I was surprised by Neon City. I didn’t expect much from it, but it really entertained me. I like sci-fi films that have nothing to say, and I like sci-fi films that are so preposterously ham-fisted with what they have to say that it becomes absurd. Neon City is the rare sci-fi film that has a little to say and says it well. Not a whole lot, but just enough to give it that extra bit of depth. Mad Max was really the opening salvo in the Reagan era post-apocalypse boom, even though it’s more outrageous sequel became the template. It’s debatable whether or not Neon City is the last film in the trend, but regardless, it’s fitting that it would be among the last and is, in spirit so much more similar to Mad Max than it is Road Warrior.

In fact, the only break in Pirkle’s robotic harangue occurs, quite effectively, during the film’s fading final seconds. Films such as Footmen, as mentioned before, would typically be shown in small churches, and would be followed by an altar call, during which those audience members who had yet to do so, shaken by what they had seen, would step forward and, just as Judy had done at the film’s conclusion, accept Jesus Christ as their lord and savior. As a prelude to that moment, Pirkle looks into the camera as the closing music swells and, in a tone that is suddenly both gentle and beseeching, softly repeats the words “Won’t you come?”

When you watch an eighties post-apocalyptic barbarian movie, your standards aren’t gonna be too high. You’re not expecting Citizen Kane; you’re looking for some exotic settings, some sword fightin’, and if you’re a 14-year-old boy sneaking this movie on Showtime, maybe a flash of boob. Well, She doesn’t disappoint. As stated before, Bergman is a pretty good fighter, so the fight scenes aren’t too bad. The idea of throwing in a whole bunch of discarded twentieth-century ideas and uniforms is pretty cool, which I would imagine came more from budget considerations than from any sort of brilliant writerly stroke. You won’t be able to follow the damn thing, and you get the feeling that most of it was written as they went along, but it’s sort of interesting to see the different groups of survivors.

If there’s anything that sets the films of Bobby Suarez apart from the films of Cirio Santiago, it’s that most of them make some sort of sense, at least relative to the universe about which we’re talking. But even Suarez was unable to resist the siren song of making a batshit insane post-apocalyptic action movie. And so where Santiago gave the world Future Hunters, which featured a leather-clad future hero, a tribe of midgets, Robert Patrick in his tighty whities, and a lost society of Filipino Amazons, Bobby Suarez gives us Warriors of the Apocalypse, which featured a leather-clad future hero, a tribe of midgets, and a lost society of sexy multi-ethnic Amazons. What it lacks in Robert Patrick buffalo shots, however, it certainly makes up for with what has to be the very final word in post-apocalypse shoulderpad jackets.

In fact, when first I purchased this tape, I ended up returning it as defective. I bought it used from a video store that was liquidating its stock back in 1995 or so, and a few days later, I popped it in the VCR and set about watching it while I did some simple household chores. The film started out as a Road Warrior rip-off, with occasional Hong Kong action film villain Richard Norton tearing around the post-apocalyptic wasteland in a muscle car. Familiar enough territory. Then I got distracted, and when I returned to the living room I found that someone had recorded a different movie over the one I’d purchased. Because there on my screen was a Bruce Le kungfu film, with the famous Bruce Lee imitator locked in mortal kicking combat with Hwang Jang Lee wearing a silver wig.

In the end, offering up any sort of criticism of this film seems moot. Pointless. Nigh impossible. It’s like trying to write sensibly about Alejandro Jodoworsky at his most insane. This is the rare film that is so poorly made, so absolutely weird, that it becomes a form of outsider art. Centuries from now, future generations will discover this VHS tape as they mine old landfills for relics of the past, and they will not need to ask themselves any further why 21st century man faded from this realm. This film has a hypnotic effect on me. Like some ancient Stygian evil, it terrifies me beyond the capacity for rational thought, and in doing so, it makes it impossible for me to turn away. Rest assured that when those future archaeologists excavate Roller Blade, they will find whatever skeletal remnants of my hand that remains still clutching it dearly.

The fact that a movie this bad generated so much behind the scenes drama fills me with a sick sense of giddiness, as does the thought that Carradine and Jennings were toking up while an uptight German guy yelled at them to take his film more seriously. I don’t even know if Nick was German. I just like imagining him that way, possibly dressed in the monocle and jodhpurs get up all good directors wear. It may not be a shining example of 70s scifi, or even a shining example of a middling Roger Corman production, but it is pretty entertaining. Plus, neon disco windchime nude dancing, and so many David Carradine buffalo shots per minute that to merely gaze upon them is enough to drive sane men mad.

Most people list Yor among the worst movies of all time. It may have even won some awards to that effect. All I can say is that if this is the worst movie you’ve ever seen, then you haven’t seen enough movies. I admit I have a soft spot for the hunk of junk, the same “saw it in the theaters” soft spot that makes me crack a warm smile even for a film like Treasure of the Four Crowns, and I still find myself enjoying Yor far more than I should. The revelation about the past being the future is not exactly as stunning as that first time you see Chuck Heston stumble upon the Statue of Liberty, but I don’t figure anyone goes into Yor expecting stunning revelations. You go in because you want to watch cavemen do somersaults and have laser battles with robots.

Technically, World Without End does a pretty good job of disguising its rather low budget. The sets were from older sci-fi films, but this was the first time they were actually seen in color, and one thing the film manages to do well is take advantage of color. Everything is colorful, almost hallucinogenic in its appearance. In the great scheme of things, Forbidden Planet is still probably the coolest of the 50s sci-fi films, if for no other reason than it’s completely weird musical score, but World Without End is a two-fisted action-packed little brother that may not be as respectable or ambitious, but just might be more fun.

There are a lot of adjectives one could apply to this film, but the most appropriate seems to be “absurd.” Scorpio is obviously a loser. Everyone in the whole world is more competent than he is. But hey, all he wants to do is drive his car, baby! For a post-apocalyptic world, things sure are easy to obtain. Williamson has an expensive patent leather outfit that looks shiny and new. No one seems to have any trouble finding endless amounts of ammunition for their exploding arrows and bullets, and no one is hurting for gasoline. And these are cool explosives people have. Sometimes they will blow up entire compounds, while other times they will just blow up a barrel. The head Templar’s gun seems particularly versatile with the level of explosive action it can generate.

Mark Gregory returning as Trash is also charismatic, though he’s not given much more to do than kick ass and look like a member of Saxon. That’s fine. As I said when I reviewed the previous film, I much prefer the tough-ass heavy metal hero to the namby pamby goth rocker heroes we seem saddled with now. You know, putting on a long black PVC trenchcoat doesn’t make you look like an ass-kicking hero of the future. It makes you look like a member of The Damned, and while I have my share of Damned songs I enjoyed, I’d much rather have Manowar on my side during a fight.

It’s easy to dismiss his film as a rip-off of Escape From New York mixed with The Warriors, but doing so would be short-sighted. Although it’s obvious even from the title of the film that Enzo, who also directed Road Warrior inspired post-apocalyptic films like New Barbarians, is taking elements from The Warriors and Escape From New York, it should also be noted that these films owe a debt of gratitude to Italian spaghetti westerns, which in turn owe a debt to Japanese samurai films, so on and so forth. It’s best not to worry about these sorts of things. Besides, there are enough weird original ideas in 1990 Bronx Warriors to keep it from being classifiable as a rip-off by any but the laziest film critics. There’s also a lot about this film to set it apart from the slew of other early 1980s end-of-the-world films.