Alright, pop that tape in, adjust the tracking if you need to (remember doing that?), and settle in. Some VHS boxes just screamed 80s fantasy, didn't they? And few screamed quite as loud, or with such impressively oiled-up biceps, as the one housing 1987’s glorious slice of sword-and-sorcery silliness, The Barbarians. Forget subtle world-building or complex character arcs; this flick knew exactly what it was: a vehicle for the unique screen presence of twin bodybuilders Peter Paul and David Paul.
Twin Peaks of Power (and Questionable Acting)
Let's be honest, the main draw here, the reason this tape likely got worn out in more than a few VCRs, is the spectacle of the Paul Brothers, Kutchek and Gore. These guys were legitimate bodybuilding personalities, often billed as "The Barbarian Brothers," and their sheer physical enormity is something you just don't see anchoring movies anymore. Watching them flex, grunt, headbutt trees (and each other), and generally lumber through scenes with the dramatic range of well-oiled anvils is… an experience. It's not traditional acting, perhaps, but their earnest, almost child-like enthusiasm coupled with their intimidating physiques creates a bizarre charm that’s hard to replicate. You can almost feel the film straining to contain their energy – and their muscles.
The plot? Simple, serviceable, and straight out of the fantasy playbook. Our twin heroes are separated as children when their peaceful tribe of entertainers, the Ragniks (yes, entertainers), are attacked by the evil warlord Kadar, played with deliciously scenery-chewing menace by the late, great B-movie villain Richard Lynch. Kadar kidnaps the boys, forces them into brutal gladiatorial training (while wearing menacing metal face masks, naturally), hoping they'll kill each other. Years later, they reunite, escape, and set off to rescue their queen, Canary (Virginia Bryant), and recover a magical belly-button ruby (yes, really) that holds Kadar’s power. Along the way, they pick up the feisty Ismena, played by Eva LaRue in an early role, adding a touch of much-needed competence and charisma to the quest.
Cannibals, Carnage, and Italian Craftsmanship
Now, here’s a retro fun fact that always blows my mind: The Barbarians was directed by Ruggero Deodato. Yes, that Ruggero Deodato, the maestro behind the infamous and deeply unsettling Cannibal Holocaust. Seeing his name attached to this relatively goofy, almost family-friendly (by comparison) fantasy romp is one of cinema’s great oddities. While you won’t find the gut-wrenching realism of his earlier work, you can still spot glimpses of that gritty, Italian B-movie aesthetic. The action, while often clumsy, has a certain raw, practical feel that defined the era.
Forget polished CGI; this is a world of tangible sets (mostly shot on location in the scenic Abruzzo region of Italy, giving it an earthy, distinct look), sometimes questionable costumes, and stunt performers genuinely throwing themselves around. Remember that fight scene where the brothers swing on chains? Or the sequence in Kadar's torture dungeon? It’s not smooth, but it feels physical. The sword fights might lack finesse, but the clangs sound real, the effort visible. This was an era where practical effects, even on a limited budget (estimated around $4 million), were the name of the game. You believed those rocks were heavy, even if they were probably foam, because the actors sold the strain. Even the climactic battle against Kadar, involving said magical ruby, has a certain tangible, messy charm.
The Soundtrack to Silliness
Adding another layer of surprising pedigree is the score by Pino Donaggio, a frequent collaborator with Brian De Palma on classics like Carrie and Dressed to Kill. Here, Donaggio delivers a suitably bombastic, synth-tinged orchestral score that tries its absolute best to inject epic grandeur into scenes of the Paul Brothers struggling to climb a rope or getting stuck in quicksand. It walks a fine line between enhancing the adventure and hilariously underscoring the absurdity, often landing squarely in the latter, much to the film’s benefit.
Critically? Oh, it was largely panned back in the day, even landing a couple of Razzie nominations. But like so many films from the glorious VHS era, audiences found it. The Barbarians developed a dedicated cult following, precisely because it’s so unpretentious, so earnest in its silliness, and so utterly unique thanks to its leading men. It’s the kind of movie you’d rent on a Friday night, maybe expecting Conan, but getting something far stranger and, in its own way, more memorable.
***
VHS Heaven Rating: 6/10
Justification: Look, The Barbarians isn't high art. The acting is… well, it's present. The script is pure cheese, and the plot devices are baffling (belly-button ruby!). But docking points for those things feels like missing the point. It delivers exactly what it promises: two ridiculously muscular twins hitting things, a classic sneering villain, practical 80s fantasy action, and unintentional comedy gold. It’s elevated slightly by Deodato's competent direction (considering the material) and Donaggio's score. For pure, unadulterated 80s B-movie fun and the sheer unique spectacle of the Paul Brothers, it earns a solid recommendation for fans of the era's charmingly rough edges.
Final Thought: Forget slick, weightless digital action; The Barbarians is gloriously, hilariously physical – a charmingly clumsy, muscle-bound relic from a time when fantasy films felt wonderfully handmade, slightly dangerous, and utterly bizarre. Oof!