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Clash of the Titans is a swan song, not only for Ray Harryhausen’s career but for a type of romantic-adventure stories that are no longer made. While it doesn’t compare to its brethren like Jason and the Argonauts or The Thief of Bagdad, it is of a piece with those colorful epics filled with stolid heroes, beautiful princesses, enormous monsters, never-ending quests, and effects work that is arcane and more dream-like than anything in modern cinema. It is delightful in spite of a series of problems, and a fitting end to the storied career of Ray Harryhausen.
Much like Harryhausen’s Sinbad films, Clash of the Titans uses the basics of its mythological framework, a couple of familiar names and monsters, and rearranges them in a straightforward narrative. Ask anyone who is not obsessed with mythology and folklore to tell you the story of Perseus and Andromeda, and they’ll more than likely tell you the story as found here. That is the power of pop culture retelling these legends. This is a film dubbed about the clashing of the Greek Titans without featuring them actually clashing or any of the proper Titans, but instead retrofitting the title onto the Kraken and Medusa.
It also shows the power of Harryhausen’s artistry. After all, who else could plop a well-known aquatic monster from Norse mythology into a Greek myth? The Kraken emerging from the water to destroy cities and capture the sacrificial virgin is crude by today’s standards, but delightful for the quality of a dream that it projects. It exudes personality and menace, as though it were a primordial beast unleashing indiscreet havoc. Who cares if there’s no Kraken to be found anywhere in Greek mythology when this gargantuan monster is so pleasing in its purpose.
Even better is Medusa, quite possibly the most technically accomplished and artistically complex creation in Harryhausen’s entire oeuvre. The seven-headed Hydra and skeleton army in Jason and the Argonauts still impress with the bullishness of their artistic brilliance, but they’re almost quaint in the sight of the slithering, glaring Medusa. Her hair made of snakes moves independently at every moment, she crawls across the floor, her tail rattles and slithers, and she alternates between lurching forward and shooting arrows at her attackers. She is the stuff of nightmares, a near prehistoric monstrosity of feminine evil.
Then there’s the curious problem of Bubo, the mechanical owl. A clear concession to Star Wars’ ascendancy no matter what the creators try to claim. It’s a bit of an annoyance, but it’s animated with tremendous care, skill, and personality. It’s a mixed blessing of a film, a clear fault but one that is done with clear, consummate craftsmanship. Bubo is something of the entirety of the film in microcosm.
While Clash of the Titans has the courage to stick to its goofy convictions, completely embracing the passing Saturday matinee fare that was more light-hearted and vibrant than the muddied and grim blockbusters of the current era. We get the Greek gods as played by Shakespearean greats like Laurence Olivier and Maggie Smith, glorious hams like Burgess Meredith, and an attractive lead couple in Harry Hamlin and Judi Bowker. All of them genuflect to the material, some far more successful than others. Supporting players like Meredith, here as Ammon, a poet and quest master for Perseus, are right to go broad with the material to pick up for the slack of the blander leads. But Olivier as a petulant Zeus who is quickly tamed by a pretty face, Smith as a petty and vindictive Thetis, Clare Bloom as a haughty and regal Hera all make positive impressions. Hamlin is fine with a thankless role, basically spending the movie playing fetch in an ever escalating series of quests, while Bowker is pretty but vacuous, the only truly terrible performance in the entire film.
It is frequently dysfunctional, completely frivolous and campy in its execution, but dammit if Clash of the Titans isn’t a pleasing trifle. It sticks to the tenants of any Harryhausen film, a pervading sense of kitsch, hammy acting, workmanlike direction, and lovingly arcane special-effects work that give the distinct impression of unreality. Good for it, I say. It’s not a perfect film, but it’s a perfect ending to Harryhausen’s incalculably influential career. It features all of his obsessions in one movie, and it’s packed to the rafters with monsters both big and small. No one will mistake it for the loftiest of cinematic arts, but it’s delicious, comforting junk food. Sometimes, that’s just what the soul needs.
