Anyone visiting the Hollywood hills during the late seventies had be prepared for running across film crews perpetrating monstrosities like this little beauty on which Quentin Tarantino gorged during his misspent youth.

New World supremo Roger Corman's name on the credits wasn't the recommendation it was fifteen years earlier, especially as it suffers from the usual seventies infelicities of ghastly haircuts, hideous synthesised music, hordes of mutants with eyes like ping balls and exteriors that look like giant jelly moulds.

Feminists might take issue at casting a Playboy playmate as the female lead, but the late Miss Jennings wields a mean blaster and never wears anything remotely as humiliating as David Carradine's loin cloth (a sight it's going to take me a long time to forget).