Thursday, March 26, 2009

To Frank, A Skull, A Crown

Masters of the Universe (1987)
directed by Gary Goddard
rating: 3 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from Netflix

Syl once told me that I recoil at the first whisper of The Man From Another Place twitching in reverse while shadows move across the curtains of the Black Lodge because of my subconscious fear of epilepsy. I buy it, and I'll add to that my memory of the Sorceress of Castle Greyskull aging before my eyes at a San Antonio dollar theater in 1987. Seeing Masters of the Universe again, I realized that there is nothing akin to Raiders of the Lost Ark's melting faces in Skeletor's curse of physical transformation on the visage of a wise middle-aged woman. In one shot, she is young, and in the next, weak, listless, and old.

Do I fear old age less than I used to? I doubt it, but there is more context to enjoy in the movie now than there was in my first ten years, like the Jack Kirby connection, a vegetarian's interstellar disgust, or one more happy lot of teenagers living the 1980s to the fullest. The idea that the heroine, running for her life from an alien invasion, could charge into the arms of he-man Dolph Lundgren and believe him when he tells her he's one of the good guys seems oddly naïve today. Has it been that long since swords and sandals had a sense of humor? Or just too many years since the last muscle-bound action star?