Famously disowned by author and co-screenwriter Clive Barker, and cited as one of two experiences (both with director George Pavlou) that convinced him to write and direct his own film adaptations, this bizarre 80's time capsule has a clever premise, interesting cast and more New Wave styling than you can poke a stick of blue neon at, but is hamstrung by an evidently miniscule budget, appalling acting and a script that never properly coheres.
The self-conscious effort to create a stylish, uniquely British sci-fi horror is admirable in its self-evidence: a script concept by edgy horror author and playwright Barker, a score by synth-pop outfit Freuer, a cast comprised of models, stuntmen and venerable character actors like Denham Elliot and Steven Berkoff, as well as Ingrid Pitt playing a brothel madam, and direction by ex-music video auteur Pavlou all make for, a least on paper, an exciting genre prospect. It is, then, all the more lamentable how desperately the finished film fails to live up to the promise of its constituent elements.
The convoluted and poorly articulated narrative swivels on the abduction of a high-class teenage prostitute, by a group of rubber-faced mutants living the sewers. Larry Lamb, offering probably the least convincing tough-guy persona ever filmed, is her former bodyguard and lover, who is hired to track her down by Berkoff's crime boss, and uncovers a confused plot involving a mad scientist (Elliot, natch) who has developed a new wonder drug that causes people to physically transform into the image of their dreams.
With liberal borrowings from film noir, body horror and fantasy forerunners, this story has the potential for a classy genre epic. However, it's evident that Pavlou has no idea how to construct a scene, let alone draw convincing performances from his cast or choreograph effective action sequences. Much of the climactic shootout has the scruffy, amateurish atmosphere of a mid-80s Dr Who episode, and the final denouement, lifted almost entirely from Scanners (1980) is bungled by lousy practical effects and the lack of any consistent buildup. Besides these signature failures, the film's general level of assembly is often alarmingly slipshod; sound recording is muffled and shoddy, the poverty-stricken direction endearingly persists in failing to find an appropriate camera angle for almost any shot, the photography alternates between eye-strainingly dim and glaringly overlit, and the editing was performed with an axe.
In the end it's not hard to see why Barker refuses to acknowledge this one; the germ of his style and concepts are lurking somewhere in this ugly soup of a picture, but the delivery is so poor, and the technical quality so desperate that its surprising anyone associated with this misbegotten farrago will admit to their involvement.
The self-conscious effort to create a stylish, uniquely British sci-fi horror is admirable in its self-evidence: a script concept by edgy horror author and playwright Barker, a score by synth-pop outfit Freuer, a cast comprised of models, stuntmen and venerable character actors like Denham Elliot and Steven Berkoff, as well as Ingrid Pitt playing a brothel madam, and direction by ex-music video auteur Pavlou all make for, a least on paper, an exciting genre prospect. It is, then, all the more lamentable how desperately the finished film fails to live up to the promise of its constituent elements.
The convoluted and poorly articulated narrative swivels on the abduction of a high-class teenage prostitute, by a group of rubber-faced mutants living the sewers. Larry Lamb, offering probably the least convincing tough-guy persona ever filmed, is her former bodyguard and lover, who is hired to track her down by Berkoff's crime boss, and uncovers a confused plot involving a mad scientist (Elliot, natch) who has developed a new wonder drug that causes people to physically transform into the image of their dreams.
With liberal borrowings from film noir, body horror and fantasy forerunners, this story has the potential for a classy genre epic. However, it's evident that Pavlou has no idea how to construct a scene, let alone draw convincing performances from his cast or choreograph effective action sequences. Much of the climactic shootout has the scruffy, amateurish atmosphere of a mid-80s Dr Who episode, and the final denouement, lifted almost entirely from Scanners (1980) is bungled by lousy practical effects and the lack of any consistent buildup. Besides these signature failures, the film's general level of assembly is often alarmingly slipshod; sound recording is muffled and shoddy, the poverty-stricken direction endearingly persists in failing to find an appropriate camera angle for almost any shot, the photography alternates between eye-strainingly dim and glaringly overlit, and the editing was performed with an axe.
In the end it's not hard to see why Barker refuses to acknowledge this one; the germ of his style and concepts are lurking somewhere in this ugly soup of a picture, but the delivery is so poor, and the technical quality so desperate that its surprising anyone associated with this misbegotten farrago will admit to their involvement.