Roses Have Thoughts

Ah, Deathstalker. Just the name alone conjures up images of testosterone-fuelled sword-swinging, leather loincloths, and the sort of fantasy filmmaking that flourished—if that’s the right word—in the sweaty underbelly of early 1980s B-movie culture. But let’s be perfectly clear: this is not Conan the Barbarian. This is Conan’s scruffy cousin, turned up to the party half-cut and clutching a VHS tape of Clash of the Titans with half the budget and none of the charm.

Ah, Deathstalker. Just the name alone conjures up images of testosterone-fuelled sword-swinging, leather loincloths, and the sort of fantasy filmmaking that flourished—if that’s the right word—in the sweaty underbelly of early 1980s B-movie culture. But let’s be perfectly clear: this is not Conan the Barbarian. This is Conan’s scruffy cousin, turned up to the party half-cut and clutching a VHS tape of Clash of the Titans with half the budget and none of the charm.

Rick Hill plays the titular Deathstalker—a smirking, morally ambiguous warrior with more pectoral flex than personality—on a quest to unite three mystical artefacts and take down the predictably cackling villain Munkar, played with all the nuance of a pantomime warlock by Bernard Erhard. Along the way, Deathstalker assembles a ragtag fellowship of fellow fighters, including the sadly underused Lana Clarkson as the fierce but ill-fated Kaira, and Barbi Benton as Marinda, who seems to be there primarily for decorative purposes and the inevitable, exploitative nudity.

Yes, let’s talk about that. This is exploitation cinema dressed up in fantasy robes. There’s more gratuitous nudity in the first fifteen minutes than in a year’s worth of Carry On films, but with none of the cheeky British wit. Women are mostly treated as window dressing or cannon fodder, and if the film’s portrayal of gender dynamics makes you feel uncomfortable—it should.

But here’s the rub: despite all this, there is a strange, grubby charm to Deathstalker. The sets look like they were cobbled together from the offcuts of a school play, the dialogue clunks like a dropped suit of armour, and the sword fights resemble something choreographed after two pints and a bag of crisps. And yet, there’s a certain nostalgic energy to it all—a kind of fever-dream dedication to being what it is: trashy, blood-soaked, and brazenly unbothered by good taste.

The special effects, laughable as they may be, somehow add to the lo-fi appeal. Rubber monsters, excessive gore, and z-grade makeup lend the film a kind of homespun horror-fantasy aesthetic that, if you squint hard enough, could pass for cultish charm. The synthesiser-heavy score is hilariously overblown, and the plot is so thin you could roll it up and use it as a scroll in a Dungeons & Dragons campaign.

But ultimately, Deathstalker is a relic—a swords-and-sorcery slog best left to genre completists and lovers of ironic viewing parties. It’s a film that knows its audience and caters to them shamelessly, but don’t come here expecting coherence, depth, or anything remotely approaching class.

Trashy, tacky, and utterly bonkers—Deathstalker is a bargain-bin fantasy flick with the subtlety of a broadsword to the face. Worth a watch if you like your cinema so-bad-it’s-almost-good. Almost.

IMDB