The closest thing to a Steve Reeves Italian muscleman epic to come along in quite some time. The ravaging of a peaceful village by vandals on horseback, the son of the slain chieftain brought up in slavery and honing his avenger's ambitions by way of gladitorial school, the diabolical temptress ("Do you not wish to warm yourself by my fire?"), the comical wizard, the evil despot, the fabulous treasure guarded by a giant snake, the impregnable mountain fortress, the dancing girls, the virgin sacrifice, the orgy, the crucifixion, and such S-M accoutrements as animal-skin bedclothes and metal-studded leather wristbands -- it's all here, or anyway most of it is. But being the closest thing to an Italian muscleman epic doesn't necessarily mean being right next door. The thing that particularly creates a chasm between Conan and the earlier muscleman epics, the thing that lifts it out of the old neighborhood and re-locates it in a spanking-new high-rise condominium several streets away, is the pretentiousness. This attribute, which tends to rub out the Camp element (so strong in any 1960s muscleman movie) and replace it with a pomp element, would be less bothersome if the movie were better made. There is good reason to be suspicious of a movie that is buttered together with as many slow dissolves as this one is. The ones clustered in a firelit lovemaking scene are no more than a hackneyed romantic convention, but the ones scattered all throughout the straightforward and unimaginative revenge storyline are indications of a not very solidly connected chain of events. And in truth the movie tends to be a bit loose, slow, and plodding. And the action, when it comes, tends to be overly oriented towards stunts and special effects, a mishmash of tripped horses, acrobatic tumbles, explosions of blood, and other such staples, lacking in clarity as much as in originality. With Arnold Schwarzenegger and James Earl Jones; directed by John Milius. (1982) — Duncan Shepherd