In the words of that wonderful jerk Lloyd Kaufman, "make the damn movie!" And so they did. And lo, it was craptastic. And lo, thus spake the Video Gods, "what manner of 'film' is this, with its ripping off of stock footage from a rip off of STAR WARS, with its truly bold disregard for narrative or irony? What 'film', indeed, could reach as high for cinema glory and yet fall so far, landing with the same wet SLAP as an anonymous henchman, thrown by cruel fate from a high place, over a safety railing and onto the cold hard concrete of a star cruiser's deck!?" And the Gods realized, it was no film, it was a SPACE MUTINY, a mutiny in space, a title in search of a movie in search of a purpose.
And only by seeing this... 'film'... alongside its spirit-brother YOR THE HUNTER FROM THE FUTURE could the Video Gods or the viewer grasp the heady funk that permeates the film stock, that saturates Reb Brown's being and inundates the wall mounted keyboards and smothers the awesome "Enforcer" fleet. Only by seeing, could they disbelieve.
"No!" they cried, "This is low budget garbage! It has no right dressing up in someone else's space battles, in using someone else's industrial complex! What wyrd spell did the creators cast over John Phillip Law, that he would overact so grievously? What half formed fever-dream produced the bodacious 'Bellerians' and the grungy Galcti-Disco!? We demand explanation! We demand accountability!" But there was none to be had. The director and the producers, the editors and the best-boy and the clapper, had sunken into the depths of creative obscurity, yet there was no stopping the SPACE MUTINY. Like a wounded beast it flailed onto the video shelves, daring to be watched, daring to be endured... daring to be mocked by a lonely man and his puppets. Explanations, reasons, themes or resolution, all had no place in this movie's galaxy. Only ham-fisted acting, dubious editing, and half-baked monologues reigned. And so it shall be, until the future comes and the prophecy of the Bellerians, of the SPACE MUTINY, is borne out. Amen. Amen to Kalgan and to auto-reloading bazookas. Amen.
Endure the SPACE MUTINY. Be prepared.
And only by seeing this... 'film'... alongside its spirit-brother YOR THE HUNTER FROM THE FUTURE could the Video Gods or the viewer grasp the heady funk that permeates the film stock, that saturates Reb Brown's being and inundates the wall mounted keyboards and smothers the awesome "Enforcer" fleet. Only by seeing, could they disbelieve.
"No!" they cried, "This is low budget garbage! It has no right dressing up in someone else's space battles, in using someone else's industrial complex! What wyrd spell did the creators cast over John Phillip Law, that he would overact so grievously? What half formed fever-dream produced the bodacious 'Bellerians' and the grungy Galcti-Disco!? We demand explanation! We demand accountability!" But there was none to be had. The director and the producers, the editors and the best-boy and the clapper, had sunken into the depths of creative obscurity, yet there was no stopping the SPACE MUTINY. Like a wounded beast it flailed onto the video shelves, daring to be watched, daring to be endured... daring to be mocked by a lonely man and his puppets. Explanations, reasons, themes or resolution, all had no place in this movie's galaxy. Only ham-fisted acting, dubious editing, and half-baked monologues reigned. And so it shall be, until the future comes and the prophecy of the Bellerians, of the SPACE MUTINY, is borne out. Amen. Amen to Kalgan and to auto-reloading bazookas. Amen.
Endure the SPACE MUTINY. Be prepared.