He was up for the part of Sir George, but another was selected. Here he’s displaying the classic “casting couch” pose.
The Magic Sword (1962) is a cheesy – Cheez Whiz, mind you, not a Stilton with dried apricots – sword ‘n sorcery ‘n horrific humor addition to the said genre. Bodacious and helpless Princess Helene has been kidnapped, you see, by the immortal sorcerer Lodac. The terms of her release? Ummmm, I forget, but we do know Lodac’s castle is a week’s ride away, but through the horrid seven curses that’s Lodac’s put in place. Why? Something about a dead relative.
And if his terms aren’t met? Well, see, he has this young dragon, and it’s a-growin’…
Sir Branton, he of the cute beard and perilous mien, draws his sword and declares his willingness to put it all on the line for the life – and hand – of the Princess. Woo-hoo!
Oh, the cast was caught in a drunken brawl. Here they are at the police station. Someone palmed the lead’s driver’s license. Who can it be?
But wait! Who’s this youth riding into the castle? Why, it’s Sir George, the adopted son of Sybil, another immortal sorcerer, not to mention an absent-minded fluff-ball. George, accompanied by six magic knights and various enchanted accoutrement that he has stolen from his mother – and what does that say about his upbringing?! – is equally ready to charge to the rescue of the beautiful Helene.
Ah, young hormones! They’re so cute.
So off the group gallops, bickering all the way. Sadly, they are careless, as knights keep disappearing in what is honestly rather horrendous ways – the pair with bad sunburn, caught in the grip of a paralyzing power, reminds one of the actions of parasitic wasps on the horror scale, if you’re willing to stretch a point.
Eventually, after much to-ing and fro-ing – or is it the other way around? – and including a disappointingly meaningless go-around with a most charming, ground-bound gargoyle, we get to meet the kid dragon.
And then things get hot for everyone concerned.
In truth and retrospect, which is rather like hot tar pits, the plot isn’t too bad. It has twists, set-backs, cute asides, and doesn’t concern itself with plausibility. Dammit, I still want to know about the gargoyle! The acting is not in the least bad, although I feared that the monkey might steal the show – he didn’t, apparently the police were menacing enough. The dialog, on the other hand, was little more than rote thievery from other epics in the genre, and the characters do little to advance the state of the art.
The art. Heh.
But the cinematography, oh goodness! Terrible stuff. And I suspect it’s on purpose in order to conceal the rough edges of the special effects, of which there are a plethora. And who taught the young dragon its stage combat skills? That final charge should have been enough to set one’s teeth on edge – preferably, a coffee cup’s edge. Instead, it was plod plod plod kill kill kill man this is tiring work blowing fire out your noses for five minutes straight thud.
Ahem.
There’s little nuggets of humor, and, if you’re a Basil Rathbone completist, Basil is his typically excellent self here – but don’t expect to have this one be a transformative experience. Well, there is some transformation going on here…
