How Star Wars contributed to one of Cannon’s most infamous creative flops
Golan-Globus emerged from the B-movie bonfire like a flaming phoenix. After purchasing Dennis Friedland and Chris Dewey’s flailing production company Cannon Films in 1979, the Israeli cousins tapped into the burgeoning home video market with dazzling aplomb, churning out an incredible catalogue of bottom-rung movies that became instant cult classics in action circles. Buoyed by Golan’s childlike enthusiasm for the industry, the pair would almost singlehandedly fuel the ninja craze of the early 1980s, introducing Sho Kosugi to Western shores with their unofficial ‘ninja trilogy’ of Enter the Ninja, Revenge of the Ninja and Ninja III: The Domination, the latter’s oddball blend of martial arts madness, supernatural horror and MTV aerobics an indicator of the pair’s lowbrow ability to tap into popular trends. It was a cavalier, risk-and-reward approach to filmmaking that proved nothing short of infectious.
After transforming Charles Bronson’s Paul Kersey into a controversial killing machine in the increasingly exploitative Death Wish series, Golan-Globus would forge stars of their own, immortalising future cult favourite Chuck Norris in a series of unscrupulous action films and introducing us to future headliner Jean-Claude Van Damme, but there was so much more to Cannon’s surprisingly varied production machine. Slashers, period dramas, Indiana Jones knock-offs, oddball musical comedies about breakdancing ― nothing was beyond the realms of plausibility it seemed. They even managed a few critically acclaimed movies, 1985’s Akira Kurosawa-devised, independent thriller Runaway Train receiving an incredible three Academy Award nominations for Best Actor (John Voight), Best Supporting Actor (Eric Roberts) and Best Film Editing. The newly named Cannon Group’s production style was opportunistic, erratic and borderline haphazard at times, but for the first half of the decade it proved hugely successful, and things were about to get a whole lot better. At least in principle.
In 1986, Golan-Globus bagged Hollywood megastar Sylvester Stallone for cult vigilante flick Cobra. Sly, who was set to lead innovative action flick Beverly Hills Cop until he and Paramount parted ways for creative reasons, agreed to headline Cannon’s latest Republican fantasy in exchange for significant creative control and a truckload of money. With Hollywood giants Warner Brothers as distributor, the film would rake in a whopping $160,000,000 worldwide, but for Golan-Globus, Sly’s star power was the biggest incentive as they looked to take their bargain basement business model mainstream.
You couldn’t blame them for such high ambitions. The future looked bright for the foreign outsiders who had tasted Hollywood’s sweet nectar, succeeding in a brazen and largely unethical manner that lacked decorum and forged a whole army of industry nasal-gazers, but when you shoot for the moon audiences expect a little more bang for their buck, the kind Golan-Globus failed to deliver. Sticking to their bold and charmingly shoddy origins, the company would pump their resources into blockbuster vehicles as they set about running with the big boys, but it wouldn’t last long. A three-film deal with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre‘s Tobe Hooper failed to bear fruit thanks to the filmmaker’s refusal to bow to convention and Golan-Globus’ less-than-hands-on approach, but the production duo weren’t done yet.
Behind the scenes, Golan-Globus had already bitten off more than they could swallow. Having bought Thorn EMI’s Screen Entertainment division in 1986, a purchase that raised questions about the validity of their financial reports, they were already working well beyond their means, but there was no halting their excessive aspirations. By the end of 1987, the company had plundered so much money on high-profile flops they were facing the very real prospect of bankruptcy. Stallone saw the writing on the wall after starring in monumental bomb Over the Top, a kids movie about an arm wrestling trucker that proved such a commercial misfire the actor cut ties with the company forever. In may ways, Stallone’s departure was the beginning of the end for the their bold ambitions, but two other high-profile outings proved much more damaging financially. Superman IV: The Quest for Peace is widely cited as the film that ignited Cannon’s capitulation, but it was another movie, released the same year, that failed to live up to its cocksure promotion and sent the Golan-Globus phoenix careening back down to Earth.
Based on the popular cartoon series He-Man and The Masters of the Universe, Masters of the Universe was dubbed ‘the Star Wars of the 80s’ by The Cannon Group, and if by that they meant ripping off George Lucas’ universal phenomenon, they weren’t kidding. Those who were regular viewers of He-Man’s terrestrial battles were in for a surprise when the movie finally opened on August 7. The characters may have been familiar for the most part, but save for a few costumes and familiar catchphrases, it wasn’t the same He-Man kids knew and loved. In fact, it was quite the deviation both thematically and aesthetically.
Skeletor : Do you hear, Sorceress? The final moment has come. All the forces of Grayskull, all the powers in the universe will be vested in me! ME! And you will cease to exist!
For years, folklore had suggested that the He-Man toy range was put into production as a cost-saving exercise when Conan the Barbarian proved too violent to market to kids, and though that claim has since been disproved, He-Man’s swords and sorcery formula is far more reminiscent of Arnie’s breakout movie. A bigger, more accomplished studio may have fared better by making the property their own, be that as a more loyal representation of the source material or a unique cinematic variation thereof, but Golan-Globus had always been more comfortable imitating others, and George Lucas’ space-bound phenomenon was a far more lucrative source of inspiration. At least in theory.
In hindsight, it wasn’t the best marketing strategy for a production company with franchise aspirations, and it wasn’t like they hadn’t been here before. Alan Quartermain-led, Indy clones King Solomon’s Mines (1985) and The Lost City of Gold (1987) were absolutely panned critically, each suffering paltry box office returns, a fair warning that imitating such high-profile classics was risky territory. Since they were transparent derivatives with no independent lineage, those movies were a little more forgivable, but the high-profile Masters of the Universe, a film property with huge potential that was exclusive to Cannon, was a different story entirely.
Star Wars was and is an unprecedented cultural phenomenon, packed with rich and wonderfully conflicted characters, star actors, innovative costume and set design, with a degree of financial power that has its own gravitational field. It also exhibits the kind of breathtakingly grandiose world-building that a company of Cannon’s B-movie heritage could only dream of. Those early Star Wars movies had a pulp appeal too, but they weren’t cheap or throwaway. They borrowed genre staples and well-known philosophies, practically retelling the bible with strong western cues, but they didn’t imitate in a way that was so glaringly transparent. What they brought to the table was fresh and unique, a concept that is still as strong as ever, swallowing generation after generation like an all-consuming black hole of timeless appeal. Star Wars is the ultimate monument to franchise-making, a property you imitate at your own peril, a fact even Bond fans realised following 1979’s rushed-into-production Moonraker.
Promoting the movie as something fresh and unique wouldn’t have proven too much of a problem either, as Masters of the Universe was already a cultural phenomenon in its own right. With a bigger emphasis on its swords and sorcery roots, Cannon may have been looking at a commercial goldmine away from a galaxy far, far away. Kids had already bought into the He-Man concept and a more familiar, big screen translation may have resulted in the kind of franchise that would have ensured Cannon’s financial security for decades to come. But the prospect of increased budgets didn’t curb the company’s excessive habits; if anything, it exacerbated them.
Though many of the movie’s creative decisions had been made before they came on board, Golan-Globus were in charge of physical production and marketing, utilising their budget in a manner that put them at loggerheads with producer Edward R. Pressman, who had already purchased the adaptation rights for a Masters of the Universe toy range. A gaudy and overblown movie which fails to fulfil its epic proclamations, Masters of the Universe would prove a critical and financial failure just months after the embarrassment of the equally cheapjack Superman IV: The Quest For Peace. Transitioning from their B-movie comfort zone proved a real problem for Golan-Globus.
Despite its blockbuster potential, Masters of the Universe feels very much like a B-movie. For one thing, the camp aura of the cartoon and its characters struggles to translate to the silver screen given the movie’s muddled, pseudo-Star Wars aesthetics. Led by a ludicrously homoerotic Dolph Lundgren, who had risen to stardom as Rocky IV‘s dead-eyed Soviet brute Ivan Drago and was just the ticket aesthetically, the characters are largely laughable, particularly antagonist Skeletor’s rabble of cornball mercenaries. Looking more like a collection of cuddly toys with an iron-clad bald fellow thrown in for variation, the motley crew of Blade, Karg, Saurod and Beast Man spend most of the movie’s running time bumbling uselessly about the place, continually lambasted by the evil Skeletor in a manner that leaves them yelping for mercy like hungry kittens.
That’s not to say the cartoon versions were any more terrifying or successful in defeating the protectors of Eternia, who barely put a dent in Skeletor’s adversaries over 130 episodes, but if you have serious aspirations of creating a money-spinning franchise you need villains with a little more bite, or at the very least a modicum of intelligence. And where are all the usual suspects; those characters kids had grown accustomed to while watching the TV show? I mean, they could have chosen a little more wisely. Beast Man, easily the best of the bunch, was a no-brainer, but where’s the diabolical half-man, half-spider, Webstor? The shapeshifting Catra? The Monstrous Trap-Jaw? They even invented a reptile character for the film when Kobra Khan already existed. They may as well have dreamed up a whole new concept.
Facing the pseudo-dark side are He-man’s lustreless comrades Teela (Chelsea Field) and Man-at-Arms (Jon Cypher). Masters of the Universe could have been Field’s silver screen catalyst, but her career would instead take a monumental nosedive. The long-time TV actress would return to the mainstream in 1991‘s The Last Boy Scout, but Cannon’s woeful punt at cultural marketing immortality saw the actress relegated to low-budget horror almost immediately afterwards, proving that not all ‘big breaks’ pay dividends. Cypher was another TV stalwart, presumably acquired on the cheap, who was nowhere near the calibre necessary to take Cannon to that next level. He puts in a decent shift, and certainly fits the character’s cartoon profile, but, Lundgren aside, Cannon were hardly shooting for the stars for what was supposed to be their stepping stone to mainstream relevance.
He-Man: I have the power!
Caught in the middle of our intergalactic tug-of-war is Courtney Cox’s cutesy heroine Julie, who proves so insufferably naïve that halfway through the movie you completely lose faith in her. When she hands the fate of the Universe over to an apparition of her dead mother, you want to shake the shit out of her, despite her emotional hardship. Future headliner Cox is one of the few performers who left this movie unscathed. The rookie actress had shot to fame a year prior as the the adorable star of Bruce Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark video, and even as an extra chosen for her bright-eyed beauty, you just knew she was meant for big things. Star Trek: Voyager‘s Robert Duncan McNeill plays Julie’s musician boyfriend, Kevin. McNeill was another crowd-pleasing face plucked from the realms of small screen obscurity, a place where he would remain for much of his career. In fact, Masters of the Universe was his solitary shot at sliver screen stardom. You have to feel for him.
Providing the ‘what the hell is going on with you kids?’ comic relief is Back to the Future‘s hard-line principal, Mr. Strickland (James Tolkan), who proves endearingly hammy as the wildly dismissive but ultimately good-hearted cop who dumps his humdrum life for bliss on Eternia. Tolkan does very little to harm his reputation, all things considered. The contrived, made-to-order script hardly helps, but his personality shines through. It’s so refreshing to see a character who begins as an ignorant heel, only to drop his stubborn principles entirely. In movies of this ilk it’s a rare thing indeed.
Last, and most certainly least, there’s the infamously insufferable Gwildor, a leprechaun-like creature who somehow holds the key to the well-being of the entire universe while looking like he belongs on the cover of a cereal box. Masters of the Universe required a C3P0 for their band of galaxy-hopping rebels, and Gwildor is what they settled on. Even as a young He-Man fanatic I knew better. If he was borderline-insufferable then, you can probably imagine what he’s like all these years later.
Masters of the Universe also suffers from a thinly-sketched screenplay. Thanks to a garish and inexplicably-controlled key that opens gateways to other dimensions, a power-mad Skeletor has found a way to finally conquer He-Man and the imprisoned Sorceress of Grayskull (Christina Pickles), but the hapless villain soon realises there are two keys to be had, the second of which our heroes fortuitously utilise to escape the monster’s evil lair. The fact that they are able to randomly open a vortex using a highly complex alien contraption with only a few aimless taps should have been taken as fair warning by a rabble of baddies who never seem capable of overcoming their earthbound foes. Golan-Globus were infamous for their harebrained approach to filmmaking, often selling a movie based on a conceptual poster and coming up with plot developments on the spot. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a little of that going on here.
Of all the places on all the planets of all the galaxies in the universe, our cheapo crew of intergalactic crusaders somehow end up in the sunny state of California, which one has to admit is a pretty convenient plot development production-wise, a cost-cutting device to rival the film’s largely unknown terrestrial cast. That’s not to say they scrimped on everything — the movie did contribute to Cannon’s capitulation after all — but most of the $22,000,000 budget was spent on schlocky, faux-epic sets and Star Wars-esque hover crafts, which means the majority of action takes place on home shores. The screenplay’s original draft spent more time on Eternia and Snake Mountain, even revealing that He-Man’s mother actually came from Earth, a sub-narrative which could have gone some way to fleshing out a story which proves painfully predictable.
For all the lolly Cannon splashed on their potentially money-spinning extravaganza, you also have to question the Day-Glo special effects. From the sub-par laser guns to the horrifically-staged portal leaps, much of the production comes across as amateurish, especially when you’re attempting to emulate the glorious model-work aesthetics of Star Wars. Watching the film, it’s almost as if too much money proved an obstacle, like they didn’t know how best to use it. It reminded me of being a kid with money burning a hole in my pocket. You go to the store on your birthday, only to find the toy you’d longed for is sold out. The clerk assures you that the item will be back in stock later that week but you just can’t wait, throwing your money at any old substitute. You arrive home and tear open the packaging, and for a day you convince yourself that you’ve made the right decision, but in reality you know you’ve thrown it all away.
The fight sequences are pretty bog-standard too. Part of that has to do with He-Man’s ostentatiously large sword, which does very little for Lundgren’s sex appeal, despite being a glaringly obvious phallic symbol (intentional or otherwise). As they had with Stallone, Cannon put all their stock into Lundgren, but he wasn’t half the actor or presence that Sly was, at least not at that stage of his career. He had physical presence, as is flagrantly highlighted here, and he looks as close to the cartoon He-Man as you are ever likely to find, but it’s all just a little slow and clumsy. Sometimes the combination of muscle mass and primitive choreography proves a hindrance to the action.
If Cannon’s intention was to make the movie as camp as the cartoon series, they achieved it and then some. He-Man’s supposedly momentous ‘I have the power!’ money shot looks like an image culled from a beginner’s guide to Photoshop. No $22,000,000 movie should look like this, not even by 1987’s standards. Cannon’s back catalogue was so deeply ingrained in bottom-rung schlock that they seemingly knew no other way. And fans love them for that. They were the ultimate cheap thrill production machine. Having delusions to the contrary proved the death knell.
Despite its countless deficiencies, for any 80s kid bred on a breakfast of Saturday morning cartoons, the movie’s release was a monumental happening. It may very well be nostalgia putting up the blinkers, but it’s hard to not have a certain degree of affection for such a gaudy piece of trash cinema, and going off the movie’s modern-day cult status it seems that a whole generation of you agree with me. Those kids may have been somewhat disappointed by the glaring differences between the movie and the TV show, but the youngest of us were easily swayed. The movie’s action figure range may never have materialised, but many of us already owned figures from the original Mattel line, and a trip to the cinema to see our ludicrously camp hero, in any form, was an irresistible prospect — though those of you who bought video game tie-in Masters of the Universe: The Movie may still harbour some ill will, and I wouldn’t blame you.
Like many Cannon productions of the mid-1980s, Masters of the Universe sums up the decade’s cheapo charm so deliciously that you can’t help but fall for its crude sense of opulence. As well as the camp and clunky costumes and contrived sense of idealism, you have a whole array of lurid gadgets to get the juvenile juices flowing, from Evil-Lyn’s hypnotic truth necklace to a visual device that allows you to see events which have already taken place, and you just know both of those gadgets were cost-cutting devices too. You also have the movie’s bigger-is-better gateway key, which features so many buttons even inventor Gwildor can’t figure out quite how to use it, though the fact that it plays musical chords identical to those established on Earth means one of our cast will prove rather useful in getting He-Man and his cohorts safely back home. Who said wanting to be rock star was a waste of time?
Julie Winston: Thank you. He-Man, Teela, Man-At-Arms…
Teela: Don’t say goodbye. Say Good Journey.
Duncan: It is an old Eternian saying. Live the journey, for every destination is but a doorway to another.
Julie Winston: Good Journey.
Masters of the Universe also benefits from some pretty impressive performances amid the silliness. Theatre veteran Frank Langella is excellent as the unquenchable force that is Skeletor, his thespian turn taking more than a leaf out of Darth Vader’s book, an army of imitation storm troopers and a John Williams style theme by composer Bill Conti hammering the Star Wars vibe home. Having produced such movie theme wonders as Rocky and The Karate Kid, Conti wasn’t used to composing blatant derivatives. I wouldn’t be surprised if the notoriously on-the-fly Golan marched directly up to him during production and demanded a John Williams knock-off for his intergalactic venture ― at least I’d like to imagine such a thing.
Langella struts to Conti’s Vader-esque theme with theatrical impudence, chewing the scenery with a relish that makes you wish there was a sequel, and the make-up department do a fine job with his skeletal pallor, a creepy design that puts his cutesy underlings to shame. Langella is the colossal presence the movie was crying out for, and easily the best thing about Masters of the Universe. The actor brought more than a degree of prestige to affairs, and he didn’t look down on the project, embracing the role as he would any other. “It’s one of my very favourite parts,” he would proclaim. “I played him because my son was four years old and walked around with a sword yelling, ‘I [have] the power!’ And he loved, loved, loved Skeletor. I didn’t even blink [when I was offered the role]. I couldn’t wait to play him.”
Meg Foster is also rather special as the lovelorn Evil-Lyn, a conflicted character whose continued subservience to an unappreciative master hints at something deeper. Every supervillain needs a dastardly sidekick to blindly follow their lead, one who supports their dastardly deeds wholeheartedly, who believes in them as a person, regardless of how unconscionable. Evil-Lyn would willingly follow Skeletor into the pits of hell. There’s no physical attraction, no real commonality beyond the pursuit of pure evil, but there’s certainly more to their relationship on an emotional level, which quietly simmers in the subtext of not only the movie, but the cartoon series as a whole. There’s a certain grace to Lyn’s toadying, far more than the obsequious rabble trailing in her wake, the kind of lackeys who are motivated by fear rather than respect, and Foster is able to translate those subtleties quite beautifully. Some faces are made for the screen, and hers can certainly tell a unique story.
In the end, a sequel never materialised. In fact, nobody has touched the property since, which is quite incredible when the cartoon series and expanding action figure range is still going strong today, and in an era of superhero obsession, the climate has never been better for a Masters of the Universe reboot, which as of writing is once again in production limbo after years of false whispers and complex development issues. As a kid, the infamous post-credits set-up was a real source of confusion. For a start, I’d never stuck around long enough to see one before, and the sight of Skeletor suddenly emerging from a pool of pink-coloured water to utter the words ‘I’ll be back!” was quite the novelty. At the time, I didn’t see this as a cheap nod to the hugely popular Arnold Schwarzenegger. I instead saw it as a promise of more He-Man, as a sign that the irrepressible Skeletor would soon return to enact his vengeance. I had witnessed his return from the dead with my very own eyes, had heard him make that promise. Why was there still no sequel? How long did it take for an evil genius to devise a new strategy?
It was probably for the best. You only have to look at what the film meant for the majority of its stars to see how badly the whole thing was handled, and after Cannon finally returned to the B-movie doldrums with their tails between their legs, it wasn’t surprising that no other studio wanted to touch the property. Take away the nostalgia and it’s easy to see why the movie flopped against all odds, proving a rather hefty nail in the coffin of Cannon’s incredible 80s run. Perhaps the most high-profile of all the company’s movies bar Superman IV: The Quest for Peace, Masters of the Universe is cheap, lazily-conceived, badly translated, wholly derivative, poorly realised and such a woefully transparent imitation of Star Wars it’s hard not to shake your head in disbelief. What’s even harder is to dislike this movie on any serious level. In fact, if you’re anything like me you’ll probably love it, and for all the reasons millions more condemned it to the creative scrapheap.