A candy-colored case of movie brain damage that’s aged beautifully in a time of rampant, increasingly dull comic adaptations. The worst contemporary comic book movies are so serious that they go on for two-and-a-half hours of pontificating, brooding and setting up seventeen more years of sequels, spin-offs, universe-building and corporate profits. YET these movies today aren’t so serious that damn near ALL of ’em don’t resort to the same interchangeable dumbass climax of numbing punch-outs and demolished cities. Are they political dramas or is it all just pro wrestling? Maybe you can have both, but I’m not seeing a lot of compelling proof so far.
By contrast, 1980’s Flash Gordon is so much more comfortable in its own skin. It’s a film that knows its place as a piece of camp. Alex Raymond’s original character debuted as a newspaper comic strip in 1934, became a hero of the old-time movie serials and now here is the glam icon that it turns out he was always meant to become. Among comic book movies, Flash Gordon is the old drag queen at the party, over-dressed and over the top in every other possible way and funny as hell.
The story is so simple, it’s barely worth mentioning. American football star Flash Gordon gets transported one fateful day to the planet Mongo where he has to stop the evil ruler Ming the Merciless from destroying Earth—and that’s THAT. The script is held together by string, Scotch tape, shameless improbabilities and ridiculous coincidences. Flash Gordon has no superpowers, but he does have amazing luck, which is all that a fictional hero needs.
What makes this film great is its style. It’s wild with it. It makes Star Wars look like it was directed by a blind man. See the searing red surfaces of Ming’s palace, the swirling skies of Mongo that look like God’s third grade watercolor paintings and the strange and glittering background characters who almost distract you from the main action. The casting favors an international array of European actors, mostly unknown in the States at the time (with the exception of Max von Sydow), and who retain their accents for maximum Eurotrash vibes. Then there’s the pounding rock score by Queen (speaking of those who are comfortable with camp) that throws more great garbage onto the heap.
Comic strips. Rock music. Loud colors. High camp. Weird villains. An impossibly virtuous hero. The fate of the world at stake. Overacting all around.
That’s a magic formula. This bonkers classic casts the spell just right.