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This televised version of a stage production is unlikely to supplant memories of the 1955 film version which Daniel Taradash so skillfully adapted to the CinemaScope screen but, judged on its own, it's a respectable take on a play that might almost be called an American classic. Casting and performance are all-important in this kind of venture and the results here are varied. Dana Hill makes a splendid Milly and Dick Van Patten couldn't be better as Howard. Conchata Ferrell at first doesn't seem quite right as Mrs. Potts but her larger-than-life personality soon wins out. Timothy Shelton is passable in the thankless role of Alan and Rue McClanahan has her moments as Mrs. Owens. On the other hand, Jennifer Jason Leigh can't quite bring off Madge and her semi-out-of-control hairdo is sometimes annoying. The weakness here is Michael Learned as Rosemary, the play's best part. Rosalind Russell was so much better. (The suggestion that she and Rue McClanahan should have traded parts is a good one.) As for Gregory Harrison, he doesn't quite capture the wounded little-boy-lost quality in Hal but he sure looks good with his shirt off.

Ah, the loneliness of a movie without a single review. This Italian swashbuckler, though minor, doesn't deserve such a fate. It tells, in efficient though undistinguished fashion, a familiar tale of an evil nobleman, ensconced in a castle, who oppresses the local population. Though threatened by a revolt and worried by the spread of a plague, the nobleman spends much of his time arranging a financially-advantageous marriage between his beautiful but defiant ward and his foppish, violence-avoiding stepson. Complicating matters is the arrival of a masked swordsman, half-Zorro, half-Robin Hood, who threatens the nobleman even as he charms the beautiful ward. There are no surprises here but things move briskly and the sets and costumes are easy on the eyes. There's even a brief torture scene inside a dungeon for those who like bare-chested-male-bondage.

Even the top-billed presence of the doomed-to-die-young Peter Lee Lawrence, plus lots of those eye-pleasing red coats once worn by Her Majesty's soldiers, can bring life to this tired "Northwest Frontier" drama. Most of the plot, such as it is, involves a band of these British soldiers wandering off from a fort on some kind of mission whose goals and purposes are never very clearly defined. There's conflict between the enlightened Lawrence and a narrow-minded, stick-to-the-rules superior who doesn't appreciate any aspect of the local culture, and there's a pretty girl thrown in there along the way, but it all just falls unto the "killing time" category. This makes "The Brigand of Kandahar: look like "Gunga Din!"

True, opening episodes in a series tend to be burdened by having to make a series of introductions. This one is no exception but the introduction of the main characters as well as several recurring settings is done reasonably well. The real problem lies in the story-line which begins with a hokey scene featuring a hooded figure chasing a pretty young women on a deserted highway and which then drifts into a tiresome discussion about which gun is which in a virtually identical pair. Fortunately for the series, the scripts got better, and also fortunately for the series, Barbara Hale was soon given a bit more to do than make coffee. As for the episode's title, the "redhead" is apparently described as "restless" only for reasons of alliteration, and how does a young woman on a waitress salary afford such a fine-looking apartment?

This good-looking and well-mounted film fortunately avoids the slightly sub-standard look and feel of many such movies sponsored by religious groups. Like virtually all films about Jesus, it has a crucifixion scene and it's interesting to note how this scene compares to similar scenes in the past.

Earlier Jesus movies showed him being nailed through the wrists, but revised thinking on this point has prompted recent movies to show Jesus being nailed through the wrists. Perhaps to please both points of view, "The Lamb of God" shows nails being hammered both through the palms AND then through the wrists. Unlike crucifixions in other Jesus movies, this one thankfully dispenses with those ropes which are merely there to help hold the actor's arms in place.

Earlier Jesus movies generally showed him accepting the pain of crucifixion without struggle or even murmur of complaint. In Joseph Breen's made-in-Spain Jesus movie from the late 1950s, for example, it takes 10 blows of the hammer to nail Jesus' left hand, 14 more for his right hand, 6 for his left foot and 7 for his right one. That's 37 agonizing blows from a hammer driving nails through his flesh but this Jesus lies there calmly, not squirming, not even saying "ouch." This approach has changed. It now seems okay to show Jesus reacting to his pain, even letting out a few cries. Jeremy Sisto, the star of the 1999 "Jesus," actually howls in agony and writhes in a most undignified manner as he's crucified. The Jesus in "The Lamb of God," however maintains a serene silence. His feet are not being shown nailed but this omission is not uncommon in Jesus movies.

As to whether Jesus should look frail and aesthetic or healthy and robust, "The Lamb of God" goes with the latter view. In fact, handsome Mark Deakins, who plays Jesus, might even be called a "hunk," though he has no hair on his chest. (Unless it was shaved off.) He does have hairy armpits, however, unlike Jeffrey Hunter in "King of Kings." In this film Jesus has no interplay with the two thieves and there's no scene of him being speared in the side.

The woes of a young couple addicted to cocaine and drifting through a homeless existence in Chicago may not sound like an enticing piece of entertainment. In fact, it threatens to be one of those earnest but dreary "social problems" dramas you might go to only out of a vague sense of obligation. And the title, "Animals," doesn't help matters.

Surprisingly, and pleasingly, "Animals" proves to be not only a movie that's "good for you" but also a movie which engrosses and entertains in an easy manner which seems deceptively effortless. Much of this credit goes to the two leads, David Dastmalchian and Kim Shaw, and to the script (by Dastmalchian) which shows us the various ways these two survive through guile and petty crime. You don't approve of what they do and you certainly don't envy their lives and yet they retain a likable quality and don't seem to be that far removed from our own selves.

Each of the supporting characters is well-cast and effective.

Those seeking a movie which veers from the usual multiplex offerings would be well-advised to consider "Animals."

The original "Voodoo Academy" heralded the emergence of a new, unique talent, but as the earlier reviewer from South Carolina indicated, this talent did not grow. David DeCoteau maintained a plateau for awhile and then began to slide. "2 Voodoo Academy" has him at about rock bottom. It has only 10 or maybe 15 minutes of anything resembling substance and the rest is simply padding. (And I don't mean the crotches of those boxer-briefs worn by a cast of young men who, in general, seem second rate, even by sheer pulchritude standards.) Seeing these lads take long, lingering, soap-less showers soon grows tiring, as does the footage of waves washing onto a beach. The result is a movie which will only appeal to those who find tedium erotic.

Things begin in a fresh and intriguing manner. Bronco tumbles down the steep, sheer side of an isolated, deeply-sunk water hole. He thrashes about in the water, wearing himself out, unable to find a hand-hold by which he might haul himself upwards. Slow death by drowning seems a real possibility.

Of course he's rescued and rather quickly, too, which is actually disappointing since this unique situation could have formed the basis for an entire episode. Instead it just leads into an account of a cattle drive heading toward a town desperate for the arrival of all that beef. And then the cattle drive sets up the story of a lovesick cowhand who's anxious to visit a woman in that town, an old flame, even though she's now married to someone else. And this romantic dilemma leads into a plot about robbing the local bank which, in turn, evolves into a murder case with a number of contrived twists. The episode eventually collapses under its own weight. It's as if they've tried to cram a number of story-lines into a single show.

Robert Reed (of later "Brady Bunch" fame) makes for a disarmingly clean-cut cowhand and Ty Hardin is his usual stalwart self even though he passes up several opportunities to take off his shirt. Maybe they just didn't have enough room left over for a bit of "beefcake."

As the earlier reviewer stated, this has the look and feel of an American "western" that's been transported to southern Africa during the Boer War. (The presence of a boy looking up to the stranger who's arrived at his family's farm - a farm called "Sunrise" - easily calls up memories of "Shane.") However, the plot falls more into the lines of "The Desperate Hours" as the farm is invaded and taken over by three deserters from the British army. Things follow predictably, (and a bit sketchily), from this point.

George Montgomery, in the twilight of his long career, plays the "Shane" character and he has two "beefcake" scenes which effectively show off his sweaty, unshaven chest. Romantic interest is supplied by Deana Martin, daughter of Dean Martin, but there's little chemistry between her and the much-older Montgomery.

The "behind-enemy-lines-rescue" is a reliable plot but it fails here largely because the movie doesn't seem to know what point it's trying to make. Having U.S. Air Force pilots dropping gas-bombs on innocent civilians would seem to position the movie as a condemnation of American involvement in Vietnam. However, showing those Vietnamese fighting against the Americans to be commanded by brutes who rape and torture and kill helpless prisoners blurs the line between "good guys" and "bad guys." The audience is left with no one to root for, (especially since none of the characters is of any interest or value), and the movie is written in too shallow a way to allow it to claim to be "dark" or "cynical." Making things worse is the movie's tendency to pad its footage with extended and unnecessary scenes, such as all those shots of characters trudging through the jungle accompanied by monotonous music.

This movie has acquired a cult reputation, however, because of a scene from it posted on YouTube. This scene shows the torture of the two captured USAF pilots. These pilots - young, hairy, attractive, and soaked with sweat - are only seen from the waist up but apparently they've been stripped naked and apparently they're being subjected to electric shocks delivered directly to their genitals. It's rare that the movies show or even imply genital torture. It's also rare to show manly torture victims screaming at the top of their lungs as these two pilots do. (They're played by Jim Dixon and Bernard Higgins.) Compare this scene to a similar one in "Rambo 2." Sylvester Stallone is also subjected to electroshock torture but he's allowed to keep his pants on, thus putting his genitals "off-limits." He also doesn't lower himself by screaming but instead allows himself only a few grunts of discomfort. Needless to say, the torture scene in "Assault Platoon" is far more convincing, far more memorable.

There's a lot of plot squeezed into this episode, maybe too much. Cheyenne exchanges bullets with a nervous man, meets the man's wife, resists romance, confronts greedy gunmen, holds off Indians, faces torture, etc. Viewers may be more interested in two of the episode's guest stars: James Garner, miscast as a villain, and Angie Dickinson, looking surprisingly plain and subdued.

When Cheyenne falls into the hands of hostile Indians, he's staked out on the ground and threatened with hot coals being held to the soles of his bare feet. This is an early example of the "beefcake-bondage" scenes for which these TV westerns became famous, but it muffs the "beefcake" factor. Despite the show's propensity for showing off Clint Walker's chest, he's allowed to keep his shirt on in this scene. What were they thinking?! Later in the same year (1957) Richard Boone found himself staked-out by Indians in a "Have Gun Will Travel" episode and even though he couldn't compete with Clint Walker in the physique category, he did that scene gloriously bare-chested.

A curious episode. It attempts to fit "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" into the format of an hour-long TV show, and in the process, it tends to demote Clint Walker from a starring role to a supporting role. Its relatively brief running-time doesn't give Edward Andrews, (yes, Edward Andrews!), sufficient time to make entirely plausible his change in character, and it shortchanges a subplot involving Cheyenne's visit to an Indian village to help an ailing white woman, but the story still holds our interest and it gives Rod Taylor a pleasing role as Andrews's good-hearted partner. Taylor also gets a chance to bare his hairy chest which, though easy on the eyes, obviously can't complete with Walker's 48-incher. (This episode marks the first of many times on "Cheyenne" that Walker takes off his shirt.) In a sort of balancing act, we're introduced to both "good" Indians and "bad" Indians. But one question remains: just why was this episode called "The Argonauts?"

It begins with the discovery of a body washed up on a beach -- a classic start to a mystery story -- but there proves to be little interest in the fate of that particular body. Murder? Accident? Suicide? The movie never delivers a satisfying answer because the body on the beach turns out to be simply a flashy introduction to the story of a troubled marriage among the idle rich. Even this aspect of the story isn't well handled because the movie doesn't seem to realize that Cliff Robertson is or at least should be the main character. He's the ex-beach boy who's now married to the wealthy Lana Turner but whose sense of decency causes him to feel guilty about living in her world of privilege. Perhaps not surprisingly, he finds himself drawn to the youthful innocence of Stefanie Powers, the girlfriend of the body-on-the-beach who's come to Acapulco to investigate the situation.

However, though Robertson is the character in the compelling position, the character who undergoes the greatest degree of growth and change, the movie understandably keeps turning its attention to Lana Turner. After all, she's the top-billed star and it's with her name that the movie hopes to attract its core audience of Sunday-matinée women. Turner certainly looks good, all things considered, and she's dressed and jeweled with all the requisite glamour, but her character never comes to life and the attempt to give her depth and sympathy through the revelation of a "shocking secret" from her past simply doesn't work. The revelation seems too pat, too contrived, and the fact that it's delivered through a monologue Turner implausibly shares with her maid doesn't help matters.

Interest starts to ebb away in the second half and an effort to re- charge the movie with a bullfight sequence seems more silly than exciting. Still, there's enough of a "glow" to this old-fashioned star vehicle to qualify it as one of those "guilty pleasures" whose charms can't adequately be explained to the uninitiated.

Cliff Robertson does what he can with the material but seems glum and uncomfortable and one never really accepts that he loves Lana Turner. For her part, Turner strikes the right poses but fails to become anything more than a look-don't-touch pin-up. Acting honors actually go to Hugh O'Brien who's usually seen in nothing more than a variety of crotch-bulging swimsuits and whose hairy, sun-bronzed torso seems the very distillation of raw male sexuality. (Robertson has only two bare- chest scenes, one of them quite minor, and while he still has an attractive physique, his beefcake appeal is put on better display in the 1959 "Gidget.") Ruth Roman adds some peripheral interest to the proceedings and one wishes more had been done with the character of reluctant gigolo, Ron Husmann.

The character of Jessica Fletcher hadn't quite come into focus yet when this pilot episode was written. She seems a bit "folksier," quick to dispense home-remedies for cleaning dress stains or curing corns on feet. She has as yet only a tentative grasp on what it means to be a best-selling author and too often seems a bit bewildered about life in the Big City. The later Jessica Fletcher grew in assurance and seemed to find strength in her Cabot Cove background rather than viewing it simply as a safe retreat from a troubling Outside World. This growth in her character probably helped account for the long-running appeal of the show.

While this pilot episode has the somewhat questionable advantage of greater length, it doesn't rank as one of the show's better offerings, but it certainly has a curiosity value and it does offer a pleasing array of guest stars: Arthur Hill, Brian Keith, Anne Francis, Raymond St. Jacques, Ned Beatty, Burt Convy, etc.

Somewhere in between the sword-and-sandals and spaghetti-westerns, the Italian film industry of the 1960s turned out a few costume-adventures which might, very loosely, be termed Renaissancers. They're set in post-medieval Europe and display swordplay, men in tights, buxom barmaids, coaches pulled by teams of horses, masked balls, etc. "Revenge of the Conquered" is a passable but undistinguished example of this minor genre, featuring the underused and now forgotten Burt Nelson, who only takes his shirt off once, and the lovely, always-watchable Wandisa Guida. To date, this is the movie's only review. It doesn't quite deserve such borderline oblivion but then, there's little reason to remember it.

(Note: the English-dubbed DVD print under review is in b&w rather than color and runs 90 minutes.)

Introducing non-traditional elements into the standard sword-and-sandal formula can be risky. The results often collapse into confusion and absurdity. Here, however, the merging of horror-movie with mythic- strongman motifs results in a "peplum" which stands a notch or two above its competitors. There are, of course, the standard but always-welcome virtues: a lively brawl in a town square and again in a tavern, a hoochy-koochy dance number inside the Sultan's palace, a beefcake-bondage scene in which our sweaty, bare-chested hero struggles with a wooden yoke bound across his brawny shoulders and outstretched arms, etc. Then there are the spooky, supernatural vampire elements -- not as hokey as you'd fear -- and a memorable fight which pits our hero against none other than his clone. Thrown in for good measure is an ear-drum torture scene carried out inside a giant bell which conjures up memories of similar moments in MGM's "The Mask of Fu Manchu" and Rory Calhoun's "Colossus of Rhodes." Finally, a word of approval must be given to this movie's refusal to use the boy, Ciro, for the comic relief usually provided by those annoying Italian midgets.

There are, not surprisingly, weaknesses. Leonora Ruffo isn't given much to do as the heroine and, as a result, seems pale, lifeless, and forgettable, especially when compared to the vibrant, dark-haired "bad girl," Gianna Maria Canale. Secondly, the role of the Sultan is so poorly developed that the political situation inside Salmanak remains needlessly muddled. What's more, not enough is done with the character played by Jacques Sernas -- somewhat surprising considering Sernas' star-power.

Assets clearly outweigh detriments, however, and towering over everything is the impressive figure of Gordon Scott, an underrated screen presence who was somehow more than just a glorious physique.

To date, only one other viewer has reviewed this obscure item from 1954, and while I sympathize with that viewer's lack of enthusiasm, I feel "The Black Pirates" deserves a few words of mild commendation. True, it's land-locked and doesn't have a single scene set on the High Seas, but this terrestrial setting helps "ground" the action and keeps it focused on the interrelationships between the bereft pirates and the residents of the village where buried treasure may be located. Perhaps surprisingly, the villagers receive a majority of the attention, and they're presented not as a united force but as a collection of varied interests. Also surprisingly, the leading man (Anthony Dexter) and the leading lady (Martha Roth) are not the story's hero and heroine. In fact, Lon Chaney jr. provides the movie's moral core, being cast (against type) as a benevolent and determined priest. These and other factors are then shaped into a brisk, efficient, and thankfully short feature. In summary, those with even a bit of adventurous taste may find hints of value in this unassuming effort. (A point of possible interest: a bare-chested Robert Clarke, tied to the village's T-shaped whipping post, suffers a vigorous flogging in the movie's opening reel. This scene, probably because of its obscurity, doesn't make the list in the book "Lash! The 100 Great Scenes of Men Being Whipped in the Movies," but it's a good scene and worth noting. Curiously, the other two whipping scenes from 1954 movies both involve the same victim. Ricardo Montalban was flogged across his bare chest in "The Queen of Babylon" and was then flogged across his bare back in "The Saracen Blade.") Alas, surviving prints of "The Black Pirates," in fading color, are not in good shape.

Trying to write a coherent synopsis for this sword-and-sandal extravaganza, (set in ancient Assyria), borders on the impossible. The main thrust of the plot seems to be the rise to power of the beautiful but scheming Semiramis. To achieve this goal she simultaneously works both with and against Onnos, a general in the Assyrian army, and Kir, a king defeated by Onnos in battle. Though her efforts eventually seem to meet with success, her murky tangle of shifting alliances makes for a messy story-line which never succeeds in giving us a grip on Semiramis's character. She's neither heroine nor villain and often appears to be controlled by the plot rather than in control of it.

Fortunately, this movie offers compensations: colorful costumes, exotic sets, and several flashy scenes which rise above the muddled plot. One of these scenes shows leading man John Ericson stripped to a loincloth and bound to the side of a water-wheel. As the wheel revolves, it plunges his head in and out of the water. This calls to mind a similar scene in Chapter 9 of the 1947 serial, "The Sea Hound," in which Buster Crabbe suffers a similar torture on another water-wheel.

Yvonne Furneaux is visually alluring as Semiramis and one wishes the script had furnished her with a more consistent and plausible character. John Ericson as Kir falls into the "passable" category and though he seems slightly out-of-place, his failure to ignite the expected romantic sparks with leading lady Furneaux can once again be traced to that hodgepodge of a script.

Anton Myrer's novel, "The Big War," was published in 1957 with some degree of success and, not surprisingly, 20th Century-Fox bought the film rights. After all, World War II movies were a staple of this time and Myrer's novel provided a number of parts for those rising young performers then being groomed by 20th. The novel's three central Marine characters remained in Edward Anhalt's screenplay but their backgrounds were simplified, various supporting characters were eliminated, and the background for the domestic scenes shifted from the East Coast to California. Robert Wagner's back-story remains truest to the book. He has a doting mother and adoring younger siblings but fights with his hateful step-father. Bradford Dillman plays the rich, college-educated Marine and the movie sketches in his background but now gives him a drunken socialite of a fiancée, Dana Wynter, who's largely a screenwriter's invention. (His new girlfriend, France Nuyen, seems to have been inspired by another, unrelated character in the book.) Dillman's fate has also been re-written from Myrer's version. Jeffrey Hunter plays the conscientious Marine with the pregnant wife but his strained relationship with his mother-in-law goes unmentioned in the movie. (He does, however, get a bare-chest scene.) The second half of the movie shifts from homefront scenes in California to battle scenes in the Pacific. These scenes are done in a perfunctory style -- laced with occasional footage from actual World War II photographers -- and the actors' identities sometimes blur in those similar uniforms and under those metallic helmets. The result of all this is a glossy, mildly entertaining, but unmemorable movie which never rises above the "B" level of its "B" level performers. (Acting honors, such as they are, go to Sheree North as a practical-minded WAC.)

This played at the 2011 Minneapolis/St. Paul Film Festival as one of the "Late Night" offerings, and its labeling as a "vampire" movie probably discouraged some potential viewers. Let's face it, vampire movies have been done to death with all the creative juices long since having been drained out of them -- right? Writer-director Scott Leberecht, however, has somehow found a way to approach this material in such a way that, almost without your realizing it, and without resorting to any of the usual gimmicks, he's created a small, quiet movie that slowly gets under your skin and haunts the corners of your mind. The final image, resembling a Mayan frieze, will burn into your memory. Praise goes to lead actors Zak Kilberg and Maya Parish with a special nod to Jo D. Jonz as the worker in a hospital blood lab. While not as good as last year's "The Revenant," this can at least be mentioned in the same breath and that's high praise indeed.

Contrary to its so-bad-it's-good reputation, this thematically-bizarre production plays out with such an earnest tone that the cynical viewer's laughter might very well die on the lips. The first half-hour, in fact, actually shows signs of promise, and there's little evidence of any problems caused by the film's reportedly slim budget. The story-line then jumps ahead seven years, however, and trouble arrives. America, according to the movie, is now in the grip of some sort of new Ice Age, and the cast spends the rest of its time bundled up like extras from Robert Altman's "Quintet," confined to dimly-lit rooms, their breath coming out in visible vapor. The cloning-divinity premise of the movie is so strong -- implausible but strong -- that this sudden swerve into an Ice Age apocalypse seems not only unnecessary but distracting. It's as if the writers' mistakenly thought their premise couldn't carry an entire movie so they decided to throw in something else. The movie weakens at this point and never recovers despite an ending that, to put it mildly, goes beyond the curious. One final note: co-writer, co-star Joe Schneider looks mighty good with his shirt off.

I saw this as a midnight horror-show at the Minneapolis-St. Paul Film Festival on April 24, 2010. Knew nothing about the movie beyond the scant information contained in the festival program. Tired from a whole day of movie-going, I considered skipping this one but decided I'd watch the first 15 minutes or so. Then, unless my interest had been captured, I could walk out and head home for some much-anticipated sleep.

My interest was captured. After 15 minutes, I thought to myself, "This is pretty good." A bit later I thought, "This is really good." And before long I was thinking, "This is great!" As a result, "The Revenant" wound up ranking #1 on my 10-Best-List for 2010.

(Okay, for the record, my other 10-Best choices were: #2 "The Ghost Writer";" #3 "Toy Story 3"; #4 "The Happiest Girl in the World"; #5 "The King's Speech"; #6 "Tears of April"; #7 "Music on Hold"; #8 "Letters to Father Jacob"; #9 "Buried"; #10 "The North Face.")

Warning: I saw "The Revenant" under ideal conditions. Walked in on it "cold." Had no expectations, no pre-conceptions. If you see "The Revenant" after reading this review, you may be disappointed. It'll lack that element of surprise which made my experience of it so memorable.

Don't know if "The Revenant" will ever get wide distribution. It's a hard movie to sell since it can't easily be labeled or described or categorized. But one thing is clear. Writer-director D. Kerry Prior is something of a cinematic genius.

More an Arabian Nights adventure than a "Hercules" movie, this minor entry in the Sword-and-Sandal cycle lacks the verve, polish, and tongue-in-cheek humor needed to lift it above the level of the "forgettable." While the casting of Kirk Morris might lead one to expect generous servings of "beefcake," his initial appearance is the only scene in which he appears completely bare-chested. After that he's usually seen in a bolero jacket which shows off his arms and stomach but which, unfortunately, makes him look more like a comic side-kick than a two-fisted hero. Also, despite expectations to the contrary, Morris is not subjected to one of those torturous tests-of-strength which showcases his musculature in a bondage situation replete with homoerotic imagery. Instead, he's simply thrown into a pit with an irritated rhino -- a sequence which must have seemed better on paper than it proves to be on film. While not a bad movie -- it's passably entertaining in a Saturday matinée sort of way -- fans of this genre in general and of Kirk Morris in particular are advised to look for their satisfaction elsewhere.

Voice-over narration in the opening scene describes Glaucus, (the Richard Harrison character), as being the lineal descendant of Hercules. Otherwise there's no justification for the "Son of" title which was obviously chosen to appeal to that American audience which had earlier embraced Steve Reeves' movies. In most respects, this effort follows the formula set by those movies, mixing together such familiar ingredients as heroic strongman, evil queen, rebellion against tyranny, sword fights, depravity in high places, etc. Missing, however, are any mythological trappings -- no gods, no fantastic monsters. The result isn't so much bad as simply forgettable. Much of the movie's weary, almost listless quality can be attributed to the fact that the villains -- first Caligula, then Messalina -- are much livelier and more interesting than the stolid Galucus and his whiny, clinging-vine girlfriend, Ena. Eliminating Ena and giving Glaucus a more assertive role would certainly help. As it is, Glaucus too often seems to simply be milling around inside the plot, waiting for it to assume a form and direction which it never quite achieves.

Richard Harrison was about at his physical peak when filming this movie yet, curiously, the movie makes little of the expected use of his physique. In fact, he doesn't have a single bare-chest scene! The most audiences get are a few scenes in which he wears one of those tops with a wide strap which crosses over his right shoulder. Sharp-eyed viewers may thus get an occasional glimpse of Harrison's left nipple. Although threats are made in the movie to kill Glaucus or to subject him to unspecified tortures, the anticipated beefcake-bondage scenes never occur. (No stretching-between-teams-of-horses, for example.) We only have a brief sequence of Glaucus being forced to pull a plow while yoked to a wooden pole tied to his outstretched arms. This failure to exploit Harrison's body seems especially curious in view of Harrison's earlier work in America as a physique model. It's still easy on auction sites to find for sale photos of a handsome young Harrison wearing nothing but a smile and one of those scanty posing straps which struggles to contain the bulging evidence of his manhood. Why did this movie all but ignore such an obvious opportunity for visual appeal?

It's hard to believe no one has reviewed this fine film until now. It played in April 2010 at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Film Festival under the title: "The Over the Hill Band." Admittedly, the premise sounds a bit "gimmicky," dealing as it does with a trio of elderly women trying to revive their rock-and-roll singing group from the Elvis Presley era. True, there are many of the expected laughs, but there's also a poignant sense of passing time, lost dreams, and the fragility of expectations. Marilou Mermans shines as the recent widow who tries to organize a reunion of the singing group once known as "The Sisters of Love." Jan Van Looveren matches her as her ne-er-do-well son whose musical talents, such as they are, suddenly prove helpful. The ending cleverly manages to satisfy both our desire for a happy resolution and our realization that life rarely gives us this thing. If you have a chance to see this film, do so.