmed, after hiring the sisters Harris, Lynette and Leigh. If those names sound familiar — check the box under grandpa’s bed. The pair were Playboy Playmates of some repute, later involved in a sugar daddy sex scandal. But that’s not featured in the film, which is the real tragedy here.
The film, such as it is, is what it is. And what it is—is a mess. I found myself wondering, sitting there in the drive-in, popcorn shrapnel stuck between teeth and gum, that Roger might’ve saved some scratch hiring blow-up dolls instead of the Harrises, and gotten a more lively performance. The plot—such as it is, and it ain’t—is peak Hill though. An evil wizard tries to cheat fate by sacrificing his firstborn child. His wife has twins, and, rational soul though he is, doesn’t want to pick the wrong one. The twin girls grow up to be the barbarian women themselves and end up in a final battle with a team of Mexican extras playing a surprise zombie mob.
This is the 1980s condensed into a single film in a midnight double feature. Cheap sets, gratuitous sex and nudity, violence, and experiencing it recalls the time your best friend railed a line of powered Quaaludes thinking it was driven-snow Columbian. It’s a flick best experienced with your best friend or beau at your side, having an impromptu game of “Mystery Drive-In Theater 10,000.” Just don’t turn it into a drinking game. If you take a shot every time you see a boob on screen (counting a goat boy played by David Milburn), you won’t be there to catch the double feature.
This pristine diamond of bat-lion guano would give a kitchen-table birth to Corman’s better DEATHSTALKER series, kicking off in 1983. But SORCERESS would get a sequel — the much better THE WARRIOR AND THE SORCERESS (1984), featuring none other than David “Kill Bill with Kung Fu” Carradine.
SORCERESS though is a period piece, no matter the angle.
Whether as a fantasy throwback to a simpler, pulpier time, or embodying the grandest values of the Age of Reaganomics. Bearded men sacrificing children for immortality.
Wait, what?
If you feel the need to subject yourself to this majestic bat-lion-meets-goat-man of a film, you can pick up your own copy here.
If you decide to, I’ll get a small commission, at no extra cost to you, and you’ll know that today’s the day you supported independent film.