Two films, two unhinged visions, one night of pure, unfiltered chaos.
Sons of Steel (1989):
A heavy metal rock opera fever dream. Time travel? Check. Nuclear annihilation? Double check. A protagonist named Black Alice who looks like Rob Halford crash-landed into Mad Max? Triple check. The future is bleak, Sydney is drowning, and only one leather-clad rock god can save us. But first, let’s throw in some neon cyber-dystopia, corporate overlords, and a wild synth-metal soundtrack that sounds like the end of the world played through a busted cassette deck. The logic? Who needs it? The aesthetic? Peak 80s apocalypse chic. If you fused Rock & Rule with The Terminator and a bucket of beer-soaked VHS static, you’d get Sons of Steel. It doesn’t care if you get it—it only cares that you ride the wave of chaos to the last distorted power chord.
Death Warmed Up (1984):
Shotguns, motorbikes, brain surgery gone wrong, and a doctor who took mad scientist way too literally. This is what happens when you take a perfectly normal revenge flick and inject it with a psychotic dose of NZ horror grime. Mutants? Check. Lab experiments gone haywire? Check. A protagonist who spends most of the movie running around in a blood-soaked frenzy? Oh yeah. The camera lurches, the synths screech, and sanity is the first casualty. It’s what Mad Max would look like if it had been left in a microwave. There’s no safe place here—only blood, sweat, and surgical horror.
Two films, one unifying energy: absolute, unrelenting 80s insanity. The kind of movies that feel like they crawled out of a forgotten video store bin, covered in dust and ready to ruin your mind. You don’t watch them. You survive them.
OZPLOITATION THURSDAY—Where cinema melts your brain, and you like it.
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