I watched
Conan the Destroyer a lot as a kid. It always seemed to just be there, either
floating around on cable TV or stacked randomly amidst the family video
collection, a collection largely dictated by us guys i.e., dad, older brother
and myself. Watching it now is like returning to a safe haven: I can relax, not
many come this way anymore, and those who do are of good company. The general
consensus says that Conan the Barbarian is the better of the two Conan adaptations.
I agree. But I’ve never dismissed the 1984 follow-up simply for being the
inferior. The John Milius incarnation sweeps over me with its operatics, silent
cinematics and deeply masculine romance. The sequel is just goofy fun, aided
considerably by the fact that Arnold Schwarzenegger is suck-proof, and remains
one of my all-time favorite personas of the big screen.
Speaking of
my prepubescent days, I was but 8 or 9 years of age when the old man put in my
hands a Weird Tales anthology marathoning the original Conan pulps by Robert E.
Howard. Naturally, my boy brain went nuclear over the lurid, bloody and
scantily clad exploits of said Cimmerian as penned by his creator in a fashion
yet to be equaled. I’ve long since recognized that no Conan movie, no sword
& sorcery feature film of any kind, has properly translated the "high
adventures" that Howard envisioned. I’m okay with that. Conan the Barbarian may
not be authentic REH, but it resonates close enough with its own grimace and
melancholy and savage philosophies. Conan the Destroyer lacks considerably the
lyricism of its predecessor, while continuing with one or two of its
unfortunate REH inaccuracies. However, in terms of story structure, the sequel
actually hits closer to the home of ye old weekly pulp narratives, and also
puts a little more verbal spring back into its title hero, who, in the first
film, was the silent type; for the Conan of Howard’s stories was often
surprisingly talkative.
Conan the
Destroyer wastes no time. Twelve minutes in and the plot is already being laid
out in full: Conan and his thief sidekick Malak (Tracy Walter) are
bargain-struck by Queen Taramis of Shadazar (Sarah Douglas) with a quest to
retrieve the jeweled horn of Dagoth, the dreaming god. The horn is locked away
in an ancient temple, to which the key, itself a jewel, is kept under guard by
a powerful wizard who resides alone in an ice castle. One quest, two separate
destinations: first, the ice castle and then the ancient temple. But only the
Queen’s virgin niece Princess Jehnna (Olivia d’Abo) may touch the jewel-key
(and live) and use it to unlock the resting place of the jeweled horn.
Therefore she and her personal protector Bombaata (Wilt Chamberlain), the
Queen’s captain, must travel with Conan. Their party grows to five when Conan
recruits his wizard friend Akiro (Mako, from the first film) and picks up a
stray warrior woman Zula (Grace Jones). As to be expected, Taramis’ deal with
Conan, to revive from the dead his lost love Valeria, proves a lie as Bombaata
is secretly assigned to kill him after their quest is complete, and the
princess is ultimately destined to be sacrificed in-sync with the resurrection
of the evil god Dagoth.
Got all that? No? Doesn't matter.
Right out of
the gate, the single worst aspect of this movie is the character Malak. Where
Conan had great repertoire with the knavish but deadly Subotai, Malak is just a
dumb-shit comic relief sidekick, saddled with bad lines and worse deliveries at
attempted humor that never even rise high enough to fall flat. Of course I have
great love for the seemingly everywhere Tracy Walter, particularly for his
contributions to Repo Man. But here he’s woefully miscast with a raspy voice
spouting lousy material that is nothing but an annoyance. Otherwise, the
remaining cast offers up a treasure trove of heyday actors, eye candy, and
delightful absurdity, both intentional and unintentional. The dudes of Conan
the Destroyer anchor in amidst a sea of relating films and entertainment.
You’ve got
the legendary Pat Roach playing the ice castle wizard. Where do I even begin
with Roach? Everything from Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange and Barry Lyndon to
countless popcorn movies of the 1980s including Never Say Never Again, Superman
III, Clash of the Titans, Red Sonja, Willow and, greatest of all, the shirtless
Nazi brawler from Raiders of the Lost Ark...and...the big Thugee dude in Temple
of Doom. You’ve got Danish bodybuilder/stuntman/Schwarzenegger regular, Sven-Ole
Thorsen, making his rounds as a nameless and face obscured soldier of the
Queen’s guard who duels to the death with Conan. One can only imagine the
nights after a day’s shoot with Arnold and Sven hanging out, smoking cigars,
playing cards and just laughing heartedly as they drink from life. The fun
doesn’t stop there. Though un-credited, pro-wrestler phenomenon Andre the Giant
bore the FX costume of Dagoth in horrid monster form. Arnold, Andre, Sven and
Roach all in one movie. I mean, c'mon!
But wait,
setting up one of the greatest inside jokes in cinema history is the casting of
7 ft 1 Harlem Globetrotter extraordinaire, Wilt '20, 000' Chamberlain (Google
it), as the protector of Princes Jehnna’s virginity. Wilt isn’t much for
personality in the role of Bombaata, but I can’t help but love the way he
delivers the line, "Thieves should be hanged!" And when it comes time to throw
down against a half-sized Arnold, Chamberlain earns his paycheck. On the flip
side of the gender are two (debatably three) hot-ass women garbed in ‘80s
fantasy wear. First, she was Kryptonion villain Ursa in Superman II, but as Queen
Taramis, mega-sexy Sara Douglas slinks around in a thigh-high push-up corset,
strangely evoking your best friend’s MILF or, better yet, some spicy scandalous
wife of a rich jerk-off husband who lures helpless pool boys into her web. And
then there’s Oliva d’Abo. I must tread lightly here. Beyond Ripley’s belief,
d’Abo was only...*gasp*...14 years old during the time of filming.
Look, I’m a
moderately good person. I pay my taxes, I recycle, I abide all laws. I’m a
mature grown man. I’m not a skeeze. But I’m not going to bullshit you either:
wrapped in tight fitting furs and a revealing V-split top, a well-developed
d’Abo brings about me urges that, I swear, are purely biological and beyond my
control. Sue me. I am but a product of evolution and I take no shame in my
instincts to preserve the human race. In defense of the film, Jehnna leers
curiously towards the prospect of sex (with Conan) but is kept wholly innocent
at the same time. Even when the two share a kiss in the end, it is a kiss
one-sided; Arnold remains steadfast, lips sealed, as if merely tolerating the
whimsies of young girl. As for Grace Jones -- the androgynous she-creature of
extreme ‘80s chic -- I’ll leave it to you to determine where she falls in the
spectrum of sexual attraction. I’m still confused on the matter. In the role of
Zula she fits right in as a gangly near naked berserker with a face that
attacks all its own, who spears and screams and is just damn scary all around.
Conan the
Destroyer is not all that dramatic but it does deliver as much content in all
things sword & sorcery as one could hope from a film of its limited budget,
scope and special effects capabilities. You want an evil sorcerer who
transforms into a phantom dragon? You got it. A one-on-one battle in a room of
magic mirrors? No problem. Cannibals, a wizard duel, an obligatory collapsing
fortress, a gratuitous shot of Arnold’s rippling muscles as he lifts something
heavy, a giant monster that crushes skulls and shoots lighting? Bon appétit.
Granted, none of it is woven into a larger, thematically driven story but,
instead, plays like a random checklist of fantasy oriented scenarios. Even
Conan himself seems markedly downsized from arced wanderer to generic action
hero. In Conan the Barbarian he was a burned soul, an impassioned lover,
hell-bent on revenge and yearning for a deeper sense of purpose. In Conan the
Destroyer he’s just a guy doing some stuff. But no Conan embodied by Arnold
Schwarzenegger can ever be truly dispirited.
Once again
Arnold gets to chuck it up in a scene of drunken behavior ("Lot on your
nife!...uh...not on your life!") and a great moment of character comes during a
standoff between our heroes and a horde of armed keepers of the ancient temple;
as Akiro and the opposing priest argue over the dangers of Dagoth, Conan,
shit-canning diplomacy, interrupts with, "Enough talk!" and hurls his dagger
into the gut of some sorry motherfucker. Oh, how often have I resolved banal
workplace disputes with such Gordian Knot eloquence (three time employee of the
month, bitches!). I take certain pleasures in the film’s many scenes of pure
silliness: Conan air-spun by his heels à la WrestleMania, Conan crawling over a
pile of giant foam rocks, and nothing says cheesy ‘80s entertainment like
watching faceless horseback goons try and capture Conan with nets. Movies +
guys with swords + nets = a whole lot of stupid. Despite its PG rating, the
film still manages a decent amount of blood splatter, decapitation and gooey
monster gore. Only nudity gets the shaft, which, considering the aforementioned
female leads, is a serious bummer.
Director
Richard Fleischer was an old pro, a veteran of the studio days, known more for
meeting deadlines and production demands with carpentry-like reliability than
he was for waxing overt filmic artistry. Stretching some 45 years in the
business, Fleischer’s work mostly emphasized technical skill over style,
exemplified by such films as 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Barabbas, Fantastic
Voyage and Tora! Tora! Tora! In my opinion his masterpiece is The Vikings with
Kirk Douglas, which I hold in higher esteem than Spartacus. For Conan the
Destroyer the no-non-sense shot design guarantees readable action and that all
actors and extras are properly in frame at all times. Otherwise, it’s just
point the camera and roll. In any case, the film is not devoid of visual style.
Renowned
cinematographer and frequent Fleischer collaborator Jack Cardiff took the
gritty earthen-toned realm of the previous Conan movie and imbued it with lush
colors and a gauzy luminous glow akin to his then neighboring project Rambo:
First Blood Part II. Swords, jewels and varying costumes sparkle with prism
colored lens flares, and during a campfire sit-down between Princess Jehnna and
a drunken Conan, a close up of the former is rendered with vintage soft focus
photography and a pallet of warm red and purple hues, harkening the classic
Hollywood make-believes with soundstagey artificiality; sadly, an aesthetic no
longer hip in today’s world of desaturations, moody monochromes and lifeless
digital grading.
Also
differentiating from the first film and its Spanish locales, Conan the
Destroyer makes surprisingly good use of Mexico’s rugged mountains and sand
dunes, highlighting shapely geologies such as the oval boulder cluster seen in
the film’s opening sequence and a massive two story rock tower centered between
Arnold and Sven’s pine forested duel. Master stuntman/coordinator Vic Armstrong
gives the film a good dose of fist bashing, head butting and beefy swordfights
that, under Fleischer’s frank direction, comes off pleasantly phony, like
watching pro-wrestlers knock each other around with metal chairs and trashcan
lids. Perhaps the only other flat-out criticism I can make against the film
concerns the largely recycled score by Basil Poledouris. It’s not that the
score fails on its own, but compared to the achievements of the first film --
arguably one of the greatest fantasy scores of all time -- the music here feels
markedly less inspired and is undercut by a lousy, TV show-scaled
orchestration.
Well, that
about does it for Conan the Destroyer. It is what it is. If you dig the more
Italianized second rate gems of Dino De Laurentiis as much as I do then his
middle installment of the Arnold-fantasy trilogy will, at the very least, keep
you nominally entertained. On some levels, and for bizarre reasons I can’t
explain, I actually prefer the grayish skies and sparse content of Red Sonja (also
directed mechanically by Richard Fleischer). Maybe it has something to do with
my fetish for Brigitte Nielsen’s peak Amazonian bod’ mixed with indescribably
bad line readings. Whatever. That can be saved for a different review. I’ve
said my peace.