Masters of the Universe

Hailing from an era defined by kids' cartoons designed purely to sell toys, Masters of the Universe was one of the cheesiest and most ridiculous, especially amongst the few still broadly recognizable this deep into the twenty-first century. It wielded a then-popular blend of high-fantasy and futuristic, space-based sci-fi easily at home on the side of any cargo van screaming power metal from the speakers. As the children of the 80s are in their prime moviemaking years, we've seen the subgenre make the jump to movie theaters a fair number of times over the past decade and a half, from John Carter to Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets to Thor: Ragnarok. That said, most successful examples have been part of larger franchises, casting doubt on its stand-alone draw, despite their success on the small screen in Steven Universe, Sailor Moon, and others. As such, the subgenre remains in the shadows, influencing writers without giving them the confidence to wholly embrace it.

Part of the issue is that cultural sensibilities have largely moved on. Their target audience of teen and pre-teen boys incentivized clear tales of good and evil, right and wrong, with little room for nuance and scant interest in long-running stories. The broader monoculture was not yet so heavily invested in a post-modern deconstruction of every piece of media, allowing earnest, simple storytelling to make an impact. The 2018 incarnation of She-Ra and the Princesses of Power wonderfully navigated this challenge by mixing modern storytelling conventions with an embrace of the goofy lore and an updated animation style, and its popularity with critics and general audiences alike no doubt helped jostle this feature film out of development hell.

So why did director Travis Knight and writer Chris Butler (building off earlier drafts by Aaron Nee, Adam Nee, and David Callaham) lean so hard into rolling their eyes at every single detail of Eternia?

Read my full review on Pop Culture Maniacs.