It rekindles the great Hollywood romances.
Mausoleum air and anguished pauses: If this production were a poem, it would be mostly white space.
Nothing ages so quickly as yesterday's vision of the future.
It is said that no star is a heroine to her makeup artist.
Today is a time of turbulence and stagnation, of threat and promise from a competitor: the magic, omnivorous videocassette recorder (VCR). In other words, it is business as usual.
The visual palette suggests the creepy pastel paintings of Guy Peellaert (Rock Dreams); the fantasy battles with monsters and samurais echo the muscular landscapes of Frank Frazetta and Boris Vallejo. The movie is like an arrested adolescent's Google search run amok.