THE SWORD AND THE SORCERER: Fantasy Filmed in Awe of “Conan”

I get the impression that, nowadays, fantasy has been sidelined in cinema as a genre that evokes the strongest emotions. Science fiction has mercilessly displaced it, even though it is often no less fantastical in terms of its scientific concepts. No one remembers John Milius’ Conan anymore, with its screenplay co-written with Oliver Stone. We also fail to realize just how much this production changed the fantasy genre. How it ignited the hearts of fans—hearts that today, if they still beat at all, bear a few wrinkles, and some even have bypasses. Albert Pyun, the master of B-movies, appreciated Conan. He was inspired by it to such an extent that he began his career in the unforgiving world of low-budget cinema with a film that was a tribute to John Milius and the works of Robert E. Howard. The Sword and the Sorcerer is a classic of the genre, though who even remembers this film anymore? And what about the icon of B-movie villains—Richard Lynch?

Lynch, with his distinctively scarred face, is no different in this film. He plays the evil King Titus Cromwell, who, after repeated failed attempts to defeat King Richard, the ruler of the kingdom of Eh-Dan, turns to the help of a long-dead sorcerer, Xusia. On the opposing side stands Richard and his subjects, but under the influence of dark magic, he eventually falls. Before his demise, however, he gives his son a triple-bladed sword to avenge his father and his royal legacy. The inexperienced Prince Talon thus becomes a hero against his will and later an outcast, hunted throughout the conquered kingdom by the restless Cromwell. Years pass, Talon disappears into the mist of ominous history. In the darkness lurks another contender for power, thirsty for blood and revenge on all that is living and good. Yet, legends still tell the story of an indomitable warrior who may reignite the flames of rebellion.

As you can see, The Sword and the Sorcerer follows a classic storyline. There’s a king, a queen, a villain, a warrior with a past, an evil sorcerer, and plenty of magic permeating every aspect of the world.

There’s no shortage of special effects, some of them quite advanced. Albert Pyun was never afraid of them, not so much because of their cost, but rather their cheapness. He always tried to achieve as much as possible with his team, and surprisingly, he managed to pull it off using analog techniques. Ironically, when CGI emerged, it turned out that with less money, far less could be achieved than before with puppetry, animatronics, makeup, etc. The opening scene in the cave is still impressive, where Cromwell arrives to awaken the long-dead sorcerer Xusia with the help of a witch. A wall made of faces that suddenly begin to move, the sorcerer emerging from something resembling red clay, and the witch’s heart being ripped out from a distance—these scenes used to make me feel breathless, and my dreams were anything but easy. I don’t even want to imagine what these sequences would look like with CGI if they had been made with roughly the same budget.

Though The Sword and the Sorcerer eventually grossed nearly $40 million—an impressive feat, especially compared to its $4 million budget—it still belonged to the B-movie realm, always battling the compromise between quality and quantity. In the long run, it didn’t make sense, as Albert Pyun’s filmography demonstrates. The ultimate marker of his cult cinema came in the 21st century. His films remained low-budget, but his desire to use CGI with the same financial constraints ended up exposing that cheapness in an unprecedented way. This is evident in the sequel to The Sword and the Sorcerer, the even lesser-known Tales of an Ancient Empire, featuring Kevin Sorbo in one of the lead roles. It’s a film that Albert Pyun probably should have forgotten he ever made, though he undoubtedly had deep sentimental attachment to his first movie.

That’s how his love for cinema manifested, a love that remained steadfast throughout his 40-year career—until dementia, multiple sclerosis, and death caught up with him. I wouldn’t mention these illnesses if they didn’t, in some way, shape his story—the story of a director about whom I’ve written so much, and whom I wanted to honor with this text, summing up all my reviews.

Pyun dreamed a lot in his films—about what a person could be if they were different, healthier, better, stronger, more modified. But he could not fix himself. His illnesses slowly stripped him of all the tools he once used to create fantastic worlds—worlds that, years later, I had the pleasure of writing about, as they were part of my cinematic upbringing.

The Sword and the Sorcerer is a film that remains enjoyable in a sentimental way. It recalls the unforgettable, somewhat fairytale-like days of adolescence. The final swordfight, with blades that sparkle with pinkish bursts, resembles a lightsaber duel. Richard Lynch remains menacingly perfect to the end, while his opponent—the classic, righteous fantasy hero—delivers a lesson in pure morality.

No one will remember him, that’s certain. I won’t fight for him. But the memory of Albert Pyun is worth preserving.