If Yellow Submarine crashed headfirst into a fascist propaganda reel and the wreckage was animated on a pile of napkins during a three-day speed bender, you might get Wizards. Ralph Bakshi’s nuclear fairytale about magic versus technology is like a lava lamp with opinions. It wants to be Tolkien, but it ends up feeling more like a high school mural painted by that one guy who swears Cheech Wizard is deep. For every ounce of visual bravado, there are three cups of narrative soup that have boiled over into incoherence.
The Making of a Messianic Mushroom Trip
This was Ralph Bakshi’s first foray into fantasy—after having thoroughly scandalized animation with Fritz the Cat, Heavy Traffic, and Coonskin, all films best described as “X-rated Looney Tunes for people who’ve been kicked out of art school.” Bakshi wanted to show he could do “clean” fantasy. So he made a film where fairies get kidnapped, the robot is named Peace for irony, and a Nazi film projector becomes the ultimate weapon. Apparently, it’s a PG-rated allegory about the Holocaust. Yeah. Nothing says “family fun” like elves storming Normandy.
The original title was War Wizards, but George Lucas was releasing some flick called Star Wars and asked Bakshi to change it. In exchange, Lucas gave Mark Hamill a few minutes off from fighting Sith Lords to get his head blown off as a cartoon fairy prince. Fair deal, I guess. Maybe too fair. If this movie had stayed War Wizards, people might’ve thought it was a Saturday morning cartoon and been spared the trauma.
Cast of Dozens, Budget of Dimes
The animation? Imagine Fantasia as directed by someone whose idea of storyboarding was “what if LSD had a storyboard?” The horse-beasts have two legs because animating four was expensive. There were no pencil tests. The final product was the first draft. Rotoscoping saves the day in the third act when Bakshi runs out of money and composure. That climactic battle? It’s stock footage from Alexander Nevsky and Patton with silhouettes slapped over it like a Soviet acid trip.
Bob Holt voices Avatar by imitating Peter Falk with a head injury. David Proval is Peace, the robot assassin turned space hippie. Susan Tyrrell, who later regretted not being credited as the narrator, probably made the right call. And then there’s Blackwolf, the villain who plays Nazi propaganda films to psych up his mutant goons. That’s right: in this movie, Goebbels is a literal wizard. Subtlety? Bakshi left it in Coonskin.
Half Cult, Half Confusion
Upon release, the critics couldn’t decide if it was brilliant or brain-damaged. Gene Siskel called it “good-looking, but not magical.” Variety called it “confusing.” The fans, however—God bless their lava-lamp hearts—turned it into a midnight movie classic, the kind that plays to crowds in basements full of incense smoke and ironic mustaches. It developed a legacy as a “lost masterpiece,” mostly by people who hadn’t seen it since they were stoned in 1983.
Bakshi always intended Wizards to be a trilogy, which is adorable. A sequel was teased, a graphic novel floated, and even a potential movie in development hell. But, like Avatar’s magic, those hopes were stuffed up a sleeve and never reappeared. The Blu-ray came with a 24-page book that probably explains the plot better than the actual film.
Magic vs. Machines vs. the Audience’s Patience
In the end, Wizards is a relic—bold, bizarre, and ultimately buried under the weight of its own symbolism. It’s not a movie so much as a manifesto scribbled in crayon. You might love it. You might hate it. But you’ll never forget it, no matter how hard you try. Like an unwanted tattoo or a bad trip at Burning Man, it lingers.
⭐️⭐️ (2/5)
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